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[sillystargirll]

Daddy's Home

Back from deployment, Ghost needs his baby girl to relieve stress and tension

cw: fem reader, BDSM, Daddy Dom Ghost, Bondage, Oral Sex, Use of Sex Toys, Anal Plug, and Aftercare, not fucking proofread

Ghost staring at his phone at a text from his phone that he's about to send to his loving girlfriend parked in a empty parking lot He leans back in his driver's seat and sighs. Running his hands through his blonde hair. He is so pent up and he grits his teeth and sucks in air. He looks at the car stereo time. 4pm.

Ghost I'll be home in 10 mins. When I get home I want you in the bedroom. Naked. Kneeling. Hair down. Hands by your side.

Y/N Yes, Daddy.

Ghost smiles, 'Good girl' he says to himself. He inserts the ignition key to start the car and turns the gear on.

You're enjoying a glass of Champagne while relaxing at home. Just staying in and keeping the house clean, nothing too dramatic, it was a pretty laid-back day. You made the choice to wash your hair, take a bubble bath, and dress in a gorgeous nightgown. You are content with yourself and having a fantastic day.

As you take another sip of your Champagne, your phone starts to ping. You've got a text. via Daddy. With a smile, you open it. You sigh inwardly as your stomach surges. scanning the text quickly reveals that Daddy has had a trying day. You hastily make your way to the bedroom as the thrill inside of you bubbles.

You enter the bathroom to check your reflection, brush your teeth, and wash your face. You blow-dry your hair and spray it with a scented mist that has his favorite scent—strawberries—knowing full well that it will drive him crazy. Then you remove your bra and underwear and put them in the hamper beside the door. You run some hot water, soak a washcloth, and delicately clean your most private areas. You walk back into the bedroom after applying a little perfume to your wrists and neck. A wool rug in the center of the room invites you to kneel down and take a moment to simply observe your surroundings.

You and your daddy play with the hanging toys that are all over the wall in front of you. Depending on his mood, he either prefers to sit alone in the huge leather chair and watch you or invites you to join him. You generally lie down with him behind you on the couch to listen to him talk about his day as he plays with your hair. the area of your bed where you play the most. A big queen-size four-poster bed with black silk sheets and opaque fabrics draped in black and maroon that you can occasionally pull down to encircle the bed. Daddy's bottle and glass of bourbon to be specific Kentucky is half-full on the bedside tables. Knowing that his drawer contains bottles of his favorite lubricants, plugs, and tiny vibrating devices makes you grin.

Your heart beats rapidly as you take a breath when you hear the front door.

"Daddy's home luv."

Your heart skips a beat when you hear the voice, but you keep quiet because you haven't been given permission to speak.

The door to the bedroom opens.

"Good girl. That's a good girl" Ghost praises you.

He turns to face you, grinning and admiring the scene. His baby girl is content and obedient to his every request. He kneels down and grabs your chin in his broad hands. His thumb barely brushes your lips as he elevates your face.

"Speak princess." Granting you permission to now reply to him.

"Welcome home Daddy." You reply.

He leans into you and licks your lips, you obediently open your mouth and he pushes his tongue inside kissing you deeply as you massage his tongue with your own. He moans into your kiss and you moan right back.

"Daddy is going to get ready princess. Stay." He commands

"Yes Daddy." You answer.

You hear the shower turn on, and you remain kneeling. Daddy is pleased with you and you are beaming. You live to please him and he take such good care of you. You are the most in love you've ever been in your life. You drift into your thoughts about what he is going to do with you and you let out a breathy huff at the sheer anticipation.

He uses a towel to dry his hair. He stands in front of you with his hands on his hips. Naked. You could see all of his scars, and he is quite sexy. He is tall, blonde, with strong shoulders, massive arms, and perfect abs. It's not the first time you've seen him without the mask; after months of getting to know you, he finally removed it in front of you. He was stunningly handsome; in fact, he was Adonis. As his cock expands in front of your face, your pussy starts to drip in slick. It took some time for Daddy to prepare you to be able to handle the length and girth of the long, girthy member in front of you.

He takes a step toward you. Having pulled a length of red rope from the wall and gently binds your hands in front of you.

"Up on your knees princess, I want you to relieve this tension for me okay?" He commands.

"Yes Daddy." You kneel up and obediently open your mouth and push your tongue out.

He takes another step towards you.

"Princess. Remember your colors and words and your taps for non-verbal. Do you understand?" He brushes your hair from the sides of your face.

"Yes Daddy." You reply.

He holds your head gently as he pushes his leaking cock into your mouth. You lick and suck the tip, tasting the pre oozing from his slit and you run your tongue all around the head pulling a low moan from your Daddy. He pushes further into your mouth and you hold your tongue on the underside of his cock as you suck his shaft. You moan sending vibrations up his cock as he pulls out and pushes back in, a little further each time, giving you time to adjust before his starts. Your tongue works around his cock, drool dripping down your chin, you know he likes it messy.

"Awh princess, yes, just like that, nearly ready, yeah, yeah..mhmmm." He looks down at you and meets your eyes.

You hold his eyes there and he smiles.

"Ready babygirl?" He asks.

You tap once on his thigh for yes.

He grins at you. "That's my girl, that's my good girl. So good for me aren't you. So good for Daddy. Yes you are. Yes you are." He purrs at you.

It sends heat directly to your sopping pussy and your throbbing clit. Praise does the trick for you.

Ghost pulls back and presses his entire length into your mouth while maintaining a hard yet gentle grasp on your hair. He groans as you hollow out your cheeks. He speeds up and starts throat-fucking you. You sigh and swallow while inhaling through your nose around his cock. He thrusts violently and swiftly, smacking your chin with his balls.

"Fuck baby, so good, your mouth feels so good. you love taking my cock in that pretty mouth of yours. Look at me princess. I want your eyes." He looks down at you.

"I'm going to come, and you're going to keep it in your mouth do you understand. Do not swallow." He commands.

You tap his thigh once.

"Fuck good girl, good girl. fuck." He moans and picks his pace up again, thrusting fast and hard and he chases his orgasm. He spills into your mouth and you keep it there. Obedient to the end. He pulls his cock out and lets out a breathy satisfied sigh.

He groans and quickens his pace, thrusting fast and hard as he pursues his orgasm. You keep it in your mouth after he spills. faithful till the end. He extends his cock and exhales a delighted sigh.

"Show me." He demands

You open your mouth, full of Daddy's cum, a little dripping out down your chin and running out the sides. Daddy always fills you up good.

"Oh princess that's a good girl. Yes. Look at you, your pretty mouth full of Daddy's cum. What a messy girl you are huh." He takes a moment and just admires the view. You are on your knees looking up at him, mouth open full of his cum.

"Swallow baby." He commands, and you obey.

"That's my princess." He purrs.

"Do I get my reward now Daddy. I was such a good girl." You purr back

"of course luv" He kneels and wipes your face and mouth with a warm cloth. He then cleans his cock. He picks you up and moves to the bed. Before you, he kneels and sets you on the brink.

"Keep it off the edge baby."You get softly pushed backward while he speaks, and you are lying on the cool, soft sheets. His thumbs graze your pussy lips as he lifts your legs and slides his hands down the backs of your thighs before running them back up. You whimper as you no longer feel his touch on your dripping cunt. He purrs at you while grinning and tenderly rubbing your legs. Your knees loop over his shoulders as he lifts you up while pulling you toward him.

"Be good and moan for Daddy princess." He says, as he flicks his tongue out at the wet folds of your cunt. He skilfully licks and sucks your lips, swirling his tongue around to explore every inch as you gasp. You let out a deep groan as he flattens his tongue and licks you from your asshole to your clit. It feels fantastic, fuck. You buck a little as he flicks his tongue over your clit.

"Such a doll"

He purrs. He brings his big hands around your thighs and pins you.

He continues his assault on your pussy, massaging, licking and sucking your lips, flicking your clit as he coaxes your juices out of you. You are literally dripping and he is lapping it up.

"your so fucking wet and taste fucking divine"

He praises you

Your heat rises and he continues to eat you. Picking up pace as he moves his mouth, enveloping your cunt. He starts to furiously flick and suck your clit and your hips try to buck as you grip the sheets under your hands tightly.

"d-daddy p-please" you beg

"you know I love it when you beg, let me hear more." he purrs

"d-daddy more please"

 You whimper as the waves threaten to gush out of you.

He suddenly pulls his mouth away leaving you whining at the loss of him but he quickly and smoothly moves your pliant body, he flips you quickly onto your stomach and again pulls your legs towards him. You hear him open the drawer to his left and then a zipper. He pulls out the butt plug and lube. Coating the toy he purrs at you again.

"Now your gonna behave and take it like the good girl you are."

"y-yes daddy."

He pushed the plug inside your ass, gently stretching you, the beautiful burn making you moan as you drool beneath him.

He stroked your ass cheeks and you swallow the plug. All the way in. You smile at yourself. Pleased.

He climbs onto the bed and he turns you over to face him now. He settles in between your thighs and lifts your knees up to hook over his elbows. He lines his hard throbbing cock up with your soaking wet entrance. Holding your thighs and pushing his length into you. groaning as he feels the heat of your pussy and your walls clench around him. He thrusts, and thrusts, pushing deeper and deeper.

You hold each other's eyes as he fucks into you. Driving you into the mattress. He moves again, hands on your hips and he pulls you toward him with each thrust. Your hips clash together, your clit stimulated with each thrust as your cunt takes all of the hard cock Ghost is giving you. The waves of pleasure wash over you with each thrust as your moans fill the room. Ghost holds your eyes as he fucks you, smiling, licking his lips. A possessive look. You belong to him. You are his. He owns you and you love it.

"so fucking tight" That sends you over the edge and he sees your reaction, he pounds hard and fast making you scream out and writhe beneath him. You chase your orgasm and it hits you like a tidal wave. Daddy thrusts as you ride it out with him. He is chasing his own orgasm as he gives you yours. Your pussy gushes around his cock and that's what sends him. He cries out and you respond in kind. You both come hard together.

Heavy breaths fill your ear and Ghost leans down on top of you. He kisses your neck, your ear lobe, your jaw then your mouth. Clashing your lips together and tongues licking and massaging each other.

"I've missed you Simon."

"I've missed you too (y/n)"

You slip into that Euphoric phase you go to after play. You are happy, content, and satisfied. You close your eyes and let out a purr.

"I'll clean you up, just sleep" He unties the red rope. Ghost always looks after you. You smile.

"Mhmmm." is all you manage and you fall into silent peaceful void.

[fayes-fics]

Anthony (either modern or regency as you seem fit) as a Dom and is in a punishment scene with the reader and he isn't holding anything back

If it's possible it would be great if not no issues your work is awesome ❤️

Kinktober: Anthony + Punishment / Impact Play

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Paring: Anthony Bridgeton x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub, dom!Anthony, sub!reader, light bondage, impact play (riding crop) incl breast and pussy cropping, subspace, vaginal sex.

Author’s note: hi nonny! Well, errr, this one ran away with me! I should probably cut it down, but oh well. Thank you for your kind words. I set this in Regency. I hope Anthony is as you wish here, and I hope you enjoy! 🧡

You pant softly, kneeling naked at the fireside, knees splayed lewdly wide at his command, your wrists bound to your sides by your stockings looping around your thighs. Anthony circles you, fully clothed, his riding boots clomping loudly even on the thick wool rug. A thrill zipping down your spine and prickling over your scalp at the anticipation of the next stroke.

He lands a stinging swat on your right breast, and you hiss, the pleasure in the pain melting your core into liquid fire. With each strike, your clit swells, pulsing in tandem with your racing heart. He quickly does the same on your left breast but catches an edge of your nipple; you can’t school the noisy mewling moan that escapes you, the pang acute. 

“Stop whining!” he snaps, so you bite your lip and bow your head, knowing you will have to keep your responses to little whimpers and heavy breaths.

The next hit is on the flesh of your left inner thigh, and you merely exhale harshly out of your nose to counter the sting, feeling so utterly aroused, certain you are spoiling the luxury rug beneath you. As Anthony circles, another flick of the crop on your left shoulder blade and your right bicep in quick succession, each making you whimper quietly, aching for him to just fuck you. He stops still in front of you. 

The soft leather tongue of the riding crop trails over your skin, starting at your breastbone and then a straight line down your centre until it reaches the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs and your stomach knots. You inhale sharply as he slides the crop into your slit, a cool drag over your soaked, burning folds.

“Look at me!” He commands, and instantly your head snaps up, meeting his fiery gaze as he teases your clit with a back-and-forth motion.

You shudder and whimper as he flicks a light blow squarely on your engorged clit. Not harsh like those elsewhere on your body. You crave more, a word falling from your lips in an almost ashamed murmur.

“What was that?” he clips, the crop teasing you maddeningly.

“Harder, my lord,” you repeat louder, teeth clenched.

His smirk is triumphant, and his eyes glitter with danger as he flicks his wrist and strikes a fraction harsher three times, making you exhale raggedly, swallowing your decadent moans, rocketed so close to orgasm your thighs tremble. 

You whine as he withdraws the crop, desperate for him to hold it still so you can frig yourself upon its stalk to orgasm—no such luck. Instead, his other hand cups your jaw and hinges your mouth open with his thumb.

“Clean up the mess you made,” he orders, shoving the tip onto your tongue. It tastes tart with your arousal alongside the meaty flavour of the cowhide.

You dutifully suckle until it’s clean, eyes wide and beseeching, not looking away as he observes you with an expression of thunderous lust. Suddenly, he pulls it from your mouth and disappears from view.

“Please, my lord…” you implore shakily, so overwrought, your entire being quivering with need.

The crop, coated with your saliva, smacks hard on your bum cheek, the wetness amplifying the pain. You squeal and jump involuntarily. But he doesn’t stop. Grabbing your hair, pushing you face first down to the rug, and pulling your hips up high, he reigns blow after blow onto your bottom as you cry out and drip down your shaking thighs, hands flexing in their bindings. He doesn't stop. Not until you enter a space where you just live for this and him, a creature of complete submission and unbridled lust.

When he finally kneels behind you, unbuttoning just enough to release his cock and drive into you, you are only capable of inhuman noises as you orgasm, rippling and clenching tight around him before he has so much as moved.

No taglist as these drabbles are short

[beansprean]

Ghost Memo, watching Nadja about to scrub a 273-year-old wool rug with a wet mop coated in bleach and guano: No no no no no

ANYWAY this is my official season 5 wishful thinking AU, it's not going to be a formal comic timeline like my other stuff but I’m a little obsessed with it! Anything about it will be tagged #MFG s5 au

Masterpost

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. The house, exterior, night. Lower third reading “vampire residence”. A speech bubble from within the house cries out, “Ay, fucking- Nadja!” 1b. Full body of Nadja slumped in a an armchair in her and Laszlo’s crypt, a magazine featuring scantily clad women laid open on her lap. The same voice comes from offscreen: “Nadja! You know the rules! You drink it, you clean it!” Nadja groans loudly, head tipping back against the back of the chair, arms and legs hanging limply toward the floor, and grumbles, “Bossy fucking pig-brain…” 1c. Shot from the main foyer of the house as Nadja descends the stairs. Nandor is in the fancy room in the background, talking to the camera with a boom mic positioned above his head. Nadja sticks her tongue out in his direction as she passes. Nandor is saying, “No, I do not miss Guillermo. He made his choices. But now we all must contribute to the household until we can find a replacement familiar.”

2a. Nadja stands in the hallway, straddling the rug with hands on her hips as she glares down at a large half-dry bloodstain on the rug. A mop in a bucket of dirty water sits beside her, and Nandor’s voice is filtering in from the hallway, continuing, “Of course I am looking! Just… no one has been quite right!” 2b. Close up on the bucket, filled to the brim with bloody muddy water, as Nadja lifts the equally gross mop out of it, grumbling, “Treating me like a fucking washerwoman… not even in a sexy way…” 2c. Nadja turns back towards the stain, mop in hand, and stares down in shock when the rug appears to now be perfectly clean. 2d. Nadja snarls and throws the filthy mop angrily down at the rug with a wet splat, screaming “Fucking witches!”

3a. Close up on Nandor back in the fancy room, doing his talking head. He grimaces and picks at his fingers nervously, glancing away as he says “My reading? Uhh… it has been going very well. I have opened so many books...” From offscreen, Nadja yells “Nandor!” 3b. Shot from Nandor’s other side, framing Nadja in the doorway to the foyer. On the wall to the left there is a painting of “The Girl With The Pearl Earring” starring Laszlo. Nadja glares at Nandor with hands on hips and asks angrily, “Nandor, did you send the witches tainted fucking semens?” Nandor leans forward in his chair to face her, the camera on him also swinging over to get her in the shot. He replies, offended, “Of course not, I make only the best semens and Colin Robinson delivered my glorious seed to the witches just last week!” Nadja fires back “Well, you bloody donkeys must have done something, because they have cursed the fucking house!” 3c. Close up on the doorway, Nandor suddenly standing up in the corner and echoing, “Cursed?!” in fear. Laszlo sidles up to Nadja’s side, asking, “Cursed how, my dulcet darling?” Arms crossed defiantly, Nadja replies, “A cleaning curse! This is the third time I have gone to clean and the mess has disappeared on its own!”

4a. Nandor and Nadja in profile, divided by the doorway with Nandor still standing in the fancy room and Nadja in the hall. Laszlo is leaning on the door frame facing the viewer, hands casually in his pockets. He glances up at Nandor with one eyebrow raised as Nandor, looking confused, and Nadja, looking defiant, stare each other down. 4b. Nandor raises his eyebrows and folds his hands outward, placatingly, replying, “Okay…?” Laszlo grins up at his wife and says, “Sounds like a bloody good curse to me!” Nadja unfolds her arms and chops them through the air, glaring at the ceiling in exasperation as she declares, “There’s no such thing as good curses!” 4c. Close up on Laszlo in the doorway as Colin Robinson suddenly pops in from the hall, leaning in close as he throws out, “Maybe we’ve got ghosts again!” Laszlo leans away from him slightly in surprise, smile dropping. 4d. Return to previous shot. Nadja turns toward Colin, throwing out her arms angrily as she asks, “Why would a ghost want to clean our house?!” Nandor rolls his eyes upward, throwing out his own arms as he echoes, “Why would witches?!” Colin just smiles indulgently, enjoying the chaos. Laszlo hunches his shoulders uncomfortably in the doorframe, frowning as he looks away toward the fancy room.

5a. Close up on Nandor puffing himself up with superiority, hands imperiously planted on his hips as he begins, “Nadja, if you do not want to do your part of the chores-“ Nadja interrupts from offscreen, “Oh, blow it out your loose, hairy arsehole, Nandor!” The camera and boom are in view behind Nandor, eagerly recording the scene. 5b. Back in profile, Nandor leaning toward Nadja and echoing “Loose?!” in an offended way. Nadja leans right back in his space, spitting angrily, “If you would stop dragging your big, stupid feet about finding a new familiar, I wouldn’t have any bloody chores!” Nandor stutters back, “I-I am still making inquiries; it’s an important decision!” Behind them, Colin is leaning comfortably on the side of the doorframe, hands laced together in front of him and smiling as his eyes glow purple behind his glasses. Laszlo has turned to leave the frame, walking into the fancy room.

6a. Shot of the foyer from the doorway as Nadja marches away across the hall, throwing her arms up angrily as she declares, “Oh, whatever! Don’t blame me when you wake up without your testicles!” The paintings in the foyer include a vampire version of “The Scream” and a version of “American Gothic” with Nadja and Laszlo. In the foreground, Nandor stares after her with a grimace, muttering, “Fucking girl…” Colin turns toward Nandor, smiling, and prompts, “Hey Nandor, tell me more about all the books you’ve been reading.” 6b. Nadja, now alone, slumps into a high-backed chair in the library with her arms crossed, pouting at nothing. Behind her is a dilapidated side table carrying a few unlit candles and an overturned goblet crusted with blood. There are a few canvases tucked behind Nadja’s chair including one that appears to be a version of “The Creation of Adam” with Laszlo as Adam and Nadja as God, surrounded by bats.

7a. Close up on Nadja’s face in profile as she snarls and mutters to herself, “Stupid bloody men, never fucking listening to me…” 7b. Repeat of previous panel. Nadja’s eye widen in shock, mouth snapping tightly closed as a voice offscreen replies, “Tell me about it.”

8a. Bird’s eye view of Nadja sitting up in her chair with mouth agape, hands gripping the arms, and staring upward toward the ceiling. The edge of a familiar face is in the foreground, glowing with a bluish-green light. Nadja calls out instinctively, “What?!” 8b. Nadja repeats “What?!” even louder as we see what she sees: Guillermo, glowing bluish green, floating near the ceiling and absently cleaning a large portrait on the wall with a rag and unlabeled spray bottle. He is wearing the same sweater from the season 4 finale. Ghost Guillermo looks over his shoulder to meet Nadja’s eyes, surprised. 8c. Overlapping close ups of Guillermo and Nadja as he turns toward her fully, eyes wide and flushed with excitement as he cries, “Wait…Nadja, you can see me?!” Nadja stares back at him mutely in horror. In the bottom right corner is text reading “to be continued…?”

9. In the style of a movie poster. Ghost Guillermo, wearing that same sweater and a ghostly tail instead of legs, takes up the center of the frame, glowing in hues of blue, green, and purple. He has a feather duster held up in one hand and is holding the forefinger of the other to his open lips in a shushing gesture. Behind him in the top right is the vampire residence at a low dramatic angle, red door glowing angrily as light night strikes the sky beyond. Just below is a bust of Derek in his work clothes, looking up at Ghost Guillermo with a nervous smile. In the top left is a bust of Vampire Guillermo, wearing a red waistcoat and no glasses, scowling over his shoulder at his ghost self. Behind him, a silver crucifix with a broken chain floats past. At the bottom, Nadja, Laszlo, Colin Robinson, and Nandor stand waist-up in a row looking up at Ghost Guillermo. Nadja is grinning in excitement, Laszlo looks something between bored and concerned, Colin looks uncertain, and Nandor looks distraught and worried, wringing his hands together. The tagline is written in ghostly blue: “moving out… doesn’t mean moving on!”, and the title is listed at the bottom in dripping red font: “My Familiar’s Ghost”. At the bottom further text reads “coming October 2022” and “created by beansprean”. /end ID

[curtis-corner]

STAND BY ME (Darry Curtis) PART 8

The response to the last chapter floored me!! Thank you for everyone who is reading this story and taking the time to comment. So excited to share this long chapter...next up is a chapter in Darry's POV which I am REALLY excited about.

Fic masterlist here

Taglist : @lovelylegolas2123 @amnestyliketaz @spuffyfan394

PART 8

The wind whips your hair all over the place as you run down the darkened street. Your slippers are soaked from the snow and your pajamas are too thin to keep out a chill, but you barely notice. You nearly skid on a patch of ice as you turn a corner, but you can see the Curtis house in the distance.

Although it’s dark, you know the door will be open.

You almost fall through the front door, shutting it quickly, and then you put your hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. You hear your name and you look up to see Steve starting to sit up on the couch.

It’s like it all hits you at once: the fear, the adrenaline, the run and the cold, and your breathing starts to quicken, and everything starts to become fuzzy around the edges.

You almost collapse to the ground before you feel Steve catch you, and you distantly register him yelling “Darry! Darry!” as he lowers you to sitting on the living room rug.

You’re choking out a sob, trying to talk but still having trouble breathing when Darry appears in front of you, his eyes wide.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” He starts to run his hands over your face and down your arms and you yelp when he touches your right arm. “Baby, I need you to breathe with me, okay?” You look into his eyes and try to match his breathing.

It takes a few minutes, but the choking sensation starts to fade.

“I-I-“ but as soon as you start talking, you start shivering.

“Soda, get the big blanket from my bed. Socks from the drawer too.” Darry orders, but his eyes never leave you. You glance over his shoulder to see Soda and Pony both standing near the couch. “Steve, go get the first aid. Pony, water for tea.” The three other boys move immediately, and Darry runs a hand through your hair. You breathe a little easier and try to talk again.

“My dad, he left a note saying he’s in trouble and he skipped town. Wrote to lock the doors. I didn’t see it until late, it had fallen on the floor, and I was going to call,” You take another deep breath just as Soda wraps a thick blanket around you. Darry takes off your busted slippers and replaces them with thick wool socks. “Thanks,” You look up and Soda and he nods, taking a seat on the floor next to you.

“Someone threw something, a brick maybe, through the window by the front door. I heard two men break in and their voices kept getting closer so I climbed out my bedroom window and I ran here. To you,” Your voice breaks on the last word and Darry immediately pulls you into his lap, wrapping his strong arms around you and rubbing your back.

You stay like that for a few minutes until Pony comes in with a mug of tea. Darry stands up, still holding you in his arms, and you move to sit on the couch. He shifts you to his side but doesn’t let go.

“What hurts?” He takes the first aid kit from Steve.

“My arm,” You hold out your right arm and Darry pushes the sleeve of your pajamas up. There’s gravel lodged in a few places and most of it has already started to swell. “I fell on it when I went out the window, I think some gravel was in the ice.”

Darry is gentle as he uses tweezers to take out the gravel, taking it all out and cleaning the wound with rubbing alcohol before wrapping it.

“It doesn’t feel broken, just bruised.” He says quietly and you wonder how many times he’s patched up his brothers or friends.

You sip the warm tea, feeling more sensation in your fingers. Darry is cleaning up the medical supplies you glance up at Pony.

“This is really good.”

“Darry likes milk and sugar in his tea, so I thought you would too.”

“I do. Sorry I woke you up.” Pony shrugs his shoulders.

“S’alright. Soda was snorin’ anyway.” For that, he gets a shove from his brother and you smile for the first time since your arrival.

“Did you see what they looked like?” Steve asks, and Darry shoots him a look as he walks back in from the kitchen. You shake your head.

“I only heard them. I don’t think they saw me either.”

“Don’t think about that any more tonight.” Darry takes your empty mug of tea and helps you to your feet. “Come on honey, let’s get you some warm clothes.” You wave goodnight to everyone and follow Darry back to a room you’ve never actually seen.

Darry had told you before about how Darry and Soda grew up sharing a room, and Pony had a tiny one next to them. And how after their parents died the only way for Pony to sleep was to have Soda next to him. And a month after that how Soda convinced Darry to start sleeping in their parent’s old room since the bed was bigger and he was breaking his back all day at the job site.

You look around while Darry rummages through the drawers. You knew he had packed his parents' things up in boxes, unable to get rid of them but also unable to see them every day. But you could also see the things he didn’t put away: a jewelry box and a glass perfume bottle side by side on the dresser, an ashtray next to a pair of glasses on the nightstand.

“Here,” Darry hands you a pair of soft flannel pajama bottoms and an old high school sweatshirt. “Do you want a water to keep on the nightstand?” You nod and he turns to leave, but you reach out to touch his hand.

“Are you going to stay in here? With me?” You hope your voice isn’t shaking as much as you think.

“Do you want me to?” His blue eyes are truly piercing, and they are searching your face for an answer before you even give him one. You nod.

“If that’s alright.” He steps closer and tucks a hair behind your ear before giving you a light kiss on the forehead.

You change while Darry gets the waters and you can faintly hear him talking to his brothers, assuring them you’re going to be fine and they should get back to bed. You sit on the edge of the bed and sigh, rubbing at your temples with your fingers.

“Does your head hurt? I can get you aspirin.” You hadn’t realized Darry had come back into the room.

“I’m okay.” You push yourself up. “Which side of the bed is yours?” Darry rubs the back of his neck.

“Usually I just sprawl out in the middle.”

“Just s’long as you don’t hog all of the covers,” You say and he smiles and you both pick a side of the bed. When you lay down you are surrounded by him: his clothes, his sheets and best of all, Darry himself who has him arms open for you to tuck yourself right into.

“It’s going to be alright.” He murmurs in your ear and while you want to believe him, with the lights off and the night quiet again the nerves start to creep back in.

“He’s never skipped town before. He must really be in trouble.” Your voice is quiet but you can’t seem to stop talking. “Do you think they knew I was there? I left the window open. No one leaves the window open in this cold.”

“Baby, I promise you are safe here.” His arms tighten around you.

“I feel safe. With you.” It’s quiet for a minute before he shifts you and even though it’s dark, you know he’s looking right at you.

“I love you. And I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you, okay?”

“Okay.” You snuggle back into his chest and both of your breathing starts to even out. “Darry?”

“Mm?”

“I love you too.”

--

Despite the drama of the night before, you weren’t going to complain about how you woke up. Darry’s arms were wrapped around you from behind and your back was pulled into his chest. His chin rested on the top of your head and while you learned he was a loud snorer, the sound somehow had lulled you in to a peaceful few hours of sleep.

Half of Tulsa would lose their minds if they found out you shared a bed with him before you had a ring on your finger. The other half would probably be jealous.

You turn and run a hand over the slight stubble of his jaw. He looks so much younger when he is asleep, a rare break from thinking about all of his responsibilities. You brush a few strands of hair off his forehead and his eyes start to slowly blink open.

“Good mornin'” You say quietly and he gives you a sleepy smile.

“Mornin’. Anyone ever tell you that you move around a lot in your sleep?”

“Never shared a bed with anyone before,” You shrug and suddenly his eyes are fully open and giving you that look that he does when you’re both alone.

He shifts and hovers his body over yours, trailing kisses down your neck and making you squirm in the best possible way. Your hands slide under his shift, feeling the defined muscles and he’s sliding your borrowed pajamas bottoms lower on your hips when you hear a crash.

“DAMNIT!” Soda yelps.

“You’ll wake them up!” Pony is talking at an equally high volume.

“Jesus.” Darry groans and you nearly giggle. “I finally get you in a bed instead of a truck, and it’s the one Saturday these two are up before,” he glances at the clock. “Nine am.”

“How many scoops go in the percolator?”

“Where’s that goddamn oven mitt?”

“We should go see what they are up to.” You say. Darry groans again, and while you share the feeling, you know things won’t go further now that Soda and Pony are up.

You head into the kitchen and are immediately hit with the smell of frying bacon. Soda is at the stove, flipping what looks like blue eggs and Pony is having a stare off with the percolator. He must not be winning, because you can’t smell the coffee brewing.

“Oh you’re up! We can turn on the radio then!” Soda says happily and does just that, the sound of Smokey Robinson filling the house.

“Darry, this coffee thing is broken.” Pony huffs and Darry walks over to fix it. Soda puts an arm cautiously around your shoulders.

“How’d you sleep? Your arm alright? We’re making breakfast.”

“Yeah, the whole neighborhood can hear it.” Darry rolls his eyes but you can tell he appreciates it.

“My arm feels alright, thanks.” You push up the sleeve of the sweatshirt and inspect the outside of the bandage.

“We’ll clean it and change it again today.” Darry wraps his arms around you from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Okay, after my shift.”

“You’re going to work today?”

“It’s a short one, eleven to four. I’ll need to stop by my house for clothes and makeup beforehand-“

“I’m sure Mr. Murphy will understand,” Darry steps out from behind you and to your side. “You had a tough night-“

“It’s just him and I until Shelia comes in, I can’t leave him alone through the Saturday afternoon rush.” You shake your head. Darry may be stubborn, but you can be too when it was important. You see Darry purse his lips closed, like he’s holding himself back from saying something, but after a minute he gives in.

“I’ll go with you to your house. You can pack a bag, get anything that’s valuable. I’ll drop you at work and bring your stuff back here and pick you up at four.”

“Darry,” You cross your arms and give him an incredulous look. “I can’t just…move in here until my dad comes home.”

“Sure you can,” Soda is sliding breakfast onto plates and Pony has finally made peace with the coffee maker and is pouring cups.

“Yeah, we’re okay with it.” You know Pony is just trying to reassure you, but you’re starting to feel a little dizzy.

“Baby.” Darry says and you sigh, knowing you’d do anything he says when he uses that voice. “You remember how I said you’re safe here?” You nod. “I want to keep you safe. And that means not sendin’ you back to a house with a busted window and two low-life’s snooping around.”

Logically, you knew he was right, and there was certainty a part of you that was thrilled at the thought of sharing Darry’s bed for a few more nights. So you huff out an “oh, alright then” and ignore the smug look on your boyfriend’s face. A few days would be fine.

The front door opens and Steve walks in. He hands you a pile of clothes.

“Stopped by Evie’s, figured you wouldn’t want to go out in Darry’s pajamas.” Steve said it plainly, like it wasn’t an incredibly thoughtful gesture.

You’re overcome with too many emotions and before you realize it, you throw your arms around him and give him a hug. He tenses, then leans into it, then groans, all in the space of a minute.

“Glory, it’s just a sweater and slacks, ain’t like I brought you her prom dress.” But you know he’s pleased with how happy it makes you. Darry sets a hand on Steve’s shoulder and thanks him and you don’t miss the way Steve is trying not to beam. You wonder if Darry ever realizes how much Steve looks up to him.

The five of you dig into blue eggs and bacon and drink coffee, and while you’re still worried for your dad and upset about the night before, things seem a little easier in the morning light and with these boys by your side.

NEXT: Darry POV!

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Zaunite girls are forever Silco's favorite types ♥

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

His first order of business was a visit to the drygoods store.  The proprietress was young. That's to say: younger than him. Thirty-six or seven, if Silco was a betting man, which he was, because the odds never failed him when it came to a woman's age. It's how he divvied up his tarts: the fresh, the seasoned, and the salted.

The salted could be had for a song. The seasoned, for a good deal. But the fresh always cost more than a man's dignity ought to permit.

He'd gotten damn sick of tarts.

The bint behind the counter was no tart. No beauty, either—not in the usual sense. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe braid from a face so angular, it'd cut glass. The eyes, close-set and the color of wet mud, were rimmed by lavender circles. A smattering of freckles, like a dusting of soot, coated the crests of her cheekbones.

But her body was a fine one beneath her patched wool skirt and shapeless jumper—rippling with the lean muscle that attested to a lifetime of hard labor.

Silco would bet folding money she was of old Oshra Va’Zaun stock. They were a breed apart. Most had dwelt on the edge of the Deadlands for decades. Families after families dedicating their days to backbreaking labor, only to end them at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and a coffin-shaped hole in the ground.

Most still had a touch of the ancient magic about them: a fire in the eyes, and a steel in the soul.

These folk, Silco knew.

The bell jingled as he strolled inside. She looked up from the ledger she'd been scratching away at. A frown dug between her brows.

Silco knew he must look a sight: dressed in dust and fit for gravedirt. And the smell—that pungent odor of wild beast and wild man—was enough to knock a Piltovan right on his pampered arse. Medarda would've summoned her guard, or set the hounds on him. Sevika would've taken one glance and drawn steel. Even Vander, his brother-in-arms, would've backed the hell away.

Only Jinx—sweet Jinx—would've kissed him, right on the scarred ruin of his cheek, and whispered: Silly, you stink. 

I love you, anyway.

"Help ya?" The proprietress said, in that drawl endemic to the Deadlands. "If yer looking for the bathhouse, it's a mile yonder."

Silco let the grime of street life soil his own tongue. He, who'd once inhabited a glossy world where the smallest slip in intonation served to reveal the most intimate secrets, now spoke with the accent of the slums.

No sense broadcasting his identity. Not before he'd gathered the lay of the land—or had a decent wash. 

"No bath," he said, in a low rasping timbre. "Lookin' to trade."

"Got no need for vermin. I don't care if they're skinned."

"Not fond of rats, I take it." 

"Not fond of vermin in general. Or what they drag in. If it's not plagues, it's fleas."

"I'm clean."

Her nostrils twitched. "You sure as hell don't smell it."

Silco tricked out a slow smile: his calling card. It'd greased his way into plenty of deals. Plenty of beds, too: usually of the saltier variety. Not this bint, though. Her face remained a stone-cold blank.

A Trencher, through and through.

"I'd buy a bar of soap," he offered, "if you'll buy a boar."

"Boar?" Her eyes cut to the bulging sack on his shoulder. "You got yourself a boar?"

"Big one. Fresh kill."

"Fresh?"

"An hour past. Still warm."

"Let me see."

"Will I get my soap?"

"One bar. And you'll get to watch."

"Watch what?"

"Me inspect the boar." No flirtation; just plain fact. "I don't have patience for charlatans."

"That makes two of us, sweetheart."

"Call me that again, and you'll get to watch me bury you."

Silco bit down a smile. She had a tongue sharp enough to slice. And Silco was a man who appreciated a sharp knife. Especially when it was pointed in the right direction.

He unslung the sack, and dumped the barrow on the counter. Its tusks gleamed a dirty ivory. The hide, mottled gray and white, was thick as a Shuriman rug. The proprietress, impressed despite her best efforts, gave a low whistle.

Demonstrating a cool eye and a meticulous manner, she probed the flesh: measuring the breadth of the shoulders, palpating the belly, checking the legs for signs of disease.

"You're a hunter," Silco noted.

She didn't bother looking up. "Worked the big game with my old man. Now, I stick to small."

"What happened?"

"To my old man? Same thing that happens to everybody. He died."

"I meant to your big game."

"Lost the taste. Lost my family's hunting license, too."

"How?"

"The Council revoked it. Right around the time the riots started after Bloody Sunday. No more Fissurefolk allowed to bear arms. 'Specially not within a hundred miles of the Bridge." She gave a flat scoff. "A hundred miles. As if they'd let the likes of us even sneeze its way."

"Rules is rules," Silco said, with a mocking lilt.

She didn't smile. But the upward flick of her eyes was a near thing. "You sound like a Bonscuttler."

"Born and bred in the Pump Station. You?"

"Born, at least. Raised in the Deadlands. My folk up and left when the Enforcers burned down the gunsmiths' shops. Maybe they reckoned they'd have better luck diggin' their own graves than the ones they were livin' in." She gave a brusque shrug: the quintessential Trencher, unburdened by nostalgia. "Maybe they did."

"Did the mines take 'em?"

"Took my Ma. The old man, he stuck around. Worked with the unions. 'Til he crossed the wrong man." Her mouth—a lip-bitten red beesting—pinched. "Bastard made an example of him."

"A chem-baron, I'm guessing."

Again, the eyes flickered his way. "You do a lot of guesswork in your line of work?"

"My fair share. Shall I guess what the boar's worth?"

"We already know it's prime. Top cog."

"I'm in the mood for top, all right."

The glint became a hidden twinkle. When he'd first walked in, she'd taken one gander and pegged him for a pitiable vagrant—and she wasn't the type to dole out pity for free. Now she was seeing past his sordid shell into something she could work with. Something that could turn her a profit.

Question was: how deep did this stranger's bucket of coin run?

"It's a fine piece," she said. "Top-notch. I'd give you ninety silvers for it. Maybe ninety-five."

"Not on your life."

"Not on yours, neither." The twinkle hardened. "Hundred. That's my last offer."

"Thirty gold Hexes. Or we're both wasting our time."

"Thought you wanted soap?"

"I'll take it off the thirty."

"You'll take exactly what I say. Which is a hundred for the boar. And two bars of soap. The finest grade."

"Finest grade of what? Lye and vole-fat? You'll be sorry if I drop dead."

"You'll be sorrier if you try to cheat me."

"Thirty, or nowt."

"Twenty-five."

"You're one hardhearted Hannah."

"You got no idea."

"Twenty. And you throw in a change of clothes, smokes, and jerky."

"I ain't hagglin' with the likes of you."

"Sweetheart, we've already started."

And they had.

[artfullheart]

Laundry Tips

I've been meaning to make an extensive list of tips as someone who worked in a laundromat. Some basics and a few things I noticed not many people know. This is also coming from someone who learned to take care of my clothes early on to save money cause we're all broke here, so these tips also save you money:

•If you're not sure how to separate colors, have 2 piles, lights and darks/brights. Obviously black clothes and bright colors like red or yellow should be separate from whites. But when you get any color clothing that's not a light color, or if you're not sure if it counts as "light", take a corner of the item and run it under warm water, then squeeze the water out and check if the water comes out with dye. If it does there's a high chance it will bleed dye on your clothes, so wash it with the darks.

•You do not need brand laundry detergent. Any laundry detergent will do. I experimented with a few brands and all brands cleaned just fine. Just know, if you use powder detergent, check the instructions because most have to be used with warm or hot water.

•Don't use that much soap. You're using too much. More soap doesn't mean more clean, the measurements on the container are made to be the exact amount you need. More soap means the machine has to work harder to rinse it out and you get soap residue more than likely, which can make you itchy or make allergies worse.

•You don't really need to wash anything in hot water regularly. Cold water is fine for most things, and makes your clothes last longer. You only really need hot water for things you clean less frequently or things that need disinfecting, like pillows, bath rugs, and comforters.

•With things that need disinfecting like bath rugs, pet blankets, reusable period pads/undies, and soiled sheets, use half a cup of hydrogen peroxide in the bleach tray. It's a color safe bleach so you can add it to any color item. For items that stink, like pet items or workout gear, add half a cup of vinegar instead of softener. It works better than the expensive "sport" detergent. Even on urine smells. I got this tip from a nurse that works in a hospice.

•To be honest, softener is unnecessary. You can soften clothes with half a cup of vinegar in the softener tray. You won't smell it once it's washed, in case you're worried about that. Softener is terrible for clothes, it actually ads a coating to fabric so if an item is supposed to pull sweat from your body, like workout gear, towels, or summer clothing, it looses the ability with just a couple washes with softener. And fire resistant clothing like baby clothes will lose the ability if washed with softener.

•If it's the smell you want, I recommend wool dryer balls. They help dry your clothes better anyway. But for scented clothes, add like 5 drops of any essential oil to a couple of them, or dip them in a hydrosol like rose water for a bit and then toss them in the dryer. I've heard people do this with perfume too, but I've never tried it.

•Treating stains is easier if you do it as soon as it happens. Or as soon as you get home. If you can't wash it right away, put a couple drops of laundry soap on the stain and dab it into the stain with a damp cloth, or use a stain spray if you have one. If the stain is cooking oil, hair products, or any type of grease, put a couple drops of Dawn dish soap on it. There's a reason they use it for oil spills. Just don't add any to your washing machine, it can cause the machine to suds up too much and break it. When you wash the item, check if the stain came out. If not, air dry it. Heat sets in stains so drying it in a machine will make the stain impossible to remove.

•If you have the space please air dry your clothes in the sun. Please. It's so good. It makes your clothes smell great, makes them last longer, helps remove stains, and brightens whites like bleach never could. I live in an apartment but I hang clothes next to the window in the spring/summer and its so good.

-Clothing labels lie. Here's a breakdown of what needs special care and what doesn't:

•Wool and silk are cold wash only. Hand wash if you can, but if you must machine wash, use cold ONLY. Use a delicate setting if your washer has one. It should be air dried. Get a drying rack. If you absolutely cannot air dry, dry wool clothing on cold/delicate for 10 minutes at a time until it's barely damp, then leave it open on your bed/couch or over a chair. Do not dry silk. It's expensive, why would you ruin it. Hang it on a hanger and hook it over your door if you have nowhere else to hang it. It dries quickly.

•Cotton can be washed any temp, but everything lasts longer in cold wash. Dry on normal, only dry on high if the item needs disinfecting or if the item is thick, like a pillow, bath rug, or comforter.

•Linen is indestructible. Linen is stonewashed to soften it, which means people put the fabric in large washing machines filled with rocks to beat it so it softens. Wash on high and dry on high to soften it more if the item is stiff, but a cold wash and normal dry is fine otherwise.

•Synthetics like polyester, acrylic, nylon, etc. are best washed cold and dried on normal/warm. More delicate items like thin blouses, stockings, and anything with lace is best air dried, but can be dried on cold/delicate if necessary. Synthetic clothes are more prone to staining so treat stains as soon as they happen.

•SOME dry clean only clothing is fine in the washer, but I'd say dry clean it if you're not sure. If it's an item with no lining it's usually fine, but always air dry these. Dresses, blouses or skirts with stiff linings will lose their shape in the washer. Easiest way to tell, if you turn a dry clean item inside out and there's a white paper like fabric lining certain areas it can't be machine washed. That's a stabilizer/interfacing and it will get ruined. Always dry clean suit jackets, coats, and anything labeled dry clean that's filled with feathers. Some suit pants can be machine washed, but make sure it doesn't have any interfacing. If a dry clean item has lots of colors on it, like a multicolored shirt, or a black dress with a white collar, dry clean it. It will get ruined otherwise.

__________________

I think that's everything, but if anyone has any questions, especially for doing laundry with a disability/low spoons, ask on this post or in the tags. My inbox seems to swallow messages but I'll keep checking this post.

[whitehallcarpetcleaners]

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[ayyy-imma-ninja]

AHHHHH! your fairy au!!! <3 I'm curious, do they have like- little house they live in? (Kinda similar to the fairies in Tinker bell?) I just wanna know if they have tiny houses :D

They actually live in a tree hollow!

It sits in a tree 30 feet off the ground, so no humans can see inside. It's full of trinkets and things they've collected for use. They sleep on growing fungi. Moon's bed is higher up to avoid the sunlight. Sun's has tiny "fairy lights" above his. One mushroom is used to hold their berries.

They have a table from an old dollhouse set, and a pocket watch to sorta use as a chair. Even though they have little pillows at the table. Tucked is a little cushion mesh of wool and string, for lounging. An old piece of fabric is used as a rug. They use the caps of acorns as bowls and plates!

Outside is a dew leaf, one they use to clean things and drink from.

[aliasrocket]

I just thought of the most specific Rocket Raccoon scenario ever — the guardians receive a commission from a planet that has a victorian era vibe especially to their clothing and the guardians including Rocket had to wear victorian era clothes to fit in …

(I have a LOT of scenarios regarding this so pls lmk if you guys want more of these! I could honestly write it into a fic at this point oml)

masterlist. requests.

It was probably just a bit past 11pm when Rocket called, the night was silent and you were just finished getting ready for bed when he called you.

Due to his tech, you both are able to project a hologram of yourselves through your phone as a way to communicate, meaning you had a clear visual of Rocket’s entire body floating in your room.

His black suit was not made of the usual silk; the texture seemed to be of dense wool. He wore a white dress shirt inside and a black tie to match. Closely hugging his small waist was a black vest that had been buttoned all the way down with the exception of the button at the very bottom. The sleeves of both the coat and the dress shirt had been neatly rolled up above just one of his forearms, making his supposedly symmetrical suit unsymmetrical.

That wasn’t exactly a bad thing, though. In fact, the arm that had been a little more exposed had gained more attention from you than the other—you watched the way his muscles tensed when he would curl his fingers around anything.

He was just kicking off his dress shoes when you picked up and right of the bat your jaw was left hanging at the sight.

“Hey, princess,” Rocket greeted, a little more wearier than you would have expected. He stood with his hands on his hips, pushing the body of his coat back just a little to reveal his hips. “Fuck, today was a bust.”

“What happened?” You asked, eyes finally parting with his stature and now moving up to his rugged expression.

“Nah, apparently the lady who supposedly has the fortune doesn’t have the damn fortune,” Rocket explained with an angered strain in his voice. “We went through all this effort, dressed so damn formally just so we would be treated like everyone else and now I—”

“Wait, Rocket, isn’t this classified information?” You shook your head, finally snapping out of your less than innocent thoughts of Rocket in his current outfit. “You shouldn’t be telling me about these things right?”

“Yeah?” Rocket sharply exhaled from his nose, a smug grin overwhelming the look of exhaustion that had been dragging down his already greying features. “Fuck those rich brats, ‘s not like I signed a contract or something. Anyway I show up at the discussed address and—”

“Rocket, they hired you.”

“Yeah hired me to stick a gun up the asshole of anyone who comes in the way of this mission, they ain’t saints, princess.” Rocket pulled at his shirt’s rolled up sleeve, letting it fall to his wrist without letting you give a proper goodbye. Not that you’d let him know you were staring, anyway.

Rocket's jaw clenched, and you decided maybe it wasn't the best idea to push it further especially when he was already irritable and tired.

“Okay so I get to the house right, almost fuckin’ blow the brains of that broad’s bodyguards the fuck out—” Rocket paused his rant when he rolled his coat sleeve down, now shrugging off his jacket and only testing just how fitted all his clothes had been. His chest flexed as he pulled his shoulders back, sliding sleeves off his arms only to reveal his clothed biceps restrained in his shirt. Each wrinkle and each fold in his clothes only further teased that Rocket was completely and utterly clothed.

“And finally I get to hold my damn blaster under her chin only to find she doesn’t even have so much as a goddamn clue as to where her fuckin’ fortune is. And now? I gotta clean her damn snot and tears off my fuckin’ blaster. D’asted little shit.”

Rocket’s fingers popped off the buttons of his vest in one swift motion and the vest was discarded in seconds, leaving his black tie and his shirt that hugged at Rocket’s enchanced pectoral muscles.

His head tilted as he tugged at the knot of his tie. You were hallucinating, right? There was absolutely no way Rocket was loosening that tie slower than it had to be, pulling it to the side as his protruding knuckles gave attention to his hands and the way they clasped onto his tie and tossed it aside so gracefully.

Oh, shit. You bit your lip when Rocket unbuttoned his dress shirt with one hand, the first button coming off so easily to reveal a white undershirt. The thought of Rocket in only a singlet had sent you melting against the pillows of your bed.

You were probably frowning at this point, tunneling on Rocket’s hand working through each of his buttons with ease before Rocket was getting the shirt off too.

And there it was again, the flexing of his chest when he pulled the shirt out and shrugged it off, and finally he was all yours—his biceps, forearms, and hell, even some parts of his chest were—

“Hey,” Rocket called loudly along with your name.

“Huh?”

“Called you five times, you didn’t respond,” Rocket said. His hands were on his hips once more but this time, his chest had been heaving, some parts of it uncovered by his singlet like something of a boob window. “Are you zoning out?”

“Uh … something like that.”

[lost-soul-in-time]

This was rock bottom. Murdock once was a golden figure throughout his county, the son of the lord and one of the best knights in the little cluster of villages his family ruled over. Now, he was climbing the walls of a castle just so he could keep eating. One of the windows happened to be only a few meters high, leading into one of the kitchens. Across his back was everything he owned, the pack strapped around his chest and looped over his arms as he climbed. He was sure he was quiet, creeping past the doors until he started to find trinkets to sell. A few gold flowers snapped from picture frames, tassels of silk cut from curtains and rugs, and jewels plucked from their set place in delicate furniture.

Guards walk by in shifts, counted out carefully by Murdock as he ducks into empty quarters each time he nears the countdown. Finding a few sizeable gems made him lose count, walking out of the room and straight into the path of two guards. Only two feet from the window, he’s pushed into the rough stone of the wall. One of them rips the straps off of him, seizing his bag while the other drags him down the hallway. Someone is awake.

@murdersinthemaking

Evenings were the most stressful part of his day.

Whether he’s fabricating further plans or tearing off a vital bodily function when answers aren’t given to him (or simply to blow off steam), his personnel are always forewarned on secluding themselves and keeping away from the villainous creature they blindly served. So when one of his watchman interrupt the sounds of agonized wails he’d been pulling from his latest victim — a pompous man swimming in wealth who had no issue attempting to send a dog after his scent to gain glory from killing him — he’s already not pleased.

Oliver doesn’t take the time to clean off the splatters of crimson on the side of his face, only slipping on his gloves and wool coat before being lead towards the informed intruder.

His face is always devoid of emotion, but it doesn’t take a brilliant mind to sense his displeasure in his steps nor his annoyance in his gaze.

A harsh blow from a foot hitting the back of Murdock’s knee sends him to the floor, held down and forced to kneel as he enters the room. A hand rests over the sword in its sheathe on his hip, and once he’s close enough, a hand grabs the exiled knight firmly by the jaw, forced to stare up at him.

“This is what you waste my time with?” He scolds at the two men, voice cold and barely sparing a glance at them before addressing Murdock for the first time. “State your purpose here.” Oliver collectedly commands, leaving little to no room for protest.

[rebelsandtherest]

Home for Christmas

Words: 4,049

Summary: Matthew falls ill just before the family Christmas bash, and thinks he's missed the entire thing. However, once he hears that his baby brother is sick, Alfred concocts a bit of a holiday surprise. —— this fic is a little late, but Merry Christmas, everyone, and here's to many more!

Warnings: langauge, talk of family during holidays, nothing else that I can think of.

Author’s note: a belated gift to a dear friend, @draw-a-circle-thats-the-compass

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

For however many hundreds of winters Matthew Williams had endured in his home, be it in the warmth of an electric-heated home, or warding off frostbite in the untamed wilderness, he would never truly get used to the speed with which the solar night crept down from the pole. It was the dark especially that always sent spikes of dread into his bones, stealing away his warmth and setting pallor in his hands and feet, spreading chill upwards to his whole body.

This year, when he felt the frigid fingers of depression reaching through his chest with the 4:30 sunset, he mustered his willpower and on a spiteful whim bought tickets to Calgary. He had a seldom-used mountain cabin tucked away within the confines of Banff, and while he wasn’t sure the new park rangers still received the memo about him and his cabin during orientation, he was willing to invoke the Minister’s ire if it meant he could dust off his best skis and escape his mind on the slopes.

The cabin was just as he’d left it, and the radiators crackled their way to warm almost as soon as he turned them on. His wool blankets had a few new holes in them, but the quilts were warm and the fireplace clean, and he didn’t even have to replace any lightbulbs, not even in the groaning old icebox. His great snowy-white dog, Buddy, quickly found his favorite bear-fur rug and curled up by the fire, ready to dive into the snow alongside his human the next day.

It was only Matt’s luck that he woke up with a sore throat. He lived in denial for a whole day, basking in the perfect weather and flying down every slope he could get his skis on. But as the too-early sunset crept below the mountains, he began to realize he was swaying on his feet, and moreover, that he’d stopped sweating.

“Shit,” He huffed into his scarf. By the time he was back at his cabin, he could taste the fever on his breath.

Matt wasn’t sure what he’d managed to pick up on his journey westward, but whatever it was, be it cold or flu or covid or tuberculosis, within a few days it had him in a death grip and refused to let go. As he lie in bed, fever-dreaming his vacation away, the darkness grew and grew, and soon Matt felt himself falling into the well of despondency that refilled every winter.

Buddy kept him company, and he’d mustered the energy to call his Dutch beau, Jan, once or twice, but the fever had stolen his ability to tell time, and both times he’d spent about half of the call apologizing for waking him at two in the morning, and the other half repeating himself when Jan got lost in his feverish amalgamation of English and French. He had some anxiety-inducing number of unread text messages waiting for him in the corner of his phone, but reading was a doomed endeavor with his puffy, aching eyes. He watched whatever public tv stations still reached his ancient bunny-eared set, but ended up falling asleep nearly as soon as he sat down.

After some untold number of days, his fever broke, and while he was rationing the NyQuil he still had in his cupboards, he’d taken a full dose the first few nights after his fever and had been mostly comatose since. He’d been sound asleep on the couch one afternoon when his phone began to ring, buzzing loudly against the window sill just above him, until it vibrated its way fully off the sill and directly onto Matt’s head.

“Fucking putain,” he groaned and was shocked at how gravelly his voice came out. The offending device had fallen into his lap, buried somewhere in the folds of his blanket, still buzzing away. He fished it out and stabbed at the screen with squinted eyes, looking for the ‘ignore call’ button, but ended up hitting the ‘answer’ button instead. Only then did he see the caller’s name.

“...Mattie? You there?” asked Alfred from the other line. Matt sighed and sank back into bed, rubbing at the spot where his phone had hit, knowing it would be a lump by the end of the hour.

“Yeah?” he answered, trying to rein in his annoyance at being woken up.

“Holy shit bro, you sound terrible. Are you okay?”

“Sick,” Matt told him.

“Sick? I thought you were going skiing!” Matt closed his eyes, which made his head feel like he was spinning.

“I did. Skied. Got sick. Et voilà. ”

“Aww jeez Mattie. Do you think you’ll be good for our flight on Thursday?” Matt blinked.

“What flight?”

“...To London? Dad’s annual fussy Christmas bash, you know the drill.”

“That’s not until the 22nd.”

“...Matt, it’s December 20th.”

“What?” Matt’s voice cracked with his incredulity. “No, it’s… I got here on the 10th, it’s only been a couple of days, the 22nd isn’t until… I mean I don’t know when but it’s more than three days away.”

“Wait you think it’s only been—Mattie, how many days did you ski before you got sick?” Matt hesitated, embarrassed of the answer.

“One.”

“Oh my god,” Alfred sounded genuinely surprised, and it took him a moment to say, “ Matt, you’ve been sick for a week? And you still sound like this? You don’t still have a fever, do you?”

“No, it went away… I can’t remember.” Matt rubbed his face, and every inch ached. “Listen, it’s not December 19th, I swear, if you’re fucking with me–”

“Look at your phone.”

“What?”

“Look at the date on your phone.”

Matt did.

“Fuck,” he said, staring at the giant calendar date as though it would change if he stared long enough.

“Yeah,” Alfred’s voice was tinny away from his ear. Matt finally blinked and sank further under his blankets, and eventually brought the phone back to his face.

“You’re going to have to apologize to dad for me,” Matt said, “I thought it was… Jesus, I missed my flight back to Ottawa, shit.”

“Wait, you're still in Calgary?”

“Banff.”

“You didn’t leave the dog at home, did you?”

“No, he’s with me,” Matt could feel his voice getting more hoarse.

“Well that’s something. Man, you picked a helluva time to get sick, huh.”

“Apparently,” Matt wished he were comatose for all of this.

“Listen, slam some water—or gatorade, if you have it—and get some rest, okay? I know you’re feeding Buddy, but feed yourself too, alright?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Matt.”

“...I’ll try.”

“Good. Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Don’t die.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“Glad to hear it. Gotta go. Love you, kiddo, feel better.”

Matt began to respond, but before he could finish, Alfred hung up. Matt watched his brother’s smiling icon disappear from the screen, leaving only the giant, damning calendar. Matt stared at it and sighed, heart sinking down through his bed and the cabin itself and into the frozen ground below. There was no way he’d be in shape to fly to Ottawa in the next three days, to say nothing of flying to Ottawa and then across the Atlantic to London.

Buddy, though far too large to be a lapdog, leapt up onto the couch draped himself across Matt’s body, crawling on his belly until he was able to nose the man’s chin, giving it a lick.

“Yeah I know,” Matt sighed, petting the dog’s soft ears and wishing it could make him feel better. “I guess I should tell dad.” The thought made his heart sink even further. “Uncle Alisdair was going to bring his homemade whiskey and everything. Even Aunt Bridgid agreed to go this year. But I guess it’s just,” Matt craned his neck to look over into his small kitchen. There was an old, half-empty bottle of whiskey and a small bag of miniatures he’d picked up while waiting on his flight. “…that, you, me, and whatever the fuck is left in the fridge. Merry fucking Christmas, eh?” Buddy whined, and licked Matt’s face again. He sighed.

“Yeah, me neither.”

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

December 22nd came and went, and by the 23rd, Matthew was less sick than he had been, but still far from healthy. “I imagine Uncle Rhys has already played referee to five fights by now, what d’you think?” He asked his dog. Buddy sneezed. “You’re right, maybe only four.” Matt tried to imagine it; Alfred and Dad, probably, Brighid and dad, certainly. If they were drunk enough, Zee and Uncle Alistair would fight about who was the better skier. Jack wouldn’t hurt a fly so long as he had a beer or cider in hand, though Alfred was certain to seek out arguments for sport—Matt really wished he could get his brother to understand that most people didn’t view arguments as fun.

In past years, he’d spent weeks complaining to Jan about the chaos that accompanied his family’s holiday’s reunions. Now, left alone in a cabin with nothing but his dog, whiskey, and his own thoughts, he realized that he missed it dearly, in the strangest way.

“I’m going to sleep,” he told his dog, who was practically asleep himself. “Hopefully until the New Year.”

It was an ironic cruelty that it was more difficult to sleep while sick than while healthy. It was as if his body was in a civil war over whether it needed to be asleep and miserable or awake and miserable. So, when Matt finally fell into a deep sleep, the half of his body that preferred to be asleep and miserable fought tooth and nail to keep him that way. Unfortunately, someone was trying to break into his house.

It was actually Buddy who finally roused him. Though the banging on the door was difficult to ignore, Buddy’s frantic barking was even harder to ignore. Head pounding, Matt rolled himself bodily out of bed, taking half of the quilt with him. He dragged it behind him, half draped over him, as he trudged to the door. Behind the old white curtain hanging over the door’s window, there was an imposing, human-shaped shadow.

“Fucking park rangers,” Matt groused, and glared down at Buddy. “I thought I told you to remind me to turn the lights off last night.” Buddy barked at him, and Matt sighed. “Listen,” he unlocked the door and pulled on the handle, “I’m allowed to be here, call your superintendent, I’m sure they’ll—Alfred?!”

“Finally!” beamed his brother, clad in a designer parka and what looked like a home-made toque, “I was beginning to think you were dead, which you promised you wouldn’t be. Can I come in? Fucking freezing out here.”

Matt stared for a prolonged number of seconds before he blurted, voice cracking: “Shouldn’t you be in London?” Alfred looked affronted.

“While my baby brother is on his deathbed in the bumfuck nowhere, Alberta? No way!”

“Banff isn’t bumfuck nowhere, and I’m not dying.”

“Banff isn’t, but this cabin sure is, and I’m glad you’re not dying, now can I please come inside? I’m freezing my nuts off out here.” Matt stood aside, still processing the sight of his brother in the flesh. Buddy’s tail was wagging wildly as Alfred came inside, jumping at the chance to sniff the newcomer, dancing happily around the American in a way he did for no one else.

“You should be in London,” Matt said again, head aching.

“I wasn’t about to leave you here, you dumb fuck, jeez, it’s freezing in here, too.” Alfred cast a look down at Buddy. “You let him live like this?” a singular, insistent bark. “Ah, that tracks. Never was good at looking after himself.” He looked up back to Matt, shedding his mittens and shoving them into his coat pockets. “Alright, kiddo, let’s get you packed.”

“Packed?” Matt’s voice squeaked, and he realized even the small amount of talking he’d done with Alfred was killing his voice completely, “Alfred, I can’t go to London, we talked about this–”

“Who keeps talking about London? Not me—we’re going to my place. Idaho!”

“Idaho?” Matt’s brain took a while to buffer. “Wait, at your—”

“At my ranch? Yup!”

Ranch was not the word Matt would have used; Alfred was as rugged a rancher as any rancher alive or dead, but he also had what Matt could only refer to as a Kardashian sense of luxury, and enough money to blend the two lifestyles together. Matt realized all at once the expense Alfred must have spent to abandon the family Christmas, travel north, and prepare his Idaho mansion for his company. “Alfred, you don’t have to, really—”

“Dude, cut the apologies, I’ve broken like, at least four international laws to park my cessna out back, so get your shit and let’s go. No arguing!”

“You what?!”

“C’mon, we’re wastin’ daylight!”

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

If Alfred weren’t already breaking laws north of the border for skipping customs, the FAA south of the border surely would’ve surely had complaints about the alterations he’d made to the rear seat of his plane. Where once there had been two passenger seats with requisite seatbelts and safety features, there was now a cozy, cot-sized bed with enough pillows and blankets for two king-sized beds. By the time Alfred had convinced Matt to “just get in the goddamn plane”, Buddy had already found the fluffiest pillow of the bunch and fallen asleep.

“Here, take this.” While the engines warmed up, Alfred leaned back to hand Matt a handful of gummies from the pilot’s seat.

“What is it?” Matt squinted at the candy.

“Delta 8 and melatonin,” Alfred said, replacing his specs with aviators and pulling on his headset. “Now make like your dog and sleep , kay? You look like you need it.”

Matt scoffed. “Thanks,” he said, and chewed the candy together. It was the last thing he remembered doing before Alfred shook him awake and gently informed him that they’d arrived in Bumfuck Nowhere—and it was actually bumfuck nowhere—Idaho.

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

Matt had visited Alfred’s Idaho Ranch-Mansion plenty of times since it’d been finished sometime in the late 90s, and the mountain drive from the airport to the wide-windowed lodge was an unexpected source of nostalgia of birthdays, holidays, and drunken benders past. Matt hauled himself to the window once the familiar hand-hewn wooden fences appeared, squinting against the blinding snowy paddocks until the first blanketed horses came into view. Matt couldn’t help but smile, maybe the first smile he’d entertained since falling ill. Alfred’s horse herd was made up of innumerable bloodlines, nowadays, but at the center of their pedigree was the blood of some sturdy old Morgans Matt had gifted to him during his civil war. Alfred kept a book that traced their sires all the way back to their Canadian forefathers, and seeing the newest generations never failed to swell Matt’s heart. As if sensing what his brother was looking at, Alfred said,

“Bonfire foaled twins this year—really late, too, October. I can’t remember if I told you that.”

“Really?” “Yeah, both little stubborn shits too, probably why they both lived. I’ve got them up at the barn to keep warm.”

“What’d you name them?” Matt asked. Alfred grinned, uncharacteristically sheepish.

“Pumpkin and Sweet Potato.”

“Alfred, you have to stop naming them after food.”

“What?! It was October! They’re cute.”

As they pulled up the house, Alfred was still defending his food-inspired horse name choices when Matt spotted something strange in the driveway.

“Who’s car is that?” He asked, eyeing the plain white SUV parked to one side of the massive driveway.

“Oh, I forgot about that,” Alfred bent down to peer at the car. “They didn’t all fit in the Bronco, so I had to rent a car for ‘em.”

“For who?”

“I’ll explain later,” Alfred said, shifting the car into park. Matt didn’t miss the small smirk his brother tried to hide. Immediately, a knot of dread formed in his stomach. “Let’s just get you inside and situated, yeah?”

Alfred didn’t have to explain, because the moment he unlocked the front door, the familiar sounds of pointless arguments flooded his ears.

“-bloody fucking ridiculous,” said the very drunk, very Dad voice somewhere deeper into the house. On the doorstep, Matt froze halfway out of his shoes and shot a look at Alfred, who responded by smiling a bit wider, all-american dimples peaking through

“Well how about I conquer you for a century or ten and then I can tell you you’re ridiculous, you bloated fucken Gobshite! Oi, Jackie, back me up on this!”

“Is that aunt Brighid?” Matt asked, eyeing Alfred again. The American busied himself with physically helping Matt out of his boots.

“I have some slippers for you just inside—watch your step.”

“Oh shite, I think I hear someone at the door,” said a much closer, much more Australian voice, “I’ll be just a minute there, one second!”

“ Alfred how the fuck did you—” The door swung open in a rush.

“Save me,” begged a younger, freckled, brunette version of their father. The white puff at the end of his Santa Claus hat jumped when he did a double take at Matthew. His green eyes lit up like Christmas itself.

“Matt!” He greeted, smile spreading wide as the sun. “You look like shite, it’s so good to see you! Oi! You angry cunts!” he shouted over his shoulder, “Matt’s here!”

“What?”

“Oh, thank Christ. Matthew, come tell this woman—”

“You’ll not drag him into this! The bairn’s ill,”

“Are they,” Matt looked over at Alfred, who was still smiling like a smug bastard. “How did you—you’re—” He looked over at Jack, “I thought you were in London?”

“What?” Jack seemed honestly confused, glancing between Matt and Alfred. “Did the Yank seriously not tell you—” he gave Alfred a look, and upon seeing his smug expression, scoffed. “London was a wash this year,” he laughed, “Happy Christmas, mate, come on in.”

“How’d you get here?” Matt reiterated.

“Like I said,” Alfred piped up, pushing Matt towards the doorway. Looking down, Matt realized that, in his shock, Alfred had been the one to actually remove his shoes for him, “they didn’t all fit in the Bronco, so most of them got here by the last Grand Cherokee Avis had to offer. Go on, we’re letting the cold in.” Before Matt could step fully into the threshold, Buddy had bolted in between his legs, tail alert and wagging, eager to see the rest of the family.

“Buddy!” A feminine voice cried, “C’mere you big baby, say hello to auntie Zee,” a series of happy yelps followed, accompanied by drunken laughter.

“Well the dog is here,” Uncle Alisdair said in his loud brogue, “where’s the rest of the circus?”

“We’re here too,” Alfred said, walking behind Matt into the main living area.

“Och, there they are!” “Matthew, so good to see you,” Father looked genuinely happy to see him, soft smile creasing his eyes in the way that reminded Matt of the happiest parts of his childhood. “Come here, let me look at you.”

“Matt! Croeso ! What’s your poison? Mulled wine? Whiskey? Cider?”

“The bairn is sick, Rhys—”

“Alcohol never hurt anyone on Christmas,”

“Mary and all the saints, how have you lived this long—”

“Come over here and give us a hug, you muppets!” cried Zee, spreading her arms wide, a nearly-empty bottle of wine in one fist.

Matt was frozen in place, still coming off his melatonin and wondering if he was feverish again. He was dimly aware that his jaw was hanging open as he took in the gaggle of family packed into Alfred’s living room—dad, both uncles, Jack, Zee, even aunt Brighid. There were twinkling lights hung all around the vaulted ceilings and reflecting on the tall windows, a fresh-cut Christmas tree lit in the corner with a haphazard collection of presents and duty-free bags piled below, punch and whiskey and wine and beer stacked in disorganized bunches along the nearby bar counter.

“—sure he’s alright?” Zee was asking, when his ears decided to work again.

“He’s fine,” he heard Alfred say, and a warm hand rested on his shoulder. “He’s just a bit surprised.”

“You’re,” Matt said, looking around at them all, and everyone went quiet to listen to him. “You’re not. You’re meant to be in London,” Matt insisted.

“Nonsense!” Alisdair spoke up first. “We go to London every year, it was old enough a century ago, time for a change of pace.” He ignored it when Arthur glared at him. “‘Sides, you brother Money Bags over here promised he would take care of everything, else your dad wouldn’t have ever let TSA so much as look at his Christmas pudding—”

“ Alisdair,” Arthur hissed.

“You didn’t think we’d leave you alone, did you? On Christmas?” Jack was completely earnest when he said it. Seeing his baby brother’s face, and the faces of his ridiculous, loud, chaotic family, Matt suddenly found himself with watery eyes threatening to spill over.

“The kid’s on a few drugs right now, give him a little bit to recover,” laughed Alfred, arm around Matt’s shoulders. “He needs some rest. Come on, kiddo, let’s go get you set up in your—” Alfred paused and looked at their little brother.

“Jack, did you get your stuff—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack waved dismissively. “I moved rooms.”

“Awesome. Come on, kiddo, let’s get you in bed before you fall over.”

“We’ll be here when you wake up!” Rhys called.

“Unless we all have hangovers,” Zee amended, and she and Rhys laughed together. Alfred shook his head and led Matt to his usual room, the only bedroom in the house that had a heated bed.

“Upsy-daisy,” Alfred said, helping Matt up onto the cushioned mattress, pulling out the duvet before Matt sat on it and pulling it immediately over the younger man’s body up to his neck, cozy and warm.

“Hey, hey,” Matt hadn’t realized he’d let tears fall until Alfred was sitting on the bed beside him, brushing hair behind his ear and speaking to him softly in the way that had meant safe since he was a baby. “I wanted to surprise you, not incapacitate you, are you alright?”

Matt wiped his eyes, remembering his lonely cabin and the escape he’d been too sick to enjoy. Alfred’s house was warm and safe, and smelt of Christmas spices that harkened back to his earliest years. “Thank you,” Matt managed, gripping Alfred’s sleeve. “I don’t know how you—I didn’t think—” He sighed, feeling exactly how tired he was. “Thanks, Al.”

Al responded by wrapping him in a hug, warm and tight and safe and everything Matt needed to finally let himself rest. Over Alfred’s shoulder, he could see his dog sneak into the room, hopping up onto the foot of the bed.

“Get some good rest, okay? And don’t worry about anything,” Alfred said into his ear, bending down until Matt was lying back in bed. “We’ll all be here in the morning.”

“The fuck I did! It was your goddamned idea in the first place!” Alisdair’s bellow echoed down the hall and their brotherly moment broke so they could both whip their heads to the door to listen.

“My idea?!” countered their father, in the self-righteous tone that said he’d been at the rum punch a little too much that night, “The entire stupid thing was your doing, beginning to end!”

“You know,” came a third voice, “ I’m fairly sure that—” “Shut up, Rhys!” Shouted Alisdair and Father at once.

Alfred sighed. “Well, we’ll all probably be here in the morning. I’ll tell them to keep it down.”

“No,” Matt said, letting out a tired laugh. The bickering of his father and uncles blurred together in a familiar, lulling haze as sleep beckoned. “No, it’s okay. Merry Christmas, Alfred.” Matt was almost asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, mind’s eye filled with twinkling lights and familiar smiles, morphing into pleasant dreams of holidays past. He was still just awake enough to feel it when Alfred bent to kiss his forehead and brush a hand over his hair.

“Merry Christmas, Mattie. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”