#black people in fairytales

[foodandfolklore]

The Three Lemons

Something compelled me to look up stories about lemons today. Lemons have a lot of uses in cooking and witchcraft. Lemons and lemon juice are often known for their Souring properties, and will be used in souring spells. A kind of spell or hex where you look to make someone's life or relationships unpleasant. But Lemons also have strong cleansing and purification properties. Steeping some lemon zest in hot water makes a great base for a cleansing spray.

Lemons have lots of magical properties. Beauty, Love, Romance, Friendship, Fidelity, Banishing, Protection; they are also related to the sun and solar energy so expect Joy, Energy, Positivity, Open Mind, Health and Longevity. And a lot more, seriously. Lemon Trees are able to produce lemons year round; often called four seasons fruit. So lemons are always in season, always full of energy.

This story was translated from Italian to English by Esther Singleton in the book The Goldenrod Fairy Book in 1903. I want to give you a heads up now that one of the characters is a black person, written in a time when black people were not written as equals to white characters. However, there are still a few little nuances about this story I found interesting. The first being that she is called 'black' and not some other word or slur common for the time. That is not editing done on my part, that is the word chosen by the original author. Yes she is referred to as 'Black Slave' most of the time instead of being given a name. But none of the characters had names.

However, that's about all it has going for it in regards to black representation. I physically recoiled a bit at the implication that being a slave is a choice, you just need to work harder. And of course the villain is the black person victimizing a poor, pretty white girl and taking advantage of the kindness of the white man. If you're wondering why I'm sharing such a story, please check out my previous post.

That said, I want to focus on the Lemons and the beauty and love that come from them. This is ultimately a story about a man finding his perfect wife. The most beautiful, kind person ever. Maybe cut open a lemon for your own magic to help harness beauty and love energy.

THE King of Terra Longa had an only son, who was the apple of his eye, and on whom he built all his hopes. He felt he was growing an old man, and the great desire of his life was to see his son happily married before he died. But, unfortunately, the young Prince was of a very different mind, and if a woman was as much as mentioned in his presence, he got up and left the room, and refused to come back till the conversation had turned on some other subject.

Neither his father’s tears and entreaties, nor the counsel and advice of the statesmen and courtiers round the King’s throne, would make him consider the subject of matrimony. But nothing happens so often as the unexpected, and a mere trifle will change the history of nations. One day, as the Prince was cutting a cream tart in half and attending more to the conversation that was going on than to what he was doing, he cut his finger with his knife.

The blood spurted out and fell on the cream, and the mixture of colour was so beautiful that the Prince was seized on the spot with the desire to find a wife with a complexion like the cream and blood. He said to the King: “Dear father, if I do not find a bride who is red and white like this, then it is all over with me. Hitherto no woman has ever caused my heart a single flutter, but now I long for this red and white maiden, as I have never longed for anything in my life before. Permit me, therefore, to go in search of my ideal, for if I do not find her I shall die.”

At first his father was much startled and grieved at his words, and tried hard to dissuade his son from setting out on such a futile journey, but when he saw that his remonstrances were of no avail, and that he might as well have spoken to the winds, he said: “Go, my son, since your heart is so set on the journey; take money and whatever else you desire with you, and hasten back with all speed to your poor father, who will be disconsolate till you return.”

So the Prince set out on his travels, and wandered through fields and woods, over mountains and through valleys, visiting different countries 160and nations, always keeping his eyes open for the maiden of his dreams. But he sought in vain, for though he left no stone unturned, nowhere could he find the blooming image he had painted in his mind’s eye. From kingdom to kingdom he roamed, and at last he came to the Island of the Wild Women.

Here he met an old dame who was as thin as a scarecrow, and with the ugliest face he had ever seen. The Prince told her at once what brought him to the island, and when the old woman had heard his tale, and all the dangers and sufferings he had gone through, her heart melted with pity, and she said: “My son, let me warn you to fly from hence with all speed, for if my three daughters, who live on human flesh, find you here, you are a lost man. They will certainly eat you raw, or roast you for their next meal. Make haste to leave this place as quickly as you can, and I promise you won’t be gone far before you meet your fate.”

When the Prince heard her words he took to his heels, and, without as much as bidding the old creature farewell, he ran without stopping till he came to a different country, where he met another 161old woman even uglier than the first. To her, too, he confided the history and object of his wanderings, but she answered him as the other had done: “You had better make haste to get away from here, unless you wish to provide my daughters, the little man-eaters, with a meal; but not far from this spot you will meet your fate.”

As soon as the poor Prince heard her words he set off running at full speed, and didn’t pause for a moment till he came upon another old woman, who was sitting under a tree with a basket on her arm full of cakes and other dainties.

The Prince made her a polite bow, and commenced at once to tell her his story. This time the old woman comforted him with friendly words, and made him sit down and eat a good breakfast. When he had finished his meal she presented him with three lemons, which looked as if they had just been cut from the tree, and along with the fruit a beautiful knife, saying, as she gave them to him: “You may go home as fast as you like, for you have got what you sought; when you are close to your father’s kingdom, stop at the first well you come to, and cut one of the lemons in half: a fairy will come out of it, and say to you: ‘Give me something to drink.’ Then you must get her some water as quickly as you can, for if you don’t she will disappear like quicksilver, and if you don’t succeed with the first or second, you must be sure not to let the third fairy escape, but hand her the water in a moment, for she is the wife of your heart’s desire.”

The Prince joyfully kissed her hairy old hand, which felt exactly like the back of a porcupine, and, thanking the old dame heartily for her kindness, he bade her farewell, and left the country with all speed. After many dangers by sea and land, he arrived safely about a day’s journey from his own kingdom. Here on a lovely heath, shaded by beautiful old trees, the Prince dismounted at a well, the running of whose crystal waters sounded like a bell, calling people to come and refresh themselves. The Prince sat down on a carpet formed of tender green grass and lovely coloured flowers, and, taking the knife out of its sheath, he cut the first lemon open. In a moment, like a flash of lightning, a beautiful girl stood before him, as 163white as milk and as red as a strawberry, and she said to him, “Give me something to drink.”

The Prince, quite dazzled and bewildered by the beauty of the fairy, did not give her the water quickly enough, and to his great grief she vanished almost as soon as she had appeared.

The same thing happened when he cut the second lemon open, and the Prince exclaimed in despair, “I am the most unlucky creature in the world. Twice have I let my luck escape me — but courage! I have still a third chance, and there is luck in odd numbers; this knife shall either be the means of securing my happiness, or it shall put an end to my griefs.”

With these words he cut the third lemon open, and out stepped the third fairy, and said, as the others had done, “Give me something to drink.”

This time the Prince handed the fairly a glass of water as quick as lightning, and in a moment a lovely girl stood before him, as white as cream and as red as blood. Her hair was golden, her mouth like a rosebud, and her eyes shone like two stars. In one word, she was as beautiful as the day, and she looked as good as she was beautiful, and as charming as she was good. The Prince 164could not contain his admiration, and said: “Am I asleep or awake, or are my eyes bewitched; for how can such a lovely creature have been contained in the bitter rind of this yellow lemon?”

But when he had at last convinced himself that the beautiful apparition before him was no dream, but sober reality, he kissed the fairy tenderly, and said many charming things to her. He begged her to be his wife. “But,” he said, “I will not take you back to my father’s kingdom without the splendour worthy of your beauty, or without the escort fitting for my queen. Therefore, let me beg of you to remain in the meantime in the hollow of this leafy oak, which looks as if it had been made for a hiding-place, and there await my return. You may be sure I will come back to you as quickly as I can, and will then lead you to my kingdom with the retinue and following that befits your position;” and so saying he bade his beautiful bride farewell, and set forth on his journey.

When he had gone, the fairy climbed up into one of the forks of the tree, and from there watched all that was going on around her. Before many minutes had passed a black slave girl arrived at the well with a pitcher for water. She was just going to dip the jug in the waves when she perceived the face of the fairy reflected in the water, and thinking it was her own reflection she saw, she stared back with a cry of surprise, exclaiming at the same time, “What, unhappy Lucia, you are as beautiful as all that, and yet your mistress sends you to the well to get water, and you submit to her conduct?”

With these words she broke the jug and returned home. But when her mistress asked her why she had not done her duty she replied, “I went to the well, and broke the pitcher by mistake against a big stone.”

The woman restrained her anger as well as she could, and on the following day gave the girl a beautiful china jug, and told her to go to the well and fill it with water. But when she came to the well, and once more saw the lovely reflection there, she heaved a deep sigh, and said, “I will no longer be a slave, for I am not ugly as I have always thought I was; on the contrary, I am lovely and charming, and it is ridiculous that I should be made to fetch water from the well!” With these 166words she broke the jug into a hundred pieces, and when she got home she told her mistress that a donkey had passed by and had kicked the jug and broken it to pieces.

When the woman heard about this fresh accident she lost her temper, and, seizing a broom, she beat the girl to within an inch of her life; then handing her a leather bottle, she said, “Now go as quickly as you can, you useless creature, and bring me back the bottle full of water. Don’t dawdle on the way, and if anything happens this time I’ll give you another beating that you won’t forget in a hurry.”

The slave-girl ran with all her might back to the well and filled the bottle full of water, but once more catching sight of the lovely reflection, she said, “I would be a fool to go on drawing water; it would be far better and more fitting that I should marry. From this moment I refuse to serve my mistress any longer.” With these words she took a pin that she wore in her hair and pierced the leather bottle with it, so that it became exactly like a fountain, with the water spurting out in every direction. Here the fairy, who had been watching the black girl’s ridiculous behavior, could contain her mirth no longer, and burst into a hearty laugh.

When the slave heard the sound of laughter she looked to see where it came from, and, when she caught sight of the girl hidden in the tree, she said to herself, “So you are the cause of my mistress nearly beating me to death, are you? but wait a little, and I’ll be even with you yet;” but to the fairy she said, “What are you doing up there, my beautiful maid?”

The fairy, who was politeness itself, told the black girl everything there was to tell, and ended up by saying she was going to marry a charming prince, and was only awaiting his return with a suitable escort and retinue to accompany him to his father’s kingdom.

When the black slave heard this, a wicked plan entered into her head, and she said: “Oh, if you are expecting your bridegroom’s return, let me come up beside you and comb your locks in order to make you even fairer than you are.”

The fairy answered, “You are most welcome to come,” and stretched down her hand, which looked like a piece of crystal set in ebony, as she helped the slave up. As soon as the black creature began to comb the fairy’s hair she stuck her hairpin into her skull, hoping in this way she would kill her on the spot.

But as soon as the fairy felt the prick of the pin she called out, “Dove, dove!” and in a moment she was changed into a dove, and flew away right up into the sky.

When the Prince returned with his suite and train he could hardly believe his eyes when he beheld, instead of the lovely maid he had left behind in the hollow of the tree, the form of the ugly black slave-girl.

But when the wicked creature perceived the Prince’s distress and amazement she said: “Don’t be surprised, dear Prince, for it is I, your Lucia, but I have been bewitched by an evil magician, and turned from a fair and lovely maiden into the ugly black marble statue you see before you.”

The poor Prince, not knowing how to help himself, made the best of a bad business, and after the black girl had got down from the tree he had her dressed in the splendid clothes he had brought with him for his bride; and when she had been made to look as well as she could, he set forth with her to meet the King and Queen, who were to meet the young couple a few miles from their home.

When his father and mother perceived the folly their son had committed, and how that he who had travelled so far in search of a white dove had only returned with a black crow, they could hardly restrain their disgust and disappointment. But, seeing the thing was done, and that there was no help for it, they abandoned their throne to the young couple, and a gold crown was placed on the slave’s woolly head. The wedding was held with much pomp and ceremony, and everyone far and wide was invited to the feast.

Now it happened that while the King’s cook was preparing all the dainty dishes for the wedding banquet a beautiful dove flew in at the kitchen window and said:

“Tell me, cook, oh! tell me true,   What do the King and his black bride do?”

At first the cook paid no attention to the words of the bird; but when the dove had repeated them a second and a third time, he ran into the banqueting hall and told the assembled company what the bird had said. When the bride heard the words of the dove’s song, she ordered the bird to be caught on the spot and roasted. The cook did as he was told, seized the bird, and wrung its neck, and, when he had plucked its feathers, he threw them out of the kitchen window. A few days afterwards, on the spot where the feathers had been thrown, a beautiful lemon tree sprang up, which grew and blossomed as you looked at it.

Now it happened one day that the King was looking out of his window, and saw the tree, which he never remembered to have noticed before. He immediately called the cook before him, and asked him when and by whom the tree had been planted. When he had heard the whole story from the chief cook, he gave orders that no one, under pain of death, should touch the tree, and that it should be tended and watered carefully every day.

In a very short time three lemons appeared on the tree exactly the same as those the old woman had given the Prince, and he had them plucked at once and brought to his room. Here he shut himself up with a tumbler full of water, and with the same knife that he had used before, and which he always wore at his side, he began to cut the lemons in half. As before, the first and second fairy escaped him; but when he had cut the third lemon open, and given the fairy some water to drink, as she requested, she changed into the beautiful girl whom he had left behind in the hollow of the tree, and from her he learnt the whole history of the black slave’s misdeeds.

The King’ s joy was beyond words at this new stroke of fortune, and he could hardly realise that his bride was really the beautiful girl who stood before him, and not the ugly black creature who had deceived him so wickedly. After he had dressed her in the most costly garments, and kissed her tenderly, he took his fairy bride by the hand and led her into the throne-room, where all the court were assembled. Then the King addressed his courtiers and said: “Tell me, all of you, what punishment does the person deserve who has ill-treated this beautiful lady?” Whereupon one replied: “She deserves a breakfast of stones;” another: “A draught of poison;” and a third said: “She should be rolled down a hill in a barrel with sharp spikes inside it.”

At last the King called the black Queen to him and asked her what punishment she would propose.

“The wicked creature,” she answered, “who could harm so fair a vision should be burnt to death and her ashes scattered to the four winds.”

When the King heard her words, he said: “You have pronounced your own doom, for it was you, and no other, you vile wretch, who did my beautiful bride so much wrong. Know now that this is the lovely maid whose head you pierced with your hairpin, and she, too, was the beautiful dove you had so cruelly caught and roasted. But as you have done unto others, so it shall be done unto you, and as you showed no mercy, neither shall it be shown you.”

With these words he had the black slave seized and thrown alive into a huge bonfire, and when she was burned to ashes they were scattered to the four winds from the top of the high watch-tower. But the King and his fair wife lived happily ever afterwards; and if only you and I knew where to find the kingdom of Terra Longa, I believe we should find them living there still.

#Lemons #Italian #folklore #fable #fairytale #food and folklore #klickwitch #black people in fairytales #kitchen witchcraft #lemon magic #magic #october #three lemons #lemon

[iridessence]

Some of my other favorites from the Selkie fashion show.

#cottagecore #black cottagecore #princess aesthetic #princesscore #soft black people #soft black femmes #soft black women #pink aesthetic #fairytale aesthetic #angelcore #angelic #selkie #mine #as in my upload

[rrrauschen]

Aleksandr Sokurov, {2022} Сказка (Fairytale)

#film #gif #aleksandr sokurov #Сказка #fairytale #2022 #black and white #found footage #people #2020s #male filmmakers #feature length #russia

[v-arbellanaris]

i think some of u need to calm down and remember this is a game. i did not pay [redacted amount of money] for a game to not explore all the options, and if you did, i think you're stupid and should have just watched a playthrough on youtube.

#objecting to the lack of dialogue/response options. in a game notorious for a breadth of dialogue and response options. is like. not a crime #when 500+ people are like 'man i wish i could've done x or had a chance to say x' and ur response to that is 'well doing x just makes you #a piece of shit and [other black and white thinking options here]' like. #joining the war on lack of nuance on the side of lack of nuance. embarrasssinggggggg #'u are a piece of shit for--' i love Narratives. i love Stories. i love writing characters who do awful and terrible things and are 100% #convinced they're right in doing it. i love that they get mad and upset when people they care about don't agree with their insanity. #great that u have ur perfect fairytale playthroughs. i want blood and guts and heartbreak and messiness #i want a story that rips my spine out. i want character arcs that make me want to die. and then i want to be told Making A Bad Decision #is not the end of the fucking world. actually. it doesn't mean the end of everything and the only option for u now is death. etc etc #like great you're out here writing perfect protagonists who never do anything wrong. i'm out here writing protags one bad day away from #becoming a villain. i'm out here writing protags who ARE villains and are really convinced they're the heroes. i'm out here writing heroes #that the world is convinced is a villain. go write your coffee shop aus and get out of my corner of fandom lol #tbd

[asofterutena]

(He said you wouldn’t be in the castle.)

episode 14 of revolutionary girl utena, boys of the black rose, aired on this date 25 years ago.

#a softer world #revolutionary girl utena #shoujo kakumei utena #a softer world remix #rguedit #anthy himemiya #kanae ohtori #ep: boys of the black rose #anthy and kanae #asw 989 #2 2022 #people's choice #director's commentary #based off the former duelist kanae theory #where akio made the same offer to kanae as he did to utena and she took it #here kanae is pretending she's living her fairytale life when a reminder of what's behind the curtain (anthy) is right there

[daylighteclipsed]

@atnak16 I mean, yeah….

But even his “fairytale” universe is not black and white — if basically every game post-KH1, the UX/prequel era, and Riku’s entire character arc are anything to go by lol… That’s just the worldview Sora is clinging to, which is rapidly working out for him less and less.

The idea behind Sora being sent to “reality” is probably that reality and fantasy are not that different… They’re mirrors. They reflect each other. The same concepts exist, they just manifest in different ways. (And one person’s reality is another person’s unreality, so who’s to say what’s “real,” blah, blah…)

Point is, Sora absolutely can learn this lesson in his own universe. We’ve watched other characters (Aqua, Ventus, Mickey, Riku, etc.) do it. He’s seen plenty of proof that there is nuance in his own universe. It has practically been said to his face… He’s just stubborn and under a lot of pressure and (understandably) scared. It’s complicated.

#it’s interesting bc it’s fitting for sora as a 14 yr old hopping from fairytale world to fairytale world to initially have that #black&white moral view of the world. and in kh1 it works out in his favor. he benefits from embracing the light and battling the darkness #and it’s not easy but a simpler story. it seems obvious what’s right and what’s wrong #in CoM things start to get a little more complicated. namine does awful things for sympathetic reasons. #the more sora follows his heart — or at least what feels right instead of questioning what’s going on and why he feels like #something is right — the more it gets him into trouble. the more he loses himself #then in kh2 things get more complicated. sora has to deal with the repercussions of stabbing himself and then forgetting castle oblivion #and his black&white morals don’t jive as well w the story this time around bc the nobodies are sympathetic #and diz/ansem the wise — someone ‘good’ — is completely wrong about them #are they doing good things? no but they are people with sympathetic reasons that sora never stops to consider #it’s less heroes vs monsters and more hurt people vs hurt people #ddd is cruel about drilling this into sora’s head and he still only half accepts it #with each game the world becomes messier and messier. and sora’s refusal to engage w that reality becomes more immature #and a hindrance where it once benefitted

[hotniatheron]

jack rackham is such a fun character bc he's more famous for how he died in real life but in black sails he quite literally has narrator protection from the plot and death

#putting real people in black sails was so crazy of them #and putting them in the wrong years. like OUR world is the fairytale and treasure island is true.

[dear-kumari]

It’s kinda odd to see ppl defend Legendary Disaster’s lion swap in 2022.  I get that there were interesting meta reasons behind it but like, we do all remember that “let’s have the paladins match their lions and then switch them all up to match their original 80s placements for the nostalgic appeal” was arguably the genesis for all the worst choices in VLD’s narrative and visual design, right

#Kumari comments #Kumari abuses the tagging system #No shade to people who liked the homage I just think it was an awkward decision that spiraled out into some disastrous storytelling #I guess having an in-universe explanation for the mismatched colors was a cute idea in theory but man did it not work in practice #From a purely aesthetic standpoint it was just plain Bad #and if it'd been planned out properly all the lion cockpits wouldn't have been flooded with a single color #Lance and Keith looked terribly out of place in Red and Black and there's really no getting around that #and all the post-swap discourse basically amounted to 'but when are they gonna swap back tho' bc the expectation to match had been planted #not to mention Everything that went into getting Shiro out of the picture #idk. #sometimes … homages … aren't worth it #If they'd just gone with the original colors/placements from the start and handwaved it as an 'Altean' quirk I could've respected that #it would've felt more like an attempt to respect the sentai tropes from GoLion and less like the producers trying to have it both ways #as-is I just get the impression that they didn't respect the source material /or/ the story they were supposedly trying to tell #It's a lot like the pedantic fuckery in those live-action makes of Disney animated classics ya know? #like 'we want to shamelessly capitalize on your nostalgia but we also need a Logical Reason for xyz fairytale trope' #but perhaps a smidge more earnest bc Voltron isn't/wasn't a huge cash cow on the level of a Disney film #idk. if we're entering a 'VLD was okay actually' era of discourse can someone give me a heads up so I can go scream into a pillow for while? #bc that's not something I wanna be around for

[godblooded]

the beast is massive, monster unspeakable, jaws slick with deep crimson as thirst impossible to slake radiates hotly from blood-mixed saliva.

bellatrix black will find no housemate here in their home by the sea. no little doctor with a weary smile that crinkles tiredly at its edges or a body often so close to failing. the room seems to hold the promise of her, and inspection brings a grisly sight — droplets of red pool, swollen ink in moonlight as they lead away from the wide-open window. brilliantly sanded wood stains with flecks of innards, viscera flung about in bits.

her bed’s disturbed, sheets thrown about in a way unnatural. it would always be inevitable that her — condition be revealed. no word, no name for what she is. none had been able to clearly explain, and lecter is long-dead.

the summer air is thick and hot and it makes every swallow hard. the creature’s long shadow casts, stilt-limbs moving in a relentless forward march toward food, food, food. uncertain blue eyes pressed forcefully beneath a bone-white skull blindly scan the dark, every shape as clear as light to her.

a burst of light slams right into her ribcage. with great force. the beast gives a cry to the heavens and it’s faintly alana’s hollow plea interspersed with the horror of some nameless suffering. she hits the ground with a plume of dust soon after, claws gouging into the soft earth. mouth opens to roar, tongue lolling, footing clumsily regained as a body too unnatural, too perversely stretched stretches further to its feet.

“that the fuckin’ thing?”

@despiite

#v: dr. bloom: & so i will tear myself in two one for myself & one for you. (despiite) #despiite #starter. dr. bloom. #opposite. bellatrix black. despiite. #[listen if horrible fairytale monsters exists so do people who hunt them and I think bellatrix should save the horrible deer monster’s ass. #only to find out it also happens to be Alana.] #ic. dr. bloom.

[ghostlyferrettarot]

•Pick a picture: 🩷First impresions people have of you🩷

•Pile 1 •Pile 2 •Pile 3

❗️This is a collective reading, take what resonates and leave the rest❗️

✨️Paid services ✨️ (Natal charts and tarot readings)Open.

🫂If you like my work you can support me through Ko-fi. Thank you!🫂

✨️Masterlist✨️

⚡️Pile 1: King of Wands, Five of cups, Ace of cups.

Hi pile 1! You have a presence that's hard to ignore, people assume that you are abundant in your life, that you are in the top of your game; people see you as hard to know, you are a mistery to them, they feel that they never get to know the full you. Although your presence is addicting this also intimadates a lot of people, so i wouldn't surprise me if theres friends of yours who before meeting you thought you were "mean" or had a "resting b face", this is because of your strong presence Pile 1! You really have a dominant vibe in you, people see you as a boss, as someone with great power. I get femme fatale energy, maybe you work a lot with your dark femenine energy. Some people may asume stuff about you or your life, but this is shining a light on their insecurities, you trigger a lot in people due to your dominant energy.

⚡️Pile 2: Four of wands, Ten of cups, Seven of Swords.

Hi pile 2! You give me a lot of fairytale vibes, people probably think you are younger than you actually are. You have such a sweet and genuine vibe to you, when others see you they probably think you are out of a fairytale, i get a lot of Aurora from Sleeping Beauty vibes, so that may be important. You have a friendly aura, something about you may attract a lot of people, maybe you have secret admirers or a lot of people confessing to you. You may have an special connection to animals or nature, maybe both, if this is something that interest you i see your guides encouraging you to connect with this side of you more often. People see a lot of divine femenine energy in you, i hear "wife material" and "big deer eyes", something about your eyes attract a lot of people.

⚡️Pile 3: The hermit, the six of cups, nine of cups.

Hi pile 3! People view you as someone really charming, some may even see you as the epitome of confident. I see that you are someone really focused and with an unique energy, you may be the "black sheep" of your family, and this is something that brings a lot of attention. You are my alien pile, people see how unique and creative you are; Pile 3 you may be into fashion, hair, nails, etc. and you probably show a lot of your personality in through your apperance. You are my artistic pile and this is something clear to people, they see you as an artist, as someone independent that doesn't care what others think; this maybe triggering for some but for others they wish they where like you. You are a true autentic soul pile 3! I love your energy 🌟💫

💐Thanks for reading! Tell me if it resonated and i hope you have a great day!💐

#astrology placements #zodiac #astrology #astrology moodboard #astro blog #astro community #astro notes #astro news #astro observations #paid tarot readings #tarot and astrology #tarot reading #tarot cards #tarotblr #tarotcommunity #tarot #pac reading #pac #pac paid reading #paid readings #fashion #tarot related #tarot requests #tarot pick a card #tarot pac #tarot pick a pile #pick a picture #pick a pile #pick a card #pick a photo

[shdous]

CINNAMON BUN — SHIDOU RYUSEI

whenever shidou gets attention from girls, he doesn’t turn it down. but why would he? that’s what you’re for.

contains: female reader, penetration, semi public (car sex), a creampie, pet names including cinnamon bun, jealous reader, shidou being himself (gross), he’s in his twenties. 3.3k words.

note: shidou nation where r u .. shidou nation come home

ryusei has a bad habit.

a bad habit of letting other girls flirt with him. he doesn’t return the energy of course, but he won’t exactly deny it either. he’s not going to flirt back—nor give off the impression that he likes what’s being said to him, but the words stop or i have a girlfriend probably won’t leave his mouth either.

why? well, you have your theories.

you’re sure he get a little ego boost out of it—out of knowing that there’s someone other than you who wants to get in his pants. because let’s be honest—no one that flirts with your boyfriend has the intentions of starting a fairytale romance with him. he draws attention simply because he looks like he’d be fun for one night and one night only.

but really, he doesn’t entertain that.

in fact, sometimes he won’t even open his mouth in that situation. instead, he’ll stand there with a shit eating grin on his face until the moment you inevitably arrive back at his side.

because ryusei only lets other girls flirt with him when you’re around.

⋆

“shidou, right? i wouldn’t mind leaving with you.”

you’re standing nearby, within both earshot and plain view of your boyfriend when you hear these words.

clubs, bars—neither are your usual idea of a fun evening, but ryusei likes going to them for a few reasons. one, he gets to bring his hot girlfriend along with him. two, he gets to be the guy at the bar with a hot girlfriend. three, he gets to see his hot girlfriend in a hot outfit—if he’s lucky.

and tonight he is, because here you are—skirt sitting pretty on your waist, lips glossed pink, listening in as another girl hits on your boyfriend.

how fun.

getting onto the tips of your toes, you furrow your brows and peer over the shoulder of a man who’s inconveniently placed himself in your line of sight. while at your peak—you absorb as much as your eyes can handle.

first—ryusei’s sitting at the bar counter about a chair and a half away from you. he’s leaning back, glass in his hand, and if you had to guess—you’d say he’s chewing on the straw sticking out of it. he has his usual black elastic headband holding back his hair, but if you had to guess—you’d say a few of his little baby hairs have escaped it’s grasp by now. second—his company is lingering over his left shoulder, with a hand resting on the back of his chair. she’s standing up, so she’s looking down on him slightly, and she’s smiling too.

ideally, the third piece of information you take in would be the words leaving her mouth—but you think hearing her initial line must’ve been a fluke anyways, especially with how busy it is. instead, what you catch is her hand moving—in what you swear is slow motion—to the back of his neck.

you trust your boyfriend, one thousand percent.

he’s made it blatantly obvious that his obsession with you runs deep—it would probably classify as being unhealthy, even. but if that’s the case, why isn’t he moving?

doesn’t matter.

you can move, and you are—swiftly abandoning your task of getting your hands on a drink menu as you begin closing the gap. you take a detour around the tall gentleman—brush past a couple of people, and come to a halt behind them.

you feel your stomach do a backflip or twelve as you stand there, waiting to be noticed.

ryusei must have a sixth sense when it comes to you, because it’s only mere seconds before he’s peering over his shoulder and locking eyes with you—straw indeed tugged between his teeth as a grin blossoms behind it.

but he doesn’t do much else.

on the other hand, you don’t receive a whole lot from the girl to your left either—an unimpressed stare at best. it’s clear that neither has anything to say to you, and so you speak up.

“that’s my boyfriend,” you announce, and you don’t mean for it to happen, but the words come out like the tip of a blade—incredibly sharp.

they pierce through her, and judging by the way she’s retreating—you’re certain your message is received. the tiny little hearts in ryusei’s eyes are merely nails in her coffin.

she vanishes into the crowd, and soon it’s just you, your boyfriend, and the arm he’s snaking around your waist.

he sets his glass on the counter of the bar, turns himself in your direction, and spreads his legs a little bit—silently requesting for you to stand in between them, closer to him.

you don’t do much—other than stare.

“what’s up, buttercup?” he hums, tilting his head at you when you don’t accept his invitation.

“what the hell do you mean what’s up?” there’s a sour taste flooding your mouth courtesy of your boyfriend’s casualness, and you’re sure it’s visible on your face—likely in the form of some furrowed brows and a little frown. “did you forget that you have a girlfriend?”

ryusei’s eyes widen, and for a brief second you think you’ve caught him off guard, but then his tongue darts out of his mouth—licking over his lips before they morph into a cheshire cat grin.

big or small, any change in your attitude is always going to have his ears perking up and his tail wagging—because as much as he loves when his girlfriend is a perfect angel for him, it turns him on when you start acting like anything less.

“how could i forget this pretty face?” he coos—putting on a faux pout as he reaches up to cup your cheek.

his gaze floods with lust as he looks at you, and even more so when he glides his thumb across your bottom lip—slightly smearing your gloss in the process.

“apparently it’s pretty easy,” you mutter, pushing his hand away and avoiding his gaze by casting yours off to the side.

“hey,” his voice is a bit firmer, and he uses that same hand to grab your chin—forcing your eyes to meet his. “don’t be like that, cinnamon bun.”

ugh.

you unintentionally earned yourself that atrocious nickname after your first ever real argument with him. it didn’t last long—a few hours tops (he can’t live without your attention) but still, he said he’d accept a punishment for his behaviour. his mind was, without a doubt, in the gutter when he made that little deal—and so naturally, you told him he wasn’t allowed to finish inside you for a week.

the world might as well have been ending.

but, your boyfriend is spoiled beyond belief. you ended up letting him fuck you anyways simply to avoid having to deal with his shitty attitude and complaining. the one condition was that he had to cum on you instead of in you, and well, it didn’t take long for cinnamon bun to catch on.

you used to hate the name, but you’re more or less immune to all the weird shit that leaves his mouth by now. still, he has a knack for using this one exclusively when you’re mad—or when you seem like you’re about to be.

“ryusei,” you sigh in annoyance, but still draw a bit closer to him—placing yourself between his thighs with a pout. you need to know. “why can’t you open your damn mouth and say you have a girlfriend? you have no problem opening it any other time. do you like it when other girls hit on you?”

of course he doesn’t.

what he does like however, is when his girlfriend sees, and she comes over to intervene. it’s hot as fuck. the words he’s my boyfriend leave your mouth and his dick starts throbbing in his pants. yes, he’s all yours—and he wants to hear you tell every single living being in the world. twice.

but if you knew this, would you still do it?

“you’re thinking too much babydoll,” he hums—leaning in to press his lips to your cheek, where he peppers a dozen little kisses. “y’know i don’t give a shit about anybody else.”

the way he dodges not just one, but both of your questions pisses you off—even though you know he’s being genuine. everyone who knows ryusei knows that he has little to no regard for anyone who isn’t you. that thought alone is able to bring you a bit of comfort. not enough, though.

“i wanna leave,” you mumble.

the bubble that had been surrounding you and ryusei for the past few minutes pops, and all of your senses come flooding back. the static sound of people, the scent of someone’s cheap perfume—the lights, the music, the ache in your feet that stretches from heel to toe—toes that were on their tips for a few seconds too long, all because your boyfriend couldn’t shut down another girl’s advances fast enough. or at all, for that matter.

you definitely, absolutely want to leave.

“yeah? where’re we goin’ cinnamon bun?” ryusei asks—squeezing your hand to get your attention back onto him.

and god, he’s so cute—blinking up at you with his long blond eyelashes and his innocent little smile. there’s a heaviness weighing on your chest, and you’re starting to feel like…you don’t want anyone else to even look at your boyfriend tonight.

“anywhere but here,” you say.

⋆

hand in hand, you and ryusei venture outside.

as you walk towards your car, all you can hear is the little angel on your shoulder. she’s telling you not to fault your boyfriend for any of this. it’s not like he did anything. however, there’s something rather unpleasant sitting on your other shoulder, and it’s telling you the opposite. because it’s not like he did anything, right?

“ryusei, keys.”

the keys to your car—they’re in his pocket. your phone is there too, along with some gum and a little scented hand sanitizer. you didn’t really feel like carrying a purse around tonight.

which, in hindsight, might’ve been a mistake.

“oh, you mean these?” he grins.

dangling in front of your face is, your keys. one of the charms you have clasped onto the ring sways from side to side, almost like it’s mocking you. you swipe at them—claws out—but his reflexes are much, much faster than your own.

“ryusei, i swear to f—”

“relaaax, you can have ‘em,” he chuckles—taking a few steps ahead of you before turning around and winking. “but it’ll cost ya,” he adds.

you’re not sure what makes him think he’s in any position to be making demands, but out of pure curiosity—you’ll indulge him, just this once.

“what do you want?” you sigh as you follow after him. he’s already waiting by your car.

“hmm, what do i want cinnamon bun?” he leans himself against the driver’s side door—spinning your keys around his index finger as he lets his predatory gaze roam over your body like it’s his next meal.

and you can put two and two together.

“what makes you think you get to fuck me after that?” you bark at him—a little harsher than you probably should have.

“oh baby, of course i get to fuck you,” he coos—grabbing your jaw a little harsher than he probably should have. “how else are we gonna get rid of this attitude? y’know i can’t bring you home like this, pouty face.”

“well, i’m the one with the license, so actually you aren’t bringing me anywhere,” you mutter.

ryusei laughs—but it’s more of a giggle, and not necessarily the cute kind. he sounds a bit like a maniac, to put it bluntly. and you have to remind yourself that you’re playing with fire right now. if anyone else were to give him this much trouble—well, they probably know better than to try.

“i’m bringing you to the backseat, aren’t i?” he grins—briefly sticking his tongue out, because it can never seem to stay in his mouth for too long. he then leans in and plants a wet, messy kiss to your lips. “c’mon, lemme see my favourite pussy make a mess on my cock.”

shit. whenever ryusei starts talking like this—it’s impossible to not want to do exactly as he says.

you’re definitely biased, but praise from him is second to none—a little filthier than what most would deem normal, but still first place in your eyes. he knows how to get you going—how to make you feel hot and desired, feelings you’ve become obsessed with—unhealthily, even.

“you’re spoiled,” you mumble—hand now resting on the handle leading to the infamous backseat. “and a brat.”

as you climb into your car, you feel a little warm—like you’ve been standing beneath the heat of the blazing sun for a little too long. except, it’s about ten o’clock, and you have goosebumps littering your arms from the bitter night air.

ryusei appears in the spot next to you a couple of seconds later, the middle seat to be precise. he settles in—leans back, spreads his legs a little bit.

he barely has the chance to finish doing so before you’re lifting your hips and wiggling out of your panties—leaving the lacy fabric behind on your seat as you climb onto your boyfriend’s lap—all without being asked.

“mmm, you suckin’ up to me now sweetheart?” his hands tunnel beneath your skirt, where he grabs onto the fat of your hips.

before you can answer with a snide remark about how he’s the one who should be sucking up, his lips capture yours in another kiss—because he’d be stupid not to. after all, you’re finally where he wants you.

his hands start to knead and squeeze at your hips, and those somewhat tame movements lose all their innocence when he starts grinding you down onto the growing bulge in his pants like you’re his personal toy.

and it almost feels a little too good.

the warmth of his palms against your skin, the way your clit is rubbing against the fabric of his pants—a couple minutes of this and you’re struggling to even kiss him back.

so you allow yourself a brief pause—prying your lips away from his and turning your head to gaze out the window. he’s content with focusing some of his attention on your neck, kissing and sucking at the skin while your heavy breaths threaten to turn into whines.

and now that you’re looking, you note how many cars are in this parking lot. you’re parked fairly far from the entrance, but it’s probably only a matter of time before other cars start to fill in the spots around you. what if someone were to—

fuck.

ryusei plunges two of his fingers, middle and ring, into your cunt—disrupting your train of thought while simultaneously forcing a little mewl out of you.

“yeah, nice ‘n’ sticky for me, hm cinnamon bun?” he hums, sliding his fingers out and holding them up—separating them so you can see that they’re visibly sticky.

“shut up,” you huff, pushing his hand away and turning your head to the side again as a little heat finds its way to your cheeks.

“awww, y’know i love my dessert, baby,” he coos—popping his fingers into his mouth and sucking them clean.

“you’re gross,” you mumble.

but you’re still the one who’s reaching for the zipper on his pants. you’re the one maneuvering them down his thighs. you’re the one biting down on your lower lip in anticipation, because you might be the one who wants this more.

you wrap a hand around his shaft, pumping him a couple times before swirling a thumb over his oh so sensitive tip—spreading his pre cum. and you swear you can feel him pulsing, like his heartbeat is in his dick.

either love boners are real, or he’s already on the verge of an orgasm.

“c’mon, fuck me baby,” he whines as he bucks into your hand—patience growing thin with each second not spent inside you.

and it’s so hard to resist him when he looks this good—veins running up his forearms and tapering off, skin glowing beneath the artificial light seeping in through the windows, cock quite literally drooling in your hand.

your gaze flicks to the thin chain dangling from his neck. it has your initial on it. beneath that, there’s a familiar graphic on his shirt. you bought him that. lower down, you catch sight of his wrist. there’s a pink beaded bracelet there that spells out your name, followed by ‘s slut. you gave that to him as a joke, not expecting it to ever be worn.

wait, why are you mad again?

as you hover yourself over him, you can’t seem to remember. so you sink down—holding your skirt out of the way to let him see his cock disappear.

a breathy laugh leaves ryusei’s mouth, and then he groans, “shit, so fuckin’ tight babydoll. tryna make me cum already?”

you lean in to kiss him—hands roaming his chest as his own find their way back to your hips. he pulls upwards, and you obey the silent command—lifting yourself up and then back down, quickly finding a rhythm.

ryusei tilts his head back, leaning it against the headrest as he watches you with a hungry gaze.

but he’s not making you do all the work. he’s still using his strength to aid your movements—helping you bounce yourself along his shaft. and he’s angled perfectly—curved perfectly—giving you all pleasure and no pain, while making sure to rub against that little textured spot inside you.

“ryu, more,” you whine—back arched, nails carving crescent moons into his shoulders.

“yeah, that’s it baby,” he praises, letting his own nails dig into your waist. “pretty pussy’s feelin’ good, ain’t she?”

you respond with a moan—shifting a hand to his bicep for support and nearly cumming right then and there over how deliciously flexed they are, simply from the tight grip he has on you.

and it wouldn’t surprise him. all you’ve done is rile each other up all evening, so neither of you is expecting this to last much longer.

“gonna let me nut in you cinnamon bun?” he breathes out, gaze shifting from your hand to your eyes. “hm? gonna let me fill your sweet cunt to the brim?”

and what’s going to get you to say yes? maybe…

he runs his hands up your sides—slipping his fingers beneath your top and pushing it up. once he has your tits in his face, he sticks his tongue out—kitten licking at one of your nipples before sucking it into his mouth and humming in content.

“f-fuck, yes,” you gasp, arching into him further.

and he grins—he doesn’t stop his little makeout session with your tits, but he grins, and then changes his movement. from up and down to back and forth, he begins grinding you along the length of his cock—pushing you closer and closer to release.

you think your lips might be torn to shreds soon with all the biting you’re doing. you don’t want to risk a passerby hearing this—so you’re trying, really hard not to be loud, but it’s really hard not to be loud.

“ryusei!” you squeal, squeezing your eyes shut as you feel that first pulse from your walls.

and that’s as much warning as he gets, because one pulse turns to five—and soon your cunt is fluttering around him, causing you to slap a hand over your mouth as you crumble against him.

he groans, looping an arm around your waist to keep you in place. “shit, my turn babydoll.”

with his face nuzzled in your chest, and his dick twitching with excitement, he cums—throbbing a thick load into your cunt. and it’s a lot. a few lazy thrusts from your boyfriend causes a wet squelch to ring out, and a different you might find that sound embarrassing, but tonight—it’s music to your ears, because it’s only for your ears.

and god, you feel so much better. your bad mood has evaporated into thin air, and you no longer care about tonight’s events. well, the events that happened prior to entering your car.

but you also feel like you owe him something.

“i’m sorry,” you mumble, pulling back to look at him. and you don’t mean for it to happen—but your pout reappears for an encore. “do you still love me?”

he chuckles as he reaches a hand up—using it to squish your cheeks. “you’ve got my cum leaking out of your cunt, course i fuckin’ love you,” he coos.

you smile and snuggle back into him.

“yeah, you’re sexy as shit when you’re mad baby,” he hums. “we gotta do this again.”

and maybe you will.

maybe you can let other girls flirt with ryusei, so long as this is the romantic fairytale ending you get every time.

#shdous #shidou x reader #shidou smut #blue lock x reader #blue lock smut #shidou ryusei x reader #shidou ryusei smut #bllk x reader

[iridessence]

posting this black gown on my pink main because everyone needs to see this photo of me at the ball. sans gloves, quelle scandale !

#historical fashion #historical costume #fairytale aesthetic #princesscore #black people in period costume #black people in historical costume #Victorian #late victorian fashion #late victorian era #turn of the century #mignonne #2023 #light academia

[lazyjellyfish300]

The Woman He Didn't Choose 🌹

AU Bachelor Miguel O'Hara x Fem contestant reader

Synopsis: You went on a dating show just for kicks and giggles but faceplant when Miguel is the Bachelor. You made the final two, but he didn't choose you. Angst ensues.

A/N: I started the new season of The Bachelor and it got me thinking, what if Miguel was The Bachelor 😏😏 and what if it ended badly??!! 😫🤗 I'm thinking of using this as a segue into a new series where it'd be like Bachelor in Paradise where you're a contestant along with Spider-Verse favs like Peter B. Ben, Felicia, MJ, Jess. And there could be a lotta smut 😇 and I might bring Miguel back somehow 🤭let me know what you think.😝

If you're unfamiliar with the TV show The Bachelor, usually the finale is aired live, and the live audience watches the footage of the proposal/rejection of the runner up together and then brings the contestants back out to interview them on stage. Here's an example of what I pictured in my head.. ALSO please listen to the song at the beginning it's literally the PERFECT break up song for Miguel. 😫 Word count 4.6k

DISCLAIMER: I have changed the name of the show for copyright purposes, I don't own or have rights to the TV show The Bachelor and all credit goes to the rightful owners.

TW: ANGST, BREAKUP, SELF DOUBT, GASLIGHTING, INSECURITY, JEALOUSY, MENTIONS CYBER BULLYING ,MENTION OF SEX BUT NO SMUT, DESCRIPTION OF TWO PEOPLE MAKING OUT

Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

The camera pans to you sitting on a green velvet chaise lounge upon a sleek, reflective stage. Your legs were crossed at the ankles, red bottoms peeking out of the slit of the elegant black evening gown you wore.

Your lips were in a pout, trembling as they threatened to give way to a spill of tears that would fall in a neverending cascade down your cheeks. 

You were being made to watch the most horrific heartbreak of your life played back on live television.

Having Miguel look into your eyes mid thrust when the cameras were off and he was on top of you in the Fairytale Suites in Thailand and whisper,

 "I love you....I think you're the one....",

watch you walk down a sandy beach clad in a flowy pink dress that cost $60k and stand in front of peaceful cerulean waters, hands entertwined, look you in the eyes and proclaim in a shaky voice, 

"I feel stronger love for Xina...," was the unforgiving papercut, and being pinned underneath the relentless barrage of scrutiny, hatred, and criticism from the viewers was the lemon juice being poured on top of it. 

You watched yourself on the screen sob as you got into the backseat of the black Escalade as Miguel grimly shut the door behind you. You were taking deep, shaky breaths and leaning on your elbow as you tried to make sense of this profound stab wound he just gave you. Your reddened, teary eyes looked at the camera as your confessional.  

"I.....I don't know what just happened...." You rub your temple and look out the window, your lip trembling and your face scrunching in agony. "The craziest part of all of this is....I still love him...." 

A hushed, sympathetic awh emerges from the live audience. 

You leaned over and cradled your head in your hands in frustration as the black suburban continued to drive. 

"I just.... *shaky breath* wanna.....*choked sob*... be happy...when is it my turn to be happy...?" you break down as the screen fades again to black. This time focusing on you, perched on the chaise lounge onstage. The heartbroken woman Miguel did not choose for his wife. 

The tall host, Jason Donner, is sitting across from you in a black armchair. He has neatly groomed, sandy blonde hair and stubble dotting his square jaw and white, pearly teeth. He looks at you, green eyes in a solemn expressesion. He addresses you, and then the audience in a quiet voice. 

"Wow...that was...truly..... one of the most heartbreaking moments we've seen, I think in all of The Eligible Suitor Nation's history..." 

He says your name quietly, then continues, "Now I am, so, so incredibly sorry that this did not have the happy ending you were hoping for..." 

You're not looking at him but staring off, sad eyes still in a doe-like expression, a tear has escaped your left eye and is trickling down your cheek, followed shortly thereafter by another from your right. 

Jason continues, "Tell me...what are your thoughts as you watch that playback for the first time?" He pauses to hear your answer. 

You stay silent for the longest moment, then you finally break your statue-like gaze and take a deep breath, looking down at a spot on the floor so the audience's piercing stares don't throw off your train of thought.

You suddenly feel a rise of anger and frustration in your chest. What kind of question is that? How do you think I'm supposed to feel? 

You try and keep it cool, the chains of the hefty NDA contract you signed to be on this show keeping you on your best behavior tonight. 

"It feels.....awful, Jason." You look at him, and shrug your shoulders. "I really don't have words for it besides that. It feels awful to watch that." 

Jason nods and leans forward, bringing his fingers  to his mouth in a contemplative manner. "How did it feel when he said Xina was the one, I mean did you see this coming at all?" 

You let out a deep sigh and can't help but roll your eyes a little bit. "No..... no, I did not see this coming, Jason, okay?" You say in an exasperated tone, your words edged with annoyance. "You know what..." 

You stand up, shaking your head. "I can't do this." You rip off your body mic and throw it on your seat. "I can't fucking do this...." You gather up your dress train and carefully walk down the steps of the stage and briskly off the set towards your dressing room, sharp heels echoing as they hit the floor, letting out a large sob as soon as you're out of view, one of the cameramen chasing after you. 

Jason looks at the camera a little mortified by your sudden reaction, but the camera crew and producers are silently rubbing their hands together, the promise of high ratings clouding their vision like stars in their eyes. That's it, bring on the drama. You were delivering tonight. 

Jason clears his throat and flashes a smile at the camera. "Don't worry folks, this has all happened before..." 

The audience gives a nervous chuckle. 

"We'll give her a moment. But just remember, you'll get to catch her again on the beaches of paradise where other hot members of The Eligible Suitor Nation such as the likes of Ben Reilly, *audience cheers* , Felicia Hardy, *audience cheers*, and Peter B....*audience goes nuts* will have a second shot at love in our steamy Singles in Paradise, premiering this summer." 

Jason smiles and raises his voice a little more to be heard over the squeals of the fans. 

"We'll take a quick break but when we come back we'll hear Miguel's side of the story, and, a little later the happy couple will be making their grand debut for the first time in public since their romantic engagement in Thailand, which you'll need to see to believe. I must warn you all, it was probably one of the most romantic proposals we've seen in the show's history. Don't go anywhere folks."

🌹🌹🌹

In the beginning, your friend jokingly submitted an application for you to be on the show after you wouldn't stop bitching about your ex. She reassured you when you freaked out at the email you got from production, confirming your application was accepted. 

"This will be good for you! Even if you don't marry the guy, at least you can get famous and have fun, be on TV for a little bit, get some free alcohol, maybe a nice date or two, yanno? Besides, you'll have a whole new roster of guys at your doorstep after they see your hot ass on television." 

You were still upset until she gave you a list of reasons not to be. Sure, this could be fun, you eventually concluded. You only had a 1 out of 30 chance of winning anyway, why turn a blind eye to the possibilities that could come out of this? 

When Miguel was announced as the eligible man you were going to be fighting for, you quit breathing when you saw how handsome he was. Tall, dark, a little stoic, a little nerdy, wants a family? He was literally pulled directly from your wildest imagination. 

You were intimidated by how attracted to him you found yourself, but you decided when you stepped out of that limo, that you were going to keep your walls up and just enjoy the ride. You greeted him with a shy smile. 

The producers had this weird idea to play up the dramatics that you were supposed to walk in with a bunch of fake autumn leaves from the craft store and throw them in the air and proclaim you're "falling" for him as your signature greeting. 

You walked up to Miguel as he stood in front of the mansion, wearing a poker face. You threw the leaves in the air and one of them flew and smacked him in the face. 

"Ppppppbbbbbbtttfffhh!" 

You said the cheesy ass line, "I'm falling for you Miguel! Geddit?" 

"The shock?...." Miguel gave you a confused look and your cheeks began to heat with embarrassment. 

"Well, I'm from a small town, we're kinda known for our fall colors during the season." You say with a smile. You brushed one of the stray leaves off his shoulder. "I just want you to know I'm very excited for this journey and I can't wait to talk to you more when we go inside?" 

After the initial obnoxiousness of your introduction Miguel managed to put on a polite smile. "Absolutely," he answered. "we'll talk more inside. Thank you for coming." 

You gave his hands a squeeze and walked down a stone path into the large Tuscany style mansion, Miguel's eyes lingering on your figure for just one more moment before he let out a deep sigh. 

🌹🌹🌹

When you started out on the show with 29 other women, you managed to keep a low profile for several weeks, staying out of trouble and befriending most of them, even becoming a fan favorite. Tweets sent out every week with a hashtag in front of your name in support, and constantly ranking in the top 10 favorite contestants in the fan polls on social media. But, it never occurred to you that you had a real shot until, on week 3, a date card with your name on it made its way into the mansion.

Your master plan of just 15 minutes of fame quickly morphed into a life or death situation for your heart when you went on that amazing first date with Miguel to see your all time favorite rock band: Goo Goo Dolls. They played Iris and brought you on stage in front of everyone. You slow danced as the song played, and he leaned in close, softly singing the lyrics in your ear, dedicating the whole thing to you. 

"You're the closest to heaven, that I'll ever be and I don't wanna go home right now. And all I can taste is this moment. And all I can breathe is your life. And sooner or later it's over. I just don't wanna miss you tonight..."

And if the whole scene couldn't get any more romantic, a delicate shower of rain began to fall, and you and Miguel shared your first kiss which quickly snowballed into a makeout session on live TV.

Ever since that date, you became one of his favorites. Sometimes you swore he would look for you first as he entered a room. His eyes scanning urgently until they came to rest on you where they would linger for just a moment. Scarlet eyes that seemed to bleed only for you. 

A language only you two could understand, before he'd gently look away, not wanting to give away his undeniable pull towards you in a crowd of many. 

In between dates, you'd send little tokens to him through the producers like a sticky note that said "thinking of you..." or your favorite dad jokes. He'd read them with a smile and have them respond for him in the form of small Hershey's kisses or a sticky note that said in his messy handwriting,"couldn't stop thinking about you, either"

You'd giggle on top of cloud nine when he'd answer you back and you hid them quietly in your suitcase, not telling a soul. 

Watching him kiss and date other women was much, much more difficult than you expected. Sometimes the way he'd look at one of the other girls would cause you to want to throw in the towel right then and there. 

When you heard that he had kissed them, you couldn't get that mental image out of your mind, much less when you unfortunately witnessed it with your own eyes at one of the pre-elimination ceremony cocktail hours. 

The way she was straddling his lap, making herself look so small in it....the way he was groaning into her mouth, the sounds their lips were making as they moved against each together, letting his hands wander down her back and come to rest on her ass...

The painful sting of jealousy was so unbearable that you just ran away, tears burning hot down your cheeks until you could lock yourself in the bathroom and just settle in a heap on the floor, hand clasped around your mouth so nobody could hear you cry. 

It was so fucking unfair. You couldn't even be upset because this was what you signed up for. You thought you had a fairly strong grip on your self worth when you started the show, but every day tested you more than you ever thought possible. 

You spent hours every morning getting ready with your hair, makeup, and outfits, walking out with your chest high, only to see the way one of the other women's hair just fell so flawlessly or how she barely needed any makeup to look perfect, or how her body just looked way hotter than yours in her tight dress,  causing it to deflate once again. 

But those moments when you finally had him all to yourself felt like you were the only woman in his world. Miguel knew just the right words to hum into your ear and just the right way to touch you with his fingertips. There was no place on Earth like his arms. His heartbeat was a lullaby that could calm you like nothing else. He was making you fall rapidly like no other man from your past could. You buried your head in the sand, taking his words at face value, foolishly believing that he wasn't repeating the exact same thing to everyone else. 

You took the sweet nothings he'd whisper to you and make it gospel. Speeding naively down a road that lead to a dead end of disappointment. Week after week, as the show's episodes aired, the illusion you built yourself crumbled. Words you thought he conjured up just for you reduced to the punchline of some sick undercover joke as he turned around and repeated them to the next woman. 

Realizing the walls of the house you lived in were made out of porcelain. The stone of his betrayal knocking it to pieces. The curtains peeling back revealing layer after layer, causing your mind to go mad with self doubt, not even sure if you knew this man who you uprooted your life for and handed your dignity and heart over to on a silver platter.

 Who was this man who sang those sweet lyrics in my ear while we slow danced like we were straight out of a movie? Who was this man who I followed to the ends of the Earth, made a fool out of myself on live television for? You felt a deep pit in your stomach after every episode. 

Not only did you have to contend with the troubling confusion that this man who you thought you loved wasn't who he said he was, you had to deal with the fact that the show's production was now trying to twist your character for the sake of drama. 

You noticed that things you said were taken out of context and edited as spicy sound bites, painting you as this drama queen and passive aggressive trouble maker in the house. You sort of became their selected agent of chaos once the other firecrackers eventually got eliminated and needed someone new to fill in the villain's shoes. 

You watched the episodes play back with a puzzled look on your face. You knew what you said, you went on the dates, you heard the words that were being spoken, you kissed the man, you gave your body to him, and yet, everything you thought you knew was being challenged before your very eyes. Piecing together two separate versions of him that lived in your head. You thought you were slowly going insane. 

When it eventually came down to you and Xina as the final two for Miguel to choose from, Xina was the soft spoken, drop-dead gorgeous, intelligent, cookie-cutter, Christian sweetheart that every man could hope to bring home to meet his mother. 

Conchata and Gabe took an immediate liking to her during the meet the parents episode right before the finale. During hometown visits, Xina's parents were an endearing couple who had been married for 30+ years who she had an amazing relationship with. If you had to lose Miguel to any woman, then of course it would have been her. 

Meanwhile, you were the framed "bad girl" with tattoos and a cursing habit. You were a little more open about your sexuality, making crass jokes with the other women in the house. You'd definitely burn up if you were to enter a church. At hometowns, your home life was comparatively messier to Xina's with divorced parents and an absent father. 

Your mom and siblings met Miguel and loved him immediately, of course. Every week as the show aired and drew closer to the finale, you had to endure seeing endless tweets and memes putting you down. Lots of older women calling you a whore, saying you're trouble and telling Miguel to run for the hills while lifting up Xina at your expense. 

Conchata disliked you instantly. She raised an eyebrow at your top that was slightly too low cut, and your thigh tattoo that peeked out a little under your skirt. At least Gabe thought you were cool, but you remember how nervous you were sitting through filming when Conchata was grilling you on the patio outside the luxurious suite she was staying in.

"How do you feel about my son?"  She asked, silently giving you a test you were unaware you were taking. 

You paused for a moment. "Well... I love your son, ma'am. I can see myself spending the rest of my life with him." 

Conchata raised an eyebrow. "But do you even know him? You've only been dating him for a few weeks. I know him better than anyone as his mother, and it seems as though he's made really strong connections with some of the other women." 

You tried to shrug off the knot in your tummy her words just left you. "Well...I do, Mrs. O'Hara. He makes me feel special every time I see him. He and I communicate really well and always check in with one another. He has everything I'm looking for in a life partner: strong willed, calm, kind, hard working, intelligent...he makes me happy and I would be honored if he chose me." 

Conchata didn't react, just tightened her lips in a straight line and took another sip of wine. "I see...well, I'm glad that you feel that way and you take such an interest in my son. But, do you honestly see him choosing you at the end of all of this?"

You feel your gut clench again at her question, anger, confusion, insecurity rising within you all at once, but you manage to fake a smile and say, "Well, I can see him as my husband, and I want him to choose me. But, it's ultimately his decision alone. All I can do is hope for the best."

Conchata clicks her teeth and gives you a fake smile. "Indeed...that's all you can do, right?" She stands up. "It was lovely chatting with you."

She already turns to leave before you can muster out a weak, "you too..." 

🌹🌹🌹

Now, tonight on the live season finale, your head was in your hands, with your ears covered like a small child in your dressing room, trying to drown out the sound of the crowd cheering hysterically as Miguel walked up on stage, shaking hands with Jason and sitting on the couch. You heard another loud, lasting round of applause from the audience as Xina eventually walked out joining him. 

You finally felt brave enough to walk back outside and watch the scene from one of the screens backstage, but once you walked up to see it closer you immediately wish you just stayed curled in a ball in your dressing room. 

Xina looked so perfect next to Miguel. Her raven hair fell in soft layers just past her shoulders leaning against him with a hand on his thigh and one of his hands tenderly holding onto the side of her hip, nearly resting on her ass. A gorgeous, dainty solitaire diamond on her ring finger on her left hand. 

Miguel was looking at her through love-blown pupils as she spoke in her quiet, low, sultry voice, the grin on his face widening even more when her lovely dark eyes came to rest on him between sentences. They were in love. And he was happy. She was happy. There was no denying that now that you forced yourself to see it with your own eyes. Who were you to stand in their way of being together, if they were building a life together they both equally wanted....right? 

Even if your heart technically was the collateral damage.

You couldn't pull your gaze away at how perfect they looked. But simultaneously couldn't comprehend how the same man sitting next to her was the one who sang you that song. The same one who took you on a carriage ride in Scotland. The same one who would wink at you after he'd give you a rose at each elimination ceremony. The same one who held you while you began to cry about missing your dad, a shared pain between you two that you could bond over, the same one who spent all night taking his time on you in a dim hotel room in Thailand and told you that you're the one, all for him to suddenly flip overnight and choose her instead. 

You felt like you couldn't watch anymore and just walked back into your dressing room, quickly packing your suitcase, wondering if it was too late to cancel your flight tomorrow and just hope there was room on the red eye flight tonight instead. Wishing you could fast forward time to a place where the sound of his name would no longer feel like a million knives cutting into you. 

🌹🌹🌹

Some time later, a soft knock comes at your door. Before you can ask who it is, he's already walking in and you feel sick to your stomach, the sounds of his footfalls a not too distant memory that you could still distinguish as his. You try to wipe your eyes, not daring to turn around. 

"What is it?" You ask in a flat tone as you resume folding your clothes and squeezing them into your suitcase that threatened to overflow. 

Miguel is looking at you with a sorrowful expression. "I need to apologize to you..." 

"I don't want to hear it." 

"Please..." he begs, walking up to you so you can nearly feel his breath on the back of your neck. 

You turn and face him and his lips part a little bit when he sees how much hurt you're in. He goes to cup your face but you swat his hand away and walk to the other side of the room instead. 

Miguel clenches his fist and closes his eyes. 

"At least tell me you'll be alright..." 

"-oh I'll be fine." You say firmly, crossing your arms. "I've lived without you before, and I'll figure out how to do it again." 

Miguel looks at you with a sad expression. It hurt him to think you actually wanted a life without him in it, but he couldn't blame you. He got what he wanted. He chose the woman he loved the most, and this was the consequence. But deep down he's too selfish to think about you moving on. 

Was it his ego? Was he really prepared to let you go for good? Were his feelings for Xina exaggerated and rather clouded by the whole fairytale notion and weak logic of finding a forever companion on a reality game show? 

He couldn't have his cake and eat it too. He knew he had to let you go. He knew you didn't want an apology, you didn't want to hear a sob story or excuses or false hope that you would always have a piece of his heart, even if it was true deep down. He thought carefully for a moment, then he finally said in a soft voice,

"For what it's worth, I really do wish you the best..."

You look at him. And, just for a moment those lingering feelings you tried so hard to bury make themselves known as he's wearing a look on his face you haven't seen since he was still in love with you. 

Tears threaten your composure again and you quickly turn around, gazing upwards in hopes of keeping them in. "Don't do that..." you say in a near whisper. 

Miguel responds in an equally hushed tone, the tension much more palpable. "Do what....?"

"Look at me that way...." The tears are flowing and you know you need to wrap this up now before you or him say something you'll regret. 

"You're looking at me the same way you look at her..." 

A lump forms in Miguel's throat because he realizes he really does still love you. But he loves Xina too. He made a choice and a commitment to her and it was time to see it through. But that didn't make this farewell any easier. He whispers your name again and you shake your head. 

"I'm fine. I'll be fine. I promise." You give him a weak smile as the tears blur your vision. He takes a step towards you but you shake your head quickly, shifting past him to grab your suitcase. 

He closes his eyes in defeat and tenses his jaw, a tear escaping the corner of his eye. 

You hobble past him with your heavy suitcase, struggling to carry it in your heels. You prop open the door and look back at him one more time and he looks at you, giving you a weak smile. You nod, and your anger subsides for just a moment. "I meant what I said...you know...before..." 

Miguel's chest rises and falls. You don't have to elaborate for him to understand. He still remembers the hidden way you two used to communicate, even if this may be the last time he ever does. 

"Thank you..." he says gently, meaning it. 

You swiftly turn your head, pulling up the handle on your luggage and gather your dress in your free hand as the door softly clicks behind you. You make sure you're out of earshot before you break down crying again. 

As your flight coasts gently through the midnight sky, you lean against your window as though it was Miguel, or at least the version of him that lived in your memory. You close your eyes this time, the distant glow of the moon outside lulling you and beckoning you to a place where your thoughts can't torment you at last, succumbing to a well-deserved rest. 

Miguel stands in his hotel room, gazing at the cityscape outline in the distance, the same moon standing watch in the obsidian skies above. Xina gently calls for him and he turns around and gives her a tired smile as he crawls in bed next to her and holds her close. He shuts off the beside lamp. His mind quickly shakes off the memory of the color of your eyes before he drifts asleep. 

🌹🌹🌹

#miguel o'hara #miguel atsv #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #spotify #across the spiderverse #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara angst #miguel ohara smut #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara imagine #miguel o hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel ohara x fem!reader #miguel o'hara angst

[imyourbratzdoll]

𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒆𝒏

🕊️a whore's fairytale masterlist🕊️

summary - when snow white (you) escapes into the woods to escape the queen's order to kill, she learns that not all strangers should be trusted.

warning - smut, swearing, choking, under a spell, dubcon, creampie, slight angst, death, breaking and entering, jealousy, oral sex, kidnapping/entrapment, attempted poisoning and murder, group sex, groping, dark content.

18+ only please, the gif and headers I use aren't mine.

Warnings and Reminders - Please do not plagiarise, copy, repost/republish, adapt, or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third-party sites. The only platforms I post my work on are: Tumblr and Wattpad. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel etc.) All my works are fiction and may be dark or triggering content: READ ALL WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.

The Queen sneers, staring at herself in the mirror. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall.” Her eyes squint, and her back straightens. “Who is the fairest of them all?” The answer she was expecting wasn’t what the mirror gave her. 

“Y/n is the fairest of them all.” The Magic Mirror spoke, a live video of you playing before her, your sweet self hums to the animals, pulling a small bucket from the well, capturing the attention of the many people that pass by. 

“What?!” She screams, and her face becomes red with anger. “No one is more fair than I! The Queen must have the best of everything. Everyone knows that. What could be more fair?” 

“Y/n is the fairest of them all!” The Mirror repeats, not caring for the tantrum the Queen is throwing. 

“What do you know? You’re a mirror!” She huffs, rolling her eyes and storming off. A plan sets in motion as she heads to where the huntsman rests, ordering him to take you out of the equation. 

You had spent your time running through the woods, away from your horrid stepmother and the huntsman that she had sent after you. Your hands clutched your skirt, lifting it from the ground, and your bare feet dodged the many sticks and rocks. Your breath is heavy, and you can hear his footsteps catching up to you. “Little Snow! You can’t run from me! The Queen ordered me to kill you!” You gasp, picking up your pace, desperately trying to distance yourself from him. 

You squeal and cry as your foot gets caught on a root sticking out of the ground. You fall forward, tumbling for a few seconds until you end up on your back. Fat tears cover your cheeks, your eyes are puffy, your hair is ruffled, and your once-beautiful dress is ruined, ripped and dirty. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears as the huntsman appears in your vision, “P–please! You don’t have to do this! I–I won’t tell anyone if you let me go! Please!” You cry you beg, you plead. Your hands curl into the ground, crushing the dirt into your palms. You don’t notice the magic flowing through you and into the ground. You are so caught up in begging the man not to take your life. 

He shakes his head. “I have to. I was given an order.” His head continues to shake, clutching the knife as he desperately doesn’t want to kill you. “If I return and the Queen finds out I didn’t obey, she’ll kill me.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the tears slip past, and your lips tremble. You nod, accepting your fate. You wouldn’t be able to escape this. “O–okay. If taking my life means you get to keep yours, okay.” You breathe in and out, a soft sob passing your lips. Your brows furrow as you are met with silence before a crunch and a groan follow it. You slowly peek your eyes open, wondering what caused the noise, and a shocked sob escapes you when you notice a giant black wolf on top of the huntsman. Yellow eyes stare back at you, and you feel oddly calm before standing on shaky legs. It’s as though the animal is giving you enough time to escape. “T–thank you.” You take off running again, the sky becoming dark as night falls, heading in the opposite direction of the castle. 

You happen to stumble across a wooden cabin tucked away in the middle of nowhere. You rush forward, rapidly knocking on the door. “S–someone! Is anybody there?! I need help, please!” The door is pushed open from your knocks, and you cautiously enter as you receive no reply, looking around. “Hello?” When you don’t get a response, you decide to take a closer look. “Such a dirty place…” You think out loud, “Maybe if I clean up a bit, whoever lives here may help me.” You nod to yourself and walk over to a broom that rests against the wall and grab hold of it. You get swept away cleaning and then cooking before you slowly make your way upstairs, noticing seven large beds, making you wonder who lives here. 

“I hope they won’t mind if I…” You ponder, going over to a bed that reads ‘CRANKY’ and sitting for what was supposed to be a second. The moment your body hits the mattress, your eyes flutter closed, and a deep slumber hits you with full force. 

You wake to someone or something poking you. Your eyes flutter open, blinking as you notice many different men surrounding you. You gasp, scooting to the headboard, pulling your knees to your chest. “Oh, please don’t kill me! I–I promise I didn’t do anything wrong!” Your bottom lip wobbles and your gaze shoots between theirs frantically, wondering if the Queen also sent them. 

A man with blue eyes and his hair in a man bun scoffs. He crosses his arms over his chest, and your eyes land on one of them being shiny. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my bed?” A growl practically escapes his lips, and his eyes scan your body with a lick of his lips. 

You gasp, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know! I–” You're cut off as you try to get out, but a larger man stops you. His light blue eyes and blonde hair cause your breath to catch in your throat. 

He shakes his head with a soft smile. “Don’t listen to him, ma’am. We are just startled, is all.” He turns his head, glaring at his best friend before looking back down at you. “Now, why don’t you introduce your pretty self and explain why you think we would kill you?” He sits at the end of the bed, resting a comforting hand on your leg. 

“Oh, I do apologise. Where are my manners? My name is Y/n, but I am more known as Snow White.” The men are shocked, wondering what the princess is doing in their cabin. “The Queen is trying to have me killed, and I don’t know why. S–she sent the huntsman out, and he chased me through the woods until I was able to escape, and that is how I stumbled across your home.” 

A throat clears, and you turn your head to look at another man who’s built like a bear, with pretty blue eyes and blackish hair. “She wouldn’t be trying to kill you for no reason. Tell us what you really did. You can’t really be that innocent.” 

“I–I swear–” The man touching your leg interrupts you, giving you a soft look.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to explain yourself. I can see that you are innocent. I mean.” He looks around at the men with his brows raised. “What innocent person would break into someone’s home and decide to clean and cook? The breaking in part obviously doesn’t sound great, but look at her. She needs help.”

The man with the blackish hair speaks again while nodding. “You’re right. I apologise. We’ve been rude and haven’t introduced ourselves. My name is Clark, but these bastards call me Bossy.”

The man touching your leg smiles. “And I’m Steve, better known as Brawny.” He points to the man with a permanent scowl on his face. “That’s Bucky. We call him Cranky, though.” Bucky rolls his eyes, wondering why the hell they haven’t moved you from his bed yet. Though, he has been having a great time imagining you tied to it while he pleasures you.

Another man with a flirty smile leans against the bed, coming close to your face. “I’m Johnny, yet these guys call me Sleazy. No idea why. I would’ve said Flirty.” Johnny wiggles his brows, loving the shy look that crosses your face.

A man with a beanie and dirty face and hands nods. “I’m Curtis, known as Dirty around these wankers.”

Your eyes land on a man drinking what seems to be alcohol, and his eyes are half-lidded as he stares at you. “I’m Dean or Tipsy. Whatever you prefer, but I’m hoping to make you scream one of them later.” Your eyes widen.

Your attention is pulled away from Dean or Tipsy to a darker man touching your arm, looking at you with a smirk. “I’m Sam, baby. But you can call me Horny.” You blink, stunned, never having heard such words come out of a person’s mouth before, but you know that you cannot judge as you did break into their home.

“O–oh, it’s nice to meet you all. Such interesting names.” You fold your hands in your lap and look around at each one of the men. “I would like to cook you, men, some dinner as a thank you for not kicking me out.” You watch as they nod, and you give a soft smile to Steve, who helps you off the bed. You head down the stairs, and all seven men follow behind, watching your hips sway beneath the dress. They sit, watching as you start to heat the food. It’s magical to them. You turn around, the food nearly ready. “Please go and wash up before dinner.” 

“What? No.” Bucky growls, refusing to get up from the seat while the other men immediately stand and head out. Steve grabs hold of his best friend and drags him out, ignoring the shouts and yells. “Steve! Steve! Stop!” 

You shake your head, turning back toward the pot, stirring it before you turn off the stove and grab hold of it, bringing it to the table and setting it down. “Dinner!” You watch as the door swings open, and the men walk back in with smiles, smelling clean. “Don’t you men look dashing!” They thank you before taking a seat, watching you with wide eyes as you fill their bowls with the delicious-smelling stew. 

Clark tilts his head as you take the pot back to the sink, noticing that you didn’t make a bowl for yourself. “Are you not eating with us?” The other men stop with their spoons midair, looking between you and Clark. “Come, sit. You deserve to eat the food you cooked.” Clark pats his thigh, raising a brow when you don’t move. “I’m called Bossy for a reason. Now, sit.” You scurry over, taking a seat on his thigh, feeling a weird tingling sensation between your legs as you feel how thick his thighs are. “Good girl.” He nods to everyone, and you all begin to eat. Clark occasionally brings the spoon to your mouth, feeding the two of you. 

During the night, you get to know all of the men, laughing and listening to stories. Steve stands, clearing his throat. “I hate to interrupt this wonderful evening, but we have work tomorrow., and I think it is best if we get some rest” The others agree, and you get up to bid them goodnight, practically tucking them into their beds and placing soft kisses onto their foreheads. You are about to head back downstairs, needing to find somewhere to rest, but Steve stops you. “Y/n, here.” You spin, heading over to him with furrowed brows, wondering what he is talking about. He pulls back the blanket and pats the space next to him. 

“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude more than I have.” You gnaw on your bottom lip, feeling like you’ve been a bother. “I can find somewhere else to sleep. I saw a blanket downstairs.” Steve gives you a look that makes you quickly crawl into the bed, and your body shivers when you realise how cold you’ve been compared to the warm man. Your body curls into his larger one, sighing as sleep takes over you before you can even register.

You wake to birds chirping and the sun shining through, your eyes flutter open, and you stretch your arms above your head. You slowly pull Steve’s arm off of you and get out of bed, making your way downstairs, and you decide to prepare breakfast for the kind men. You cook eggs, bacon, pancakes, and a fruit platter, wanting to give them a filling meal for their big day. You smile and turn as you hear the men bound down the stairs, dressed for work with hunger in their eyes. “Good morning! I thought I’d make you guys some breakfast before you go. I hope you don’t mind.” 

They smile, thanking you before sitting down. The same happens as the night before. Clark pulls you into his lap and feeds you some of his breakfast, ensuring you also get to eat. You stand once you finish, gathering the dishes and walking over to the sink, gently placing them down before walking to the door and handing the men their coats.

Clark is the first one to grab his coat, thanking you. “I hope you have a good day today.” You lean up, resting your hand on his muscular arm and kiss his cheek softly. Clark smirks, tipping his head before walking out the door.

Steve is next. Once his coat is on, he leans down for you to reach his cheek. “Thank you, Snow.” Steve turns his head and returns the favour, kissing your cheek and smiling as you become shy. 

Bucky huffs, “Can we hurry this up? We have work to do if you haven’t noticed.” But everyone ignores him, and he watches with envy as you continue to give each man a kiss.

Curtis gently takes his jacket from your tiny hands, closing his eyes as he feels your soft lips on his cheek. A smile on your face, “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

Johnny walks up next, smirking at you and already leaning down. You give him a soft smile and lean forward, but he turns his head last second, and you gasp. “I–I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” You freak, staring wide-eyed at the happy man. 

“Don’t worry bout it, Baby.” Johnny winks, giving your arse a smooth pinch before strolling out. You feel your body and cheeks heat up, eyes still wide as you watch him leave.

“Well damn. He did it before me.” Dean rolls his eyes, slapping your arse after you give him a kiss as well. “Doesn’t matter. Have a good day, Sugar.”

Sam pulls you close, tapping his cheek before resting his hands on your hips. He groans as you lean up and kiss his cheek softly. His hands move down and squeeze your cheeks, pulling you even closer. “Mmm, Snow. You make a man so feral.” 

Once Sam leaves, it leaves the last man, the crankiest of the lot. Bucky grumbles, going to reach for his coat, but you pull back slightly and give him a pout. He rolls his eyes, bending slightly, and when you gently kiss his cheek, his whole face grows pink. “Whatever.” Bucky clears his throat and quickly leaves, leaving you in their cabin all by your lonesome, not prepared for what is to happen next. 

You hum to yourself, beginning to clean the place. You don’t notice the magic swirling around you, calling the forest animals to the cabin, some even helping you clean. You wash the men’s clothes, and the birds hang them along the line. You are so lost in your own world that you don’t notice an older woman watching you from the shadows, a scowl on her face, but the older woman also doesn’t notice the large black wolf watching her. 

You giggle, leaning over to pet the cute little bunny that hops in your direction before you walk inside the house. Your hands become busy as you begin to prepare another apple pie, continuing to hum to yourself. “Excuse me.” You turn, hearing a knock at the open window and someone talking. You smile softly, walking closer to the older woman. “I–I’m so sorry for bothering you. I am just a poor old woman trying her best to sell some delicious apples.” 

You lean against the counter, peeking over the window sill and looking at the basket of apples. “That is perfect! I’m baking an apple pie and in need of some apples!” You give an innocent smile to the older woman.

She reaches her hand into the basket and grabs a big red apple that sits at the top. “Take a look at this big red apple.” She holds it up to your face, watching you stare at it in wonder at how perfect it looks. Your hands slowly reach up to touch it, but the woman jerks it back. “Lovely, isn’t it? But you cannot touch without a price.” 

You gnaw on your bottom lip, looking between the woman and the apple with furrowed brows. You desperately needed more apples to make the pie. It had to be perfect. “I need that apple… But I, uh, I don’t have any money.” 

She thinks, knowing that this apple contains something horrible. The Queen realised there was no point in a price when she would finally have you dead. That was good enough. “Oh, my dear. No need to worry for a first-time customer. I will let you have this apple for free.” You look at her, shocked, cupping the apple as she hands it to you. She watches you, desperately wanting you to take a bite out of it in front of her, but she doesn’t get her hopes up.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! How can I ever repay you? You are so kind. Please let me give you something!” You go over and grab a plate of freshly baked biscuits, heading back over to her. She tries to refuse, but you persist. “Oh please, It wouldn’t feel right if I were to take this for free. Please take as many as you want.”

“Okay, thank you. That is kind of you, my dear.” The older woman takes one, bidding you goodbye before disappearing into the shadows again, wanting to watch what unfolds. Her eyes widen as she watches you begin to cut the apple, mixing it into the mixture of the pie. She thought the call of the apple would cause you not to resist a taste. “Oh, no, no, no! This won’t end well. You stupid girl, you should’ve eaten the apple yourself.” She huffs, stomping her foot. “The poison only works for those it is intended for… If she serves it to others, it can have side effects, and I do not need that in my hands.” She growls to herself, knowing that she will have to put a stop to this or kill more people than intended. 

Before the Queen can return to the cabin, she is met with the giant black wolf. Its teeth bared as it growled. She scoffs, waving it off. “Be a good puppy and leave. You can’t destroy the Queen.” Her eyes widen as your hums begin again as you place the pie in the oven, and she realises that you are the one controlling the animals, even if you don’t know you are. In the moment of shock, the wolf lunges, and your sweet melodies drown out her screams.

You are happy with how the pie has turned out, placing it on the window sill to cool down. You wait patiently for the men to return home, sitting curled up in a chair with a book between your hands. You’ve made the house more into a home, having gone out and picked some pretty flowers to put in a vase, gathering some wood for the fireplace, and keeping the food warm for when they walk through the door, their clothes all folded neatly. You stand when you hear them, their voices carrying through the air. 

Clark opens the door with a smile, “Hello, Little Snow. I notice that you’ve been busy.” He moves past you, brushing his hand across your hip as he moves to the pot, smelling the delicious scent. 

The rest of the men enter, Steve, being the second after taking his shoes off and giving you a large grin. “Snow! Did you have a good day?” You nod, giggling as he brings you into a hug. He lets go of you and walks over to the pot also, not used to coming home to dinner already prepared.

“Sugar!” Johnny enters, pulling you into him immediately by gripping your arse in his large hands, causing a squeak to fall from your lips. “You look so good. I could just eat you up.” He grumbles when Dean and Sam push him to the side. “The hell?” 

“You're hogging her,” Dean grunts, pulling you against him, and your eyes widen when you feel him grope you so freely. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re so tiny.” He blinks down at you, and you get a whiff of the alcohol already on his breath. 

Sam grows annoyed, pushes Dean out of his way and pulls you against him also. “Don’t hog Snow here. I want some too.” His large hands grip your arse, rubbing his bulge against you, groaning softly. “How you doing, baby?” 

Curtis and Bucky stand near the entrance, watching everything unfold. You smile softly at Sam as you let go, walking over to the two men and ignoring the shocked gasp they let out as you pull them into a hug, greeting them with your kindness. “Come, sit. Dinner’s ready, and I’ve made a pie for dessert!” You skip over, waiting for them all to take their seats before you grab the pot and serve the food. Dinner goes well, and it’s finally time for them to taste your sweet pie. You walk over to the pie, carefully picking it up before bringing it to the table and serving them a slice each. “I hope you guys enjoy.” 

The moment the pie hits their tongues, the magic begins to flow through everything and everyone, eyes turning a bright pink for a split second before they let out soft groans from the flavour that explodes on their tastebuds. You don’t notice anything that has happened. You are too happy to see that they enjoyed your baking. 

The atmosphere in the room has changed. Every single man in the room felt their heartbeat quicken and their breathing become heavier. Their eyes are half-lidded, and their members harden, growing rapidly in their pants. It seems their gaze is set on you, eyes darkening as they look you up and down, slowly getting out of their chairs and surrounding you. 

“That was a great pie, Little Snow,” Clark growls, getting closer. “But I want to taste something a little bit sweeter.” You squeal as Steve and Bucky hold you, ensuring you can’t move as Clark kneels, lifting your dress and letting out a thick groan when he realises you haven’t been wearing anything underneath, your folds slick with your juices. “Aren’t you a dirty little girl? Wearing nothing while staying with a bunch of men.” You moan as he surges forward, licking from your hole to your swollen button. “Fuck, she tastes so much better than that pie.” Your walls clench when Clark moves close again, gripping your thighs as he nuzzles his face into your soaking cunt, licking and sucking. 

You whine as Steve grips your chin, turning you to face him and locking his lips with yours, slipping his tongue into your mouth. Bucky groans. The hand that isn’t gripping you moves to your plump breasts and squeezes and fondles them. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as Clark begins to suck on your swollen clit. You whimper into Steve’s mouth before gasping as a finger softly pokes against your entrance, breaching into it with a slow thrust. Your head falls back onto Steve and Bucky’’s shoulders, not noticing the other men rubbing their bulges through their pants, watching the scene before them with dark eyes. 

A choked whine escapes you when Clark curls his fingers while Bucky and Steve suck on your hardened nipples, swirling their tongues around. Your back arches, hands gripping their shirts as your vision becomes white and your juices flow out of your sopping cunt, covering Clark’s smirking face. “Fuck, Little Snow. You taste even more divine.” He curls his fingers in, happily watching how you twitch, your arousal still flowing out. “Men, clear the table. We are in need of a different kind of dessert.” He commands, standing to his full height and stepping aside. 

Steve and Bucky pull you toward the table, carefully setting you down and stepping back. All of the men stand and admire how beautifully blissed out you look. Johnny stumbles forward, his hardened member already hanging out of his pants, and you gasp as your gaze falls upon it. “T–that won’t fit…” You begin to shake your head as he slips between your spread legs, pulling you flush against him. 

Johnny smirks, tapping your cheek. “Dumb little sugar. I’ll make it fit. You’re so fucking wet. I’ll slide in so easily.” He reaches down and grips his throbbing base, tapping his leaking tip against your swollen clit before lining up against your entrance. Johnny groans when he pushes in, gasping at how tight you are around him. “Oh god! You feel so good, Sugar.” His hands grip your hips, slowly pulling out before thrusting into you harder. A grin forms on his face at how your eyes roll to the back of your head, letting out a sob as his tip hits your sweet spot.

You are suddenly lifted, and your eyes widen when you feel something poking your already stretched hole. Your head turns slightly, and you notice Sam giving you a cheeky smile, “Don’t worry, Snow. I’m just gonna join in on the fun.” You gasp when he slowly begins to push in, stretching you even more alongside Johnny. Sam’s head falls back, and he groans, “Holy fuck! You’re so fucking tight!” His grip tightens on your hips, and the thrusting begins between the two men. When one pushes in, the other pulls out, and your screams fill the cabin. Johnny pulls you into a deep kiss while Sam grips your hips and pounds hard into you. “Oh man, can you feel how tight she is?” 

Johnny nods, groaning. “Fuck yes! I don’t think I’m going to last long!” His pace picks up, slamming harder and faster into you before he buries his face into your neck as thick amounts of cum spurt out of his angry tip. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Johnny slips out of your stretched hole, sagging into a chair as Sam pulls you down, pounding into you from behind, thrusting Johnny’s cum deeper into you. Your mouth falls open, and your eyes roll into the back of your head as Sam slams into your sweet spot, causing your walls to clench around his thick member and your juices to squirt out of you.

“Good little princess,” Sam growls into your ear, slamming his cock harder into you before burying inside of you, releasing his cum deep into you. “Fuck.” Sam moves back, the magic draining out of him, and he sags next to Johnny, their eyes fluttering closed. 

You squeal when you feel someone grabbing the back of your head before you start gagging as Curtis shoves his thick member into your mouth, thrusting in and out. “Jesus.” His head falls back, and his eyes half-lidded. “You’re mouth is so warm.” His hands hold your head, and he pulls out slowly before thrusting in again. You moan around him, swirling your tongue around his swollen tip before starting to suck, loving the salty taste that lands on your tastebuds. 

Dean smirks, gripping his throbbing member and tapping his angry tip against your used folds. He lifts your hips before sliding in, groaning at how tight you feel wrapped around him. “Damn, sweetheart. How are you still so fucking tight? You were just stretched by two cocks.” He begins to set his pace, pounding into you, pushing you to choke on Curtis’s cock. “Go on, sweetheart. Choke on his cock.” He groans, fucking into you faster. His tip repeatedly hits your sweet spot, loving how you feel as you squeeze his cock. “Shit! I’m so fucking close!” 

While Dean is busy chasing his orgasm, Curtis holds your head down and thrusts into your throat. His head rolls back as you moan around his member. “Such a sweet mouth for a sweet woman.” Fat tears roll down your cheeks, gagging around him, and your eyes roll to the back of your head when Dean fills you, setting off your orgasm, causing your arousal to coat him, and the vibrations from your moans cause Curtis to groan and release deep into your mouth, gripping your chin until you swallow and show him. “Good girl.” 

You whine as both men pull out and watch through blurry eyes as they also sag into the chairs. Your head flops down onto the hardwood table, breathing heavily. “Do you think we are done with you, Doll?” Bucky steps up, a pink swirl in his eyes as he peers down at your used form. “There’s still three of us.” You gasp when he picks you up, wrapping your legs loosely around his hips while lining his tip with your entrance. Steve steps behind you, and his hand strokes his cock up and down. Your eyes roll back, and your head flops onto Steve’s shoulder as Bucky pushes in. A loud whine escapes you when Steve follows suit, slipping his giant cock through your tiny hole. 

Both men begin to take turns pounding in and out of you. Clark steps forward and grips your chin, turning your head to capture your lips with his. “Who knew Snow White was secretly a whore. You like being used by seven men, honey?” You moan, nodding and clutching onto whoever you can. Clark grips your throat softly, making your dazed eyes look at him. “Of course you do. Only a little whore like you would like being used. No wonder the Queen wanted to get rid of you.” He moves closer, smirking as Steve and Bucky pick up their pace, causing your mind to go fuzzy. “She couldn’t have any competition because you’d end up stealing the attention of men away from her.” You nod along, barely hearing anything that leaves his mouth, too focused on the intense pleasure coming from between your legs. 

Steve presses forward, his hands kneading your breasts as he buries himself deeper inside you. “You feel so good, Snow.” He begins to kiss your collarbone and shoulders, groaning as you tighten around him. He picks up his pace, feeling his balls tighten and his cock twitch, a loud groan escapes him as cum spurts out of him, filling you to the brim. “Fuck…” He pulls out, sagging into a chair, his eyes falling closed. 

Bucky moves you, pushing you against a wall and pounding hard into you. “Fuck, take my fucking cock.” He grunts, bouncing you against his thrusts, filling you repeatedly. “You better take my fucking cum, slut. It’s what you are made for.” His metal hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, feeling his cock throb when your eyes widen and your walls spasm, squeezing the life out of his cock. “Oh, what a dirty little slut you are. Who would’ve known you liked being choked.” Bucky smirks before he grunts, burying himself deep inside you and releasing large amounts of cum. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The moment he pulls out, his body does the same as the others, and before you can fall, Clark catches you and gives you a dark smile. 

“Oh, poor Little Snow. You should’ve chosen another cabin.” Your eyes widen when his eyes flash, and his cock fills you immediately. Even though the Queen was dead, it didn’t mean her minions died along with her. They just now had a mind of their own, a darker, more twisted mind. Your moans and screams echo outside the cabin. Clark’s member was bigger than the others, practically splitting you open. He growls, gripping your throat tightly. “You better find a way to wake the others when I’m done with you because you are ours now.” You are suddenly bent over the table, surrounded by the sleeping men, your nails dig into the wood, and your eyes roll into the back of your head as Clark slams deep into you. 

Your vision goes white as he repeatedly hits your sweet spot. Your juices squirt out and cover him and everything around. Your head hits the table as he continues before filling you with his cum, mixing with the others. You barely have time to register Clark’s body dropping as the magic leaves him. You shakingly stand, your legs wobbling, and you grip the table beneath as you look around and take in the sleeping bodies, or so you thought. You stumble over to the closet man, which happens to be Steve and feel his pulse. 

Your eyes widen, and your body drops as a wail escapes you, magic exploding from your body as you release every emotion you’ve been keeping in. Your eyes begin to close, and the last thing you hear is the men coming back to life, their hands grabbing you and bringing you upstairs. 

Come morning. You would learn never to trust strangers. 

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

#imyourbratzdollwork #a whores fairytale #clark kent fanfiction #steve rogers fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #curtis everett fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #sam wilson fanfiction #johnny storm fanfiction #clark kent #steve rogers #bucky barnes #curtis everett #dean winchester #sam wilson #johnny storm #clark kent imagines #steve rogers imagines #dean winchester imagines #sam wilson imagines #johnny storm imagines #bucky barnes imagines #curtis everett imagines #bossyclarkkentbrawnysteverogerscrankybuckybarnestipsydeanwinchesterdirtycurtiseverettsleazyjohnnystormhornysamwilson x witch/princess reader #clark kent x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #curtis everett x reader #dean winchester x reader #sam wilson x reader

[teenidlegirl]

please i just need a small lil fic of reader and miguel meeting at a baile/quince and just falling in love 🥹

( ꯭♡︎ ) ˖ ࣪ . love note ˒˒ omg this is so cute! just fyi to my peeps, i’m not taking requests but i’ll accept this one because it’s so cute!

you were invited to your best friend’s daughter’s quinceanera. the place decorated in pink, music playing from the speakers, delicious food being served, people dancing on the floor. the vibes are alive and everyone is having an incredible time.

while dancing with friends, you accidentally bump into someone with your back, or at least something sturdy because it felt like a wall.

“oh i’m sorry!” you cry, swiftly turning around to see whom you’ve bumped into.

“no no it’s alright. it’s my fault.”

the moment you lock eyes with the person you’ve bumped into, both of your eyes dilate immensely. standing before you is a man probably two feet taller than you. clad in all black, a dress shirt and a pair of slacks. a little gold chain with a small cross around his neck. broad shoulders and chest. dark chocolate locks that seem to be gelled back. he is undoubtedly the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

him, on the other hand, is awestruck. he believes an angel is standing right in front of him. your big doe eyes staring into his own, utterly lost in them. the baby pink dress you’re wearing makes your appearance so enthralling, outlining your curves so graciously. his breath got caught in his throat.

you two just stand there, staring into each other’s eyes, completely lost in trance. it feels like time stopped or slowed down, everything else is a blur.

the dreamy moment ends when your best friend and her husband walk by, making you and the man snap out of trance in unison. she introduces you both. miguel is his name and turns out he’s best friends with the husband. what a coincidence.

you and miguel chitchat for hours, getting to know one another. turns out you two share several things in common, making the conversation more enjoyable. hours of smiling and laughing. he is so charming and you’re so loving. you’d never miss the way he would lean a bit closer or slightly tilt his head when you talk. miguel cherished that beautiful smile or the heavenly sounds of your laughter. gazing into each other’s eyes until the tension is unbearable that makes you both look away bashfully for a moment, heat rising in your cheeks.

when it was time to dance again, miguel stands up and asks if you’d honor him a dance. with a bashful smile, you gladly accept and make your way to the dance floor. your heart skips a beat the moment your bodies press together. his large hand enfolding your smaller hand ever so gently. your bodies sway in harmony, matching the rhythm of the music. getting lost in each other’s eyes once again. it feels like a fairytale, a princess dancing with her prince. the outside world, everyone else at the quince was completely forgotten as you and miguel sway together on the dance floor.

“estas hermosa.” miguel whispers in your ear, making you a blushing mess which makes him smile.

from afar, across the venue, your best friend observes you and miguel with a proud smile on her face. playing cupid tonight was a complete success.

© teenidlegirl. don’t steal, plagiarize, or translate my work. ♡

#꒰ ˖ ࣪ . 𐙚 ⊹ ꒱ — 𝓕𝐀𝐍𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋 .ᐟ #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o'hara fanfiction #across the spiderverse

[halfmoth-halfman]

our little secret

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Medic!Reader Synopsis: Soap finally gets all of his answers- and then some. Word Count: 7.4k Warnings: injury mention, pet death mention, child mention Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. part one. part two. part three.

Soap has been in his fair share of safe houses.

He knows what to expect when he hears the words: a sparsely furnished studio stocked with the bare essentials. It’s not a problem for him. Safe houses aren’t meant to feel like houses; they’re there to do their job– to keep their inhabitants safe.

So his confusion is valid when Ghost mumbles something about a “safe house” nearby, only to lead him through the dense woods of the mountains they’re stuck in to the coziest-looking cottage Soap has ever seen.

Soap’s frozen, unable to stop staring at the two-story stone house with dark ivy creeping up the grey stonework and an actual babbling brook winding around the right side of the house where it runs into a small pond in the front yard. He doesn’t know where Ghost, of all people, found the one safe house to come straight out of a fairytale.

“Fuckin’ hell Johnny, stop staring like you’ve never seen a house before.” Ghost’s hand harshly shoves into Soap’s shoulder, and Soap stumbles forward, turning back swiftly to glare at Ghost.

The Lieutenant had been particularly testy for this mission, seeming almost reluctant to take part in any aspect of it; regret had oozed out of every inch of Ghost from the moment he and Soap had touched down here, and Soap can’t figure out, for the life of him, why. It wasn’t like they were forced to be here; Soap was in the room when Price asked for volunteers for this mission. He remembers with exceptional clarity how Ghost perked up– as much a man like him could– and how the masked man was on his feet the second Price asked for volunteers.

If he was so eager for this mission, why did he seem so resistant to everything about it?

Tired and impatient with Soap’s lack of action, Ghost starts up the dirt path toward the cottage. It’s not hard to notice how he drags his steps, leaving small trails behind his boots. Soap follows hesitantly, keeping his head on a swivel as they approach the front door. Ghost tries the doorknob only to find it locked; his eyes slide shut, hand tightening around the doorknob before he lets his hand slide from the brass.

“Maybe we can–” Soap doesn’t get to finish as Ghost steps back to turn his gaze to the black iron sconce hanging next to the door. He pops one of the glass panes out with practiced ease, reaching in where Soap’s only now noticing there’s no lightbulb to grab a small golden key. He pops the glass back into place, sliding the key into the lock and turning.

The door swings open, allowing them into the pitch black of the house. For such a quaint-looking home, the endless void that greets Soap when he walks in is something lifted from a horror movie. Ghost shuts the door behind him, leaving Soap standing in the entryway that’s illuminated only by the misty grey of what little of the sun’s setting light is able to reach through the thick cover of the towering pines and low, looming clouds outside to shine through the small squares of glass on the front door.

“Take your shoes off,” Ghost mutters behind him.

“What?” Soap turns around– ready to ask why he should bother with etiquette for a safe house– but finds Ghost already hunched over, one hand on the wall beside him for balance as he unlaces his boots.

Soap copies him, unsure and so so confused. Ghost is as unbothered as ever, disappearing into the darkness of the house while Soap toes out of his boots. He places them next to Ghost’s, standing up right as the house illuminates in a soft amber glow.

It’s just as cozy inside as it is outside, and Soap is stupefied. His mind can’t comprehend the shadowy figure of death and destruction that is his Lieutenant among the picturesque interior of wooden countertops and decorative plants.

Ghost is none the wiser to Soap’s internal crisis, heading to a large armoire composed of deep brown wood that stands against the cream-colored wall next to the entryway. He pauses, leaning back to look at Soap over the edge of the lacquered door. “Weapons go in here.”

Soap joins him as Ghost unloads his weapons into the cabinet. The outside is unassuming— a normal, if a little taller than usual, armoire— which is why the interior catches Soap so off guard. A second set of doors— grated black metal with a keypad in the center— hang open to give them access to an impressive weapons rack that’s already half-stocked. Soap can’t help but gawk as Ghost works on hanging his knives— arranging them by handle color, then length. It’s done so casually, so routine, as if Ghost has done this a million times.

He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know where to start. What the hell’s up with this “safe house”? How did Ghost find it? Did he set it up? It was hard enough picturing the masked giant in everyday civilian life, let alone browsing for the perfect rustic armoire or a faux fur rug fluffier than a cloud.

Ghost walks away, heading towards the kitchen with an unusual hesitance to his steps– like he’s trying to lighten his footsteps against the hardwood floor. Soap quickly stores his weapons, trailing behind Ghost with less caution. 

The kitchen is just as immaculately decorated as the rest of the house– all creams and beiges, a large window above the sink with a collection of herbs growing on its sill, and little pops of color from the neatly organized pots, pans, and baskets sitting on the shelves.

Ghost rifles through the pantry with his back to Soap, and Soap can’t help himself.

“What’s-”

“Keep your voice down,” Ghost snaps, hushed and threatening.

“Why?” Soap huffs, gesturing to the empty space around them. “It’s not like there’s anyone else here!”

Ghost turns to face Soap with a swiftness that surprises the Sergeant, his shadowed eyes narrowed into a glare so fierce it sends an immediate shock of fight or flight through Soap. 

“Simon?”

Your voice is soft and raspy and startles Soap so badly he swears his heart skips a beat. He whirls around to see you standing across the living room, one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. Dressed only in a hoodie that’s obviously too big for you— and the perfect size for a certain Lieutenant— and a set of fluffy pajama shorts, you rub your eye with the heel of your hand, clearly having just woken up.

Ghost groans behind him, and everything in Soap’s head suddenly clicks together: Ghost’s reason for volunteering for this mission so quickly, his expectation of working on it alone, why he dragged his feet to bring Soap here. All of the puzzle pieces floating around in his mind slide into place as he watches you stumble into the living room, still half-asleep.

After your rescue, you’d been confined to the infirmary for weeks. The team had come to see you, sometimes lucky to catch you for the few minutes you could stay conscious long enough to entertain small conversations. You were put on immediate leave once you were well enough, and in the three months since then, no one has heard from you. 

Soap’s glad to see you despite his mild guilt for disturbing you.

You look much better than when you left— less like you’d been repeatedly hit by a bus— and well on your way to recovery. There’s still gauze wrapped around your right thigh, and a few of the worst bruises are still present on your skin, in the process of fading. The only lasting injury Soap can see is the deep scar that trails along the left edge of your jaw from your chin to your ear; you’d had trouble talking while in the infirmary, pain buzzing through your jaw anytime you moved your mouth, but now you’re yawning widely without a single care.

You make it halfway to the kitchen when your eyes land on Soap; you freeze, brows knitting together in confusion.

“Soap?” 

“Doc.”

“What’re you….” You trail off, spotting Ghost behind him. Soap watches how you take in their clothes, the dirt and dried blood stained into the fabric, and how your eyes glance over to the open weapons cabinet near the front door. The shift to Doctor Mode is instant; you straighten up, already looking them over for any possible injuries as you hasten your way to the kitchen.

“I’m fine, Doc,” Soap smiles, seeing some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “Lt. got a little roughed up, though.” Your head snaps to Ghost, and Soap steps aside, setting a gentle hand on your back to guide you and your concern toward Ghost. The Lieutenant glares at him over your head, but this time Soap smiles back, a knowing grin plastered on his face as you fret.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Ghost sighs, pulling his angry gaze away from Soap to stare down at you. He’s trying to seem stern, frustrated that you’re up and about, but you pay him no mind. It’s almost sweet, the way his gaze softens the moment he looks at you; he’s concerned for you as much as you are for him.

“‘m fine,” you mumble stubbornly. Ghost rolls his eyes as he lets you look over him. His eyes briefly flick up from your face to Soap before back down to you. Soap’s known Ghost for a long time; he’s learned how to read the subtle changes in those dark eyes, and he can see the way Ghost fights with himself before letting his eyes slide shut in resigned conclusion.

“You need to rest,” he sighs again, faint and gentle, as he lightly grabs your wandering hands and eases them off him. He glances up at Soap again, but Soap avoids his gaze, finding interest in the earthy green toaster and not even trying to hide his grin.

“I will, I will,” you huff. You step back from Ghost, pulling your hands from his to cross your arms over your chest. “Mission go okay?”

You’re talking to him now; Soap realizes when Ghost doesn’t answer. He turns to you with an easy, if a little cocky, smile and a half-shrug.

“Thought they could try and ambush us, but they were no match for us. Right, Lt.?” There’s a quiet, exasperated fuckin’ hell from Ghost, but you’re laughing— your smile not as wide on your left side— and Soap realizes how much he’s missed you.

“We needed a place to lie low for the night-” Ghost starts.

“And this was close by, I get it.” You maintain your smile, nudging Ghost’s arm with your elbow. “Surprised you got here before the storm started.”

“What? That poor excuse for cloud coverage outside? Hardly call that a storm,” Soap scoffs. You shrug, meandering to the cabinet that holds the cups and mugs. 

“If that’s what you want to think,” you tease, but Soap is too busy watching Ghost as he watches you. “All I’m saying is-” The moment you reach up to grab a glass, there’s a hand on your waist and a sturdy body pressed against your back. “-Simon, I can reach just fine-”

He doesn’t listen, grabbing a glass and setting it in your hands while you pout up at him. You roll your eyes, stepping out from in front of him and smiling at Soap like nothing happened.

“All I’m saying is, I’ve lived here for a while; I think I can tell the difference between a little fog and a soon-to-be torrential downpour.” You fill your glass with water as you talk, batting Ghost away when he tries to take the full glass from you the minute you’ve filled it up.

“And since someone-” you send Ghost a pointed glare “-is in such a helpful mood, he can set you up in the guest room for tonight while I go back to sleep.” You saunter past Soap— as well as one can while healing— glass of water in hand.

“Good to see you again, Doc,” Soap laughs as you pass him. You send him a sly wink, playfully bumping his shoulder before heading upstairs. 

A tense quiet looms over the kitchen as Soap and Ghost are left alone. Ghost is staring at him, and he’s staring back, neither one knowing how to break the awkward silence that surrounds them.

Until—

“So,” Soap starts, smug grin crawling across his face and vindication thrumming through his veins. “You and the Doc, eh?”

“Don’t fuckin’ start.”

With that, Ghost marches past him, heading for the stairs and, Soap decides this is going to be one of the top three missions of his life.

-

It’s 5:03 in the morning when Soap is awoken by the loudest clap of thunder he’s heard in his life.

It shocks him awake, shooting straight up from the bed, heart hammering and mind alert. It takes him a minute to realize there’s no immediate danger and that his biggest threat is the blue duvet tangled around his legs. Soap pauses, staring down at the soft blue blanket in confusion.

Why is he-

Oh. 

Right.

Soap takes in the room— cozy just like the rest of the house— taking this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see if he can spot any clues, any slight hints that’ll give him insight on you and Ghost. The two of you are frustratingly thorough, as the only unusual thing he finds is the heavy blanket of rain pouring down the window.

Thunder rumbles above.

A door opens and shuts somewhere in the house.

Soap is of a curious mind— perhaps too curious for his own good— but that same intense inquisitiveness is what gave him enough of a glimpse to discover his Lieutenant’s secret marriage, so who is he to fight it?

He gets out of bed, ignoring the instant chill that comes with leaving the warm covers, and changes into the spare shirt and sweatpants you had Ghost give to him. As quietly as he can, he leaves the room, heading straight down the hall and toward the stairs.

The roll of thunder echoes above once more.

Something metal clatters downstairs.

Soap tiptoes down the steps, peering into the living room when he reaches the bottom step. The lights are off, save for the kitchen, where you sit at the small circular table, and Ghost stands at the counter near the sink, pouring boiling water from an old kettle into a black mug. 

You’re still in your suspiciously oversized hoodie but have changed out of your fluffy shorts, trading them in for long pajama pants decorated with those colorful ghosts from pac-man. Ghost is dressed down significantly, only wearing a thin black t-shirt and matching sweatpants.

Soap should be surprised to see the balaclava still on, but he isn’t.

Ghost sets the mug on the table in front of you before he slides a chair over and sits down next to you. You sit up— almost dragging yourself into an upright position— looking far more exhausted than you had yesterday.

He watches you— attentive and alert in an almost too-intense way— shifting slightly with your every move. You either don’t notice or don’t care, messing with the tea bag and sipping from your cup. You wince when you swallow, and Ghost is leaning toward you, gloveless hand coming to rest just under your jaw. His thumb gently trails along the scar on your jawline, quiet murmurs exchanged and lost on Soap’s ears. 

He should go back upstairs; it’s still early, and this seems like a moment he shouldn’t intrude on.

Soap takes one step backward, the woods beneath his foot whining under his weight and settling with a pop. 

Your attention turns to the stairs, and Soap makes a snap decision. He stands up straight, heading down the stairs and into the living room, doing his best to seem casual and not like he was just spying on you.

Ghost pulls away from you, sitting back in his chair as you smile tiredly at Soap. Your voice is rough, more so than the tired rasp of someone who’s just woken up. “Mornin’, Soap.”

“Mornin’.”

“The storm wake you up?” you ask, setting your elbow on the table to set your chin in your hand. Soap shrugs, taking a seat across from you. 

“I was already up,” he lies. You raise a brow, an amused smile that says you don’t believe him, but you don’t say anything. You lean back, grasping your mug with both hands and letting the warmth soak into your fingers.

He notices the mug first, streaks of the cartoon ghost with a crooked smile peering at him through your fingers. Then his gaze moves to your fingers, where he spots a solid black ring sitting comfortably on your left hand.

“You gonna ask about it?” you ask, grinning at him over the steam as you sip your tea. Soap coughs, rubbing his neck with enough sense to look sheepish. He chances a glance at Ghost, but the man’s eyes stay firmly on you. “It’s fine, Soap. I’m sure you have questions.”

He’ll probably never get this chance again.

Fuck it.

“I have a list,” Soap says, a little too eager, leaning forward on his elbows. 

“You get three.” Ghost’s voice is flat and unamused– a stark contrast to your welcoming demeanor.

“Only three?”

“That’s one. You got two left.”

You scoff, reaching over to pinch Ghost’s arm. He grunts– more in annoyance than pain– giving you a half-hearted glare. It’s not ideal, but Soap will take what he can get. Sorting through the mental list of questions he’s been compiling since he first took notice of this little relationship, Soap tries to pick out the most important ones.

The group sits in silence while he thinks; you slowly work your way through your tea, grimacing around every swallow as the storm looms overhead. Thick raindrops assault the kitchen window, a steady waterfall pouring down the glass. Thunder booms overhead, less severe than before but startling all the same.

“Does Price know about…this?” he asks, gesturing to your ring.

“That’s your question?” Ghost scoffs.

It’s a question that’s confused him for months, so yes it is.

“He does,” you answer honestly. “So does my old Captain. They helped get all the legal stuff sorted out.”

“Legal stuff?” 

“‘s a little difficult getting a marriage license for a dead man. Some strings had to be pulled.” You speak so casually as if that’s a normal thing to say. They’re around each other so often, Soap sometimes forgets that Ghost’s callsign is more than just a nickname; he’s a literal dead man walking, the living phantom of Simon Riley.

“Does anyone else know? Your old team? Laswell?” A cold chill shoots up his spine, “Did Shepherd know?”

“No,” Ghost sighs.

“My maiden name’s on all the paperwork. Price and Owens were thorough,” you explain. “No one knows but them…and now you, of course.”

Soap nods, fully understanding the weight of this secret he now bears, but he has to wonder-

“Would you've said anything? Eventually?”

You and Ghost share a look before you shrug, staring down into your half-empty mug.

“We talked about it.”

“After Las Almas,” Ghost adds. “Got too used to keepin’ it a secret and ended up never bringing it up.”

“Old habits,” you laugh softly. There’s a swell in Soap’s chest at the thought of you two trusting him enough to tell him about your marriage, even if it never actually happened. There were times when he wasn’t sure if Ghost even liked him, but after Mexico…there was a bond there that he’s realized wasn’t as one-sided as he may have assumed.

Your laugh dissolves into a hoarse cough, and Ghost is instantly on his feet.

“Back to bed, let’s go,” he orders, no room for negotiation. You roll your eyes, standing up slowly and favoring your right side.

“Make yourself at home, Soap,” you say in your gravelly voice, glancing out to the endless rain. “It looks like you might be stuck here a while.”

-

The storm doesn’t lessen for the rest of the morning and only worsens the following day; it’s clear he and Ghost will be here longer than initially intended. 

Soap doesn’t mind, though.

He’s been given almost completely free rein of the house, presented with the rare opportunity to snoop without worrying about getting caught. 

He notices the pictures on the third day as he’s coming down the stairs. There’s a tall, thin bookshelf on the wall opposite the bottom step filled to the brim with a vast collection of novels and a few picture frames.

He checks the top picture first, carefully pulling it from the top shelf of the bookcase. It’s a picture of Ghost standing in full gear, sunglasses on over his balaclava, holding a fully grown German Shephard over his right shoulder. The dog is looking to the side where you’re standing in matching gear, hands scratching behind its ears as you make a silly face with your lips pursed. 

“Aw, I miss that dog.”

Soap jumps, nearly dropping the picture frame as you appear next to him, looking over his shoulder at the photo. 

“Christ, you need a bell or something,” he mutters, setting the frame back on the shelf.

“Maybe you shouldn’t let yourself get so distracted,” you tease. You turn to the bookcase, a fond sigh as you look over the various photos. You let yourself sit in nostalgia for only a minute before glancing at Soap with a slight grin.

“You wanna see more?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You gather the pictures in your arms, leading Soap to the living room. You set the photos down on the coffee table and gesture for Soap to make himself comfortable on the sofa while you disappear into the hallway next to the kitchen. Soap sorts through the pictures. There’s one of Ghost sitting uncomfortably rigid in the back of a helicopter as you and Trip sleep on either side of him with your heads resting on Ghost’s shoulders. Another shows you with your old team, everyone dressed in civvies and sat around a bar table covered in empty glasses. The third is a duplicate of the one Soap had found in your desk in pristine condition. 

“I have this if you want to look through it,” you say as you return a large black book in your hands. You hand it to Soap, and he flips it open while you make yourself comfortable next to him.

It’s a photo album.

An entire photo album of you and Ghost– and sometimes the dog and your old team, but that’s not important.

Soap flips through it in wonder and awe. “Who took all these?”

“My old Captain, mostly. Some were me or one of the others. I think there’s a couple Simon took in there, too.”

“What did I take?” Ghost wanders down the steps, stopping when he sees the album in Soap’s hands. “For fuck’s sake, why does he have that?”

“Don’t mind him,” you huff. You lean over a peer into the photo album, pointing at one in the bottom left corner. “That’s one of my favorites!”

It’s a picture of Ghost passed out on a tattered sofa, exhausted, with the German Shephard curled around his head as he uses it for a pillow.

“Riley was such a good dog,” you sigh wistfully. Soap snorts, glancing over to Ghost. 

“Riley?”

“Wasn't my idea,” Ghost grumbles, looking directly at you. 

“Didn’t think you worked on a team before, Lt.,” Soap says, handing the album over to you so you can flip through the pictures, pulling out ones you want to show Soap.

“It happened on occasion,” Ghost shrugs, thick arms folded across his chest. “Worked with Owens once before, and she was impressed enough to ask for me on certain missions.”

“And because he had a crush on the doctor,” you mumble, laughing to yourself as you slide another picture out. Ghost seems less than amused, but he doesn’t deny it.

“You were a doctor back then?” Soap questions. That doesn’t sound right. He’s seen you in the field with the 141, your uniform completely different from what you’re wearing in those pictures.

You hesitate, pausing in your picture collecting to knit your fingers together and pick at your nails.

“Of sorts.” Is all you say.

“It was a specialized position,” Ghost cuts in, walking around the back of the sofa to set his hands on your shoulders. “Interrogation Specialist.”

“So, you questioned people?”

“I tortured people.” You look up from the photos, meeting Soap’s eyes with a distant gaze he’s seen many times on Ghost. 

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Is that why they called you Hornet?” Is what comes out of his mouth. It’s absurd enough to shock you out of whatever memory you were stuck in, tilting your head in confusion.

“No? Who told you that?”

“Grizzly. He said something about you being like a hornet in a beehive.” 

You have to bite into your cheek to keep from laughing, and even then, a few giggles escape you. You relax into the couch, craning your head up to look at Ghost, “I mean, I guess that works.”

“If that’s not it, then why-”

“We didn't have a medic, so I had to stitch everyone up a lot. And most of the time, we didn’t have any kind of anesthesia, and I didn’t give any warning before I started poking with the sewing needle. Grizzly complained that I was like an aggressive bee, Trip told him those were called hornets, and that was that. Not as cool, right?” Soap wants to reassure you, but your attention is back to the book in your lap.

You gasp, pulling out a photo to hold it up to Ghost, “Remember this?”

Ghost’s answer is immediate, “Don’t show him that.”

Well, now Soap has to know.

You laugh, sliding the picture back into its place, but briefly look over to Soap, mouthing later with a wink.

-

Over the next few days, Soap learns more about your relationship with Ghost. 

He learns that you met during a black-ops mission, where Ghost was meant to help escort your team– and more specifically, you– to a remote base to question some high-profile prisoner.

He learns that the two of you worked so well together for that first mission that Captain Owens made Ghost her go-to for any outside help if the team ever needed it.

He learns you spent years working together before the thought of becoming a couple even entered your minds.

And he learns that after that first time together, you and Ghost developed a specific set of rules for your relationship that’s only grown since.

You’ve told him a couple: no obvious affection in public, don’t compromise a mission for the other’s safety, respect each other’s space and the occasional need to spend time apart, no letters or phone calls unless it’s an absolute emergency.

Most were proposed by Ghost, but you agreed that it was for the safety of both of you.

He puts together clues about some of the other– possibly unspoken– rules when he watches the two of you interact. Ghost takes your health very seriously, and sometimes his tone borders on commanding when he tries to get you to rest or take medicine or drink tea without anything added to it. You sass him and roll your eyes, but do whatever he says every time. It’s the same when you ask him to get you something or try to get him to be a little nicer to Soap when he asks about some aspect of your marriage: Ghost will groan or roll his eyes but always bends to your will.

You don’t ask about each other’s missions, either. Soap watches you reorganize the weapon cabinet one day, noticing the blood on a few of Ghost’s knives. You ask if it’s his or Soap’s and if either of them needs to be looked at, but when they assure you they’re fine, you drop the subject. 

The biggest question for him, though: the rings.

Ghost’s has found its way onto his finger– the first time Soap has seen it there, while you switch between wearing yours on your finger and on that thin chain around your neck.

It’s on your finger this morning, and Soap is fixated on watching you twirl it around your finger absentmindedly while you stare over the back of the couch at Ghost’s back as he makes breakfast.

(That’s another thing– Ghost has done most, if not all, of the cooking since they got here.)

“It’s weird to see him with a ring on,” Soap quietly laughs. You turn to him, pulled out of your husband-watching trance. 

“Yeah, it’s not often we get to actually wear them.”

“One of his rules?”

“One of mine,” you sigh, gaze drifting back to Ghost. You fidget with your ring again, picking at its smooth, rounded edges with your nails.

“No wearing them where anyone can see ‘em, if one of us leaves for a mission then whoever’s staying behind keeps both of them, and if we both have to leave, the rings go in a small safe in my office.”

“That sounds-” Exhausting. “-thorough.”

“You’d be surprised how many captives forget about jewelry. It’s a whole lot easier to get information out of someone the minute you realize they might have someone they want to protect from you.”

There’s an edge to your voice, some kind of mix of nostalgia and resentment and regret.

But Ghost finishes breakfast and Soap decides it’s better not to ask.

-

Day six of waiting out this seemingly never-ending storm and the three of you are sitting in the living room cleaning your array of guns. 

You’re wearing your own clothes for once, a dark cotton tank top and black sweatpants that lets Soap see the full extent of bruising and bandages around your arms. A long bruise stretches across your neck, still purple and blue, and Soap suddenly understands the uneven hoarseness of your voice.

Your hair is up, pulled out of your face so you can focus on your work. Soap can see the scar from the humvee on the side of your head as it disappears behind your ear.

The ear that hides your tattoo.

It’s a quiet afternoon; it’d be a shame to break the peace. 

“When did you get the tattoo?” he asks anyway. You don’t answer until you look up and find him staring back at you.

“What tattoo?” you ask in genuine confusion.

“The little ghost behind your ear.”

Ghost freezes, head slowly turning to look at you. “What ghost?”

“Oh, that. I got it after Russia,” you shrug. “Whole mission was a total shitshow, but it reminded me how easily you can lose someone, so, after, I found the nearest shop and got it done.”

You return to your guns, but Ghost’s eyes are trained on you. Soap can see the gears in his head turning, and he briefly worries that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

“Thought we agreed: no marks, symbols, or tattoos.”

A sharp laugh escapes your mouth, eyes flicking up to Ghost in disbelief. “So if I check out that chaotic sleeve of yours, you’re telling me I won’t find a little hornet hidden somewhere in there?”

A beat of silence.

Ghost grunts and returns to his guns and you grin victoriously at Soap.

-

The power goes out on day nine. 

Ghost is messing around with the fuse box. At the same time, you and Soap have decided to follow “sleepover law”, lighting the house up with candles, moving the sofa and coffee table to build a nest of pillows and blankets in front of the lit fireplace, and piling a collection of snacks nearby.

He can hear the two of you laughing in the living room, you exchanging old mission tales for stories about Soap’s nieces and nephews. Ghost sighs, his fourth and last idea to get the power back on failing miserably. He’s frustrated and annoyed and can feel that itch just under his skin that tells him to isolate. 

To do that, he’d have to go upstairs.

And to get upstairs, he’d have to go through the living room and pass by-

Your laugh echoes down the hallway, and Ghost can feel some of the tension ease from his bones. The itch is still there– the immediate need to run and hide to deal with any sort of negative emotion by himself– but it lessens when he remembers you’re nearby.

He shuts the fuse box, deciding he’s not going to get anything fixed right now. Instead, he wanders down the hall, stopping just before he reaches the living room to lean against the wall and listen to you and Soap.

“I have to ask-” Soap starts, mischief laced in his voice, “-the mask. Does he ever take it off?”

“If he wants to,” you reply through gentle laughter. 

“Really? So what if he doesn’t want to? Does he sleep with it on?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about when you two…”

There’s a brief pause before you snort and answer in a quiet purr, “Sometimes.”

“Nah, yer bum’s oot the windae!”

“...I don’t know what that means, but you asked!”

“You’re not serious!”

“Totally am! I mean…I wouldn’t’ve married him if I wasn’t into it.”

Ghost loves you more than anything in the world, but there’s nothing more he wants right now than for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him whole.

-

It’s late, almost reaching into the early morning hours, and Soap cannot sleep. He doesn’t know what’s keeping him awake; he just knows that no matter what he tries, he can’t fall asleep.

After the third hour of tossing and turning and grumbling, he gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen. He does his best to keep quiet, all his stealth training kicking in.

He’s halfway across the living room when–

“Watch your step.”

It takes everything in him not to scream as your voice travels up from the floor. Soap looks down to find you lying on your back on the fluffy brown rug, your legs outstretched and resting atop the coffee table.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus! What the hell are you doing on the floor?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Came down here for some floor time.”

“Floor time?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” You raise your brows at him, reaching out to pat the empty spot next to you.

He stares down at you, but you meet his gaze, eyes wide and unblinking to the point it almost freaks him out. Soap relents, bending down to lay next to you. You clap your hands in victory, scooting over to give him more room.

Soap gets himself comfortable, crossing his feet on top of the coffee table next to yours. You two lay in silence, staring up at the ceiling in the quiet dark. 

It is kind of calming, he has to admit.

“I used to do this with Riley,” you speak softly, barely above a whisper. “I’d lay down, and then he’d lay on me. At first, I thought he just wanted to use me as a pillow, but I think it was more of a grounding thing…he was a smart one, that dog.”

“What…happened to him?”

“He got old. K9 unit retired him, and Simon and I took care of him until…Simon was devastated when we had him put down. He refused to come back here for months after. Said the house was ‘too quiet’.”

“Could always have a kid or two,” Soap jokes. “House wouldn’t be quiet for a long while.”

“No,” you snap.

He sits up, propping himself on his elbows so he can face you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s not…you’re fine, Soap.” You release a long sigh, pulling your feet off the coffee table and sitting up straight. You stretch, back popping painfully from too much time on the ground.

“We’ve talked about kids,” you mumble, fingers moving to fidget with your ring. You look back at him– grey moonlight reflecting off your watery eyes. “Maybe in another life.”

Soap pushes himself to sit up completely, reaching out to settle a comforting hand on your shoulder. You flinch at the contact– relaxing when you realize you’re alright– and Soap pulls his hand away with an apologetic smile.

“Another dog, then? Or a cat? Ghost seems like a cat person.”

You make a sound, some sort of half-scoff, half-laugh that’s muddled by the knot in your throat.

“How 'bout a fish?” 

“A fish it is, then.” Soap hears your watery laugh as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. You scoot back to sit next to him, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’ll name him Soap, just for you.”

"Thanks, Doc."

-

It’s a whole two weeks later from the day they arrived when the water has eased enough outside for Ghost and Soap to go out and check the roads. 

You sit on the porch, tucked into a dry chair and another one of Ghost’s hoodies with a hot mug of tea warming your hands. Initially, you wanted to go with them, but Ghost refused swiftly and sternly. You argued that you needed the fresh air, and the compromise was made that you could settle on the porch and keep an eye out while they walked down the road.

Everything looked good, no mudslides, no floods, no fallen trees, so he and Ghost decided to head back and get ready to leave. 

Soap spots you as they near the house, staring off towards the brook near the house. You look so calm, so serene that he almost hates to disturb you. But Ghost has no qualms about interrupting your peace as he marches straight up to the house. You don’t seem to mind, judging by the way your face lights up at the sight of him.

He’s had almost every question answered, Soap realizes as he watches Ghost offer you a hand to help you out of your chair, and you use the momentum to pull yourself up and kiss him on the cheek. 

There’s only question left-

“Hey, Ghost?” he asks, once the three of you are back inside. 

Ghost pauses his cooking, looking back at him over his right shoulder.

“How did you propose?”

“What?”

Soap expected that, but he hadn’t expected you to start snickering from where you’re perched on the counter next to Ghost with your head resting on his left shoulder.

“It’s just…I’ve been thinking about it for a while. And there’s no engagement pictures in that photo album so-”

“I didn’t.”

“You…what?”

“I didn’t propose,” Ghost sighs.

Oh…

Oh!

Soap turns to you and your triumphant– if a bit smug– grin. “I beat him to it.”

“By two days,” Ghost huffs, turning back to the food on the stove. “Patience is a virtue, but not one of yours.” You giggle, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder over his shirt. Ghost nudges you away with a grunt. You lean back for a few seconds before setting your chin on his shoulder so you can stare lovingly at the side of his face. Ghost sighs, letting it happen and turning briefly to lightly tap his head against yours.

“How did you know?” 

The question spills from Soap’s lips the moment he catches that little interaction.

“Know what?” you ask, turning to lay your head down, smushing your cheek on Ghost’s shoulder.

“That you wanted to propose. How’d you know you were the ones for each other?”

You sit up, eyes never leaving Ghost, who’s gone unusually still. An uncomfortable tension fills the air, swelling like a balloon ready to burst.

“It was after Sweden,” Ghost mumbles minutes later. He puts the stove on low heat and turns to you, your eyes meeting as he steadily holds your gaze. “We were clearing out that abandoned building, and you found this kid, couldn’t have been more than five…maybe six? They were so scared, but you managed to get them to calm down and come with us. We cleared the place but got ambushed as we were leaving. You gave me the kid and shoved me out of the back exit and-”

“Took a bullet meant for you,” you finish softly. Your hand comes up to graze just below your stomach, absentmindedly clenching the fabric over the spot.

The face you made when he’d brought up children flashes through Soap’s mind.

Maybe in another life.

“Didn’t realize how scared I was of losing you until that moment. You always seemed so sure, so indestructible, like there wasn’t anything that could kill you, like you’d always be there. And then you weren’t, and I thought that was the end until you finally got out of surgery. Wasn’t gonna let you get away after that.”

Tears well up in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. You try your best to wipe them away, a smile of a million different emotions directed at Ghost. Ghost reaches out, sets a hand on your knee, and you meet his eyes before glancing over and realizing Soap is still there– grinning like an idiot.

“Well, I knew the day we met,” you laugh through your tears. Ghost scoffs, playfully squeezing your knee before returning his attention to the food. “It’s true; you can ask Firefly. Moment you started training with us and flipped Grizzly on his ass, I told her, ‘I’m gonna marry that man’.”

“Fuck off.”

-

They’re packed and ready to leave the next morning.

Soap’s tugging on his boots while Ghost locks up the weapons cabinet, and you stand off to the side, watching. You haven’t said a word all morning, just leaning against the wall with your eyes fixated on Ghost. 

Ghost shuts the cabinet with a sigh as Soap finishes lacing up his boots. Ghost glances at him, different this time– a silent ask for a moment alone with his wife.

Soap gets the message, loud and clear.

“Don’t worry, Doc. You’ll be back in your infirmary treating our stab wounds soon enough.” You huff in amusement, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’ll see you soon, Soap.” He nods at you and turns to head out the door.

He leans against the wall just outside the front door, staring at the clear brook water that washes over smooth stones until he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks over and realizes he can see straight through the glass of the door where you and Ghost stand, feet apart from each other.

He should look away, get a head start down the road.

But when has he ever done that?

Instead, he watches Ghost slide the mask from his face, giving you a single nod before you launch forward and attach yourself to him. He holds you close like he’s trying to absorb you into his body, keeping you as close as physically possible. You pull back from him– only slightly– and Ghost wipes away the tears falling down your face. He reaches behind your neck, messing with the clasp of your necklace before his ring slides down the silver metal to meet yours at the bottom.

Your hands wind their way around the collar of his jacket, pulling him forward into a kiss he eagerly accepts. There’s no such thing as a goodbye kiss in the Riley household; goodbyes imply never seeing each other again, and that is a future neither you will accept. Instead, it’s a promise. 

A promise to stay alive, to come back. 

A promise either of you has yet to break.

You pull away, murmuring something against his lips. Soap’s never been a great lip reader, but it’s not hard to tell what you’re saying.

You better come back to me, Simon Riley.

Always.

Another kiss, and the mask is back on, slid into place by your steady hands. Ghost sets his forehead against yours, one last moment together before the inevitable separation. 

Soap turns away when Ghost steps back from you, focusing his gaze on a small leaf on the ground until Ghost walks out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Let’s go, Sergeant.”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #mw fics #moth writes #private