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unholy-screeching9 · 1 year

Note

I really love your stories.Not cuz it's King Dice x reader no!

It's by how you do the details, it's so beautiful and with lots of passion so I hope you'll make more. :)

(btw *idea* can you make one story of getting pregnant?)

thank you

Of course I can, dear! Thank you so much for your kind words. I hope this is worth the wait 💋

NSFW CONENT WARNING! 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI.

💋

King Dice x Pregnant!Reader Headcanons

King Dice x Pregnant!Reader Headcanons (GAME)

You and King Dice want kids. Badly.

You’ve been married for quite a while, and the idea of having babies together? Starting a family together? Well, let’s just say it’ll be a dream come true for you both.

Your husband is thrilled at the idea of getting you pregnant with his child, watching you bring that baby to the world. The thought of you having his baby sends him into a frenzy. To see you with an adorable baby bump, to feel the child kicking against his hand, to hold them when you finally give birth? Oh, how splendid it would be.

You’d give anything to have a child with Dice. You want it more than anything. You want to make so many memories with your husband and children, laughing together, making fantasies come to life, and showing your babies how to thrive in such an adventurous world.

Of course, wanting kids means… well, trying for them. Many times, much to the joyful annoyance of you both.

As much as it hurts to keep failing over and over again… it just means the next time you both have sex with each other, your husband gets that much more into it. The more desperate he grows, the more irritated he gets at another failed attempt, the more determined and dominant he gets when handling you.

God dammit, he will get you pregnant. You will have his baby. You both will have a family together. And that is a guarantee.

His promise, his determination, and his stubbornness… it gets you so excited every time. You can’t wait to feel his load explode inside of you, reaching your womb. That’s the one fantastic thing about having to try so many times… The feeling of being stuffed to the brim is something you’ll never grow tired of. It’s an addiction. A need.

Whenever he starts to guide you to the bedroom, you get so giddy. Seeing the mischievous glint in his eyes is enough to already get you wet. He drives you absolutely feral.

And his voice certainly helps in that case.

“Come now, darlin’... let’s get these pesky drawers off of you. They’re always in my way~”

You yelp in excitement as he rips off your bottoms, your underwear following suit. They’re left in a heaping pile on the floor along with your top, and the rest of his clothes as well. Well, that was certainly record timing.

Dice sweeps you off your feet, spinning once for shits and grins before tossing you onto the four-poster bed and crawling in himself, towering over your eager, shaky form.

“Alright, my dear. Let’s try this again, shall we?”

You nod quickly, grinning in anticipation as you reach up and grip his shoulders, bracing yourself for his entrance into your walls.

God, the way he takes command each time you both are intimate with each other drives you crazy. He’s so smooth and suave with the way he handles you. It’s something you’ll never grow tired of. You love it.

“Are you ready for this, doll? I’ll warn you, I’ll be rather rough this time around. You think you can handle that?”

“YES! Yes, King, PLEASE, I’m so tired of waiting!”

“Well, since you have such good manners… alright, baby. I’ll give you what you want. Just don't say I didn’t warn you.”

You shout in pained pleasure as Dice rolls his hips against your own, his throbbing cock quickly sliding against your walls as he fills you entirely. He fits you so perfectly, and you quickly adjust to his size. Before you can even utter a word in reply, he’s ramming into you, shoving his length in and out of your pussy and relishing every high pitched cry you make, begging him for more.

You don’t even have to ask all that much. Your lover is more than happy to oblige.

The feeling of his thickness sliding in and out of your clit feels so good it’s intoxicating. And the way he looks while doing it makes you want him twice as much. The way he grits his teeth as he slams his cock into your folds, grunting loudly in sync with your whines. His green eyes making eye contact with you, hungrily scanning your beautiful body. His fingers digging into your shoulders as he holds you steady. He’s got complete control over you. You’re his toy. His puppet. His most prized possession.

And he loves you.

He wants you to have his baby. Desperately. He wants to stuff you so much his fluids reach your womb, over and over again. He wants you to struggle to hold his load inside you, his juices starting to leak down your inner thighs.

God, the mere thought of it eggs him on. You’d look so precious with his cum leaking out of you. Even better with a cute little baby bump, representing the child you two would be having together. He wants you. He needs you. He’ll start a perfect little family with you if it’s the last thing his damned soul ever does.

He speeds up, the soft mattress squeaking and shifting beneath you as he pounds into you. It hurts so damn good, it’s enough to make you cry in pleasure, tears leaking from your eyes as you grin desperately up at him. Your nails dig deep into his skin, drawing streaks of blood and coaxing out a loud groan from your husband. He loves that.

“Oh, fuuuuck! That’s it, doll! Dig those nails deep into me, mark me up, all of it. God, you’re so tight around my dick like this, it almost hurts-!”

You let out an excited scream, feeling your walls tighten around him. The way he was speaking to you was making you catch right up to your release.

“KING! Oh my GOD, my King, I’m getting close-!! I’m gonna cum!~”

“That’s right, my little pip. Cum. I want to feel your juices pouring over my dick before I stuff you to the top. DO IT.”

The husky authority in his voice as he gives the order is enough to send you over the edge, and you let out a pleasured cry as you finally reach your climax.

The King growls above you as he feels your juices explode against his cock, chasing his own climax as he murmurs in your ear:

“Your cum feels so good against my dick, sweetheart. It’s getting me close, myself. Tell me, do you wanna be filled by my load? You want me to stuff you so hard your stomach throbs?”

“YES, King, PLEASE! Fill me to the brim! I need it-!”

“I can’t hear you, pip. Speak up. You want me to fill you up? Do you? You wanna have my kid?!”

“YES, KING DICE! I wanna have your baby! Our baby!! I want to be filled up by your cum! I want it so bad it HURTS! PLEASE, MY KING!”

Your cries of pleasure and desperation are enough to send him into a frenzy, and he finally catches his sweet release. And man, it’s incredible.

Dice lets out an animalistic scream of exaltation as his fluids explode out of his cock, shooting right into your walls and quickly filling you so much your stomach distends slightly. Fuck, he was full. There’s so much. It’s so hot. He feels so hot inside of you, he’s like your personal heating pad. It feels amazing.

You look up at him, falling in love with that tired, yet proud look on his face.

“That… that oughta do it, sugar.”

He’s panting heavily, his chest rising and falling shakily with each breath he takes. He must have worn himself out. He’s so desperate to have a baby with you, it’s honestly adorable.

With your invitation, he lays on top of you, resting his sleepy head on your chest and allowing you to trace the edges of it with your fingers. He listens to your soft, satisfied hums as you enjoy the feeling of his dick still inside you, keeping as much of his cum inside you as possible.

“I hope this works, sweetheart… I want this. I want you. I want to father your children. To have our own little hellish family.”

You smile, rubbing circles on his back as you lean your head against the pillows and close your eyes.

“I know, honey. I want this too. So so much…”

You hope this works just as much. You want to have his baby. You weren’t just saying those words to encourage him to cum inside of you. You meant every one of them.

You want to see him hold your hand as you deliver your baby into the world. You want to see him cradle the child in his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks and ruining his makeup. You want to watch him drowsily get up at night when the baby cries for him.

You want to hear him softly sing them to sleep, with the promise that he’ll protect them with his life. You want to see him teach them how to walk. How to run. How to dance, and play cards.

And, as much as it may annoy you in the future, you want to see him laugh in delight as your child causes mischief around the casino halls.

You want him to be a parent, just as much as you want to be one.

And then….

You start getting sick every morning. Every. Morning. And it’s horrible.

You wake up an hour or so before Dice’s alarm usually goes off, and rush to empty your last meal into the toilet.

Dice is always there not more than a minute later, kneeling down, rubbing your back. Murmuring soft reassurances to you.

“Let it out, babydoll. It’s alright, I’m here. I’m right here, sugar. Everything’s gonna be fine…”

He’s the sweetest. He really doesn’t have to get up early to help you feel better, but he does anyway. He makes that sacrifice for you because he loves you.

Man, he really would be a great father.

Wait. Wait a minute…

…Oh.

The realization hits you like a stack of bricks. Your period’s late. You’re sick as a dog every morning. Your appetite has been fluctuating, and you’ve been craving odd combinations. You’ve been gaining a little weight with no explanation recently.

You’re pregnant.

It’s finally happening. After so many attempts, you both have done it. You and your husband are going to start a family together. Something you’ve always dreamed of doing.

You can’t wait to tell him. But at the same time, you want it to be meaningful. So you keep quiet, for now.

Meanwhile, Dice is growing more and more worried by the day. So much so that he almost takes a day off work to watch you closely, but you forbid it. You want him to be surprised, and you haven’t had enough time to get everything ready for your special night.

However, this just raises more red flags for your partner. You never insist he go to work. It’s usually you who’s begging him to take a day off, to spend some more time with you. He decides he’ll set up an appointment with the doctor so you both can go together and figure out what’s wrong.

After tucking you back into bed, Dice kisses your forehead and sighs softly.

“I’m so sorry, toots. I wish I could help ya, when you’re feeling so sick like this. I’ll be working a little late tonight, but I’ve got the day off tomorrow. We’ll head to the doc’s to see what the problem is.”

He takes your hand, presses a loving kiss to your knuckles, and leaves to get ready for work.

Perfect. This gives you plenty of time to set everything up. You’re thinking of a nice, quiet dinner with some smooth jazz playing on his radio, and then you’ll break it to him.

You’ve gotta hand it to yourself, even while pregnant you can still make wonders happen with your hands. The room looks amazing. The food you prepared, hot and delicious on the trays. The radio emits a soft tune throughout the room. You can’t wait until Dice returns.

He’s a little shocked when he does. He shuts the door behind him and smiles in surprise, taking his waistcoat off and hanging it neatly before strutting over to where you sat in the bed.

“What’s all this, doll? I take it you’re feeling better than this morning?”

You laugh softly and nod, grabbing the dinner trays and offering him one. “Much. I figured we could have a cozy dinner tonight, as a thank you for taking such good care of me.”

The King laughs softly and cups your cheek, gently caressing it with his thumb. “You don’t have to thank me for anything, it’s my job as your husband. But I’m not one to refuse such a generous offer, my love~”

You smile at his response and kiss his palm, handing him a tray as you both sit down on the bed together.

Dinner is delicious, and Dice makes sure to tell you so. He always appreciates your cooking, and honestly prefers it over the many restaurants you both go to on date nights. Something about the love you put into whatever you make just elevates the dishes ten fold.

Yes… the love you put into whatever you make. Including your child.

Speaking of which…

“Dice?” you ask as he sets his tray along with yours off to the side. It’s time to tell him about what’s been making you so sick all this time.

“Yes, my love?” your husband looks back at you, scooting closer to you and tenderly taking your hand. He can tell there’s something on your mind. His eyes scan your own, searching for answers.

“There’s… there’s a reason why I’ve been so sick. Why my attitude’s been fluctuating, and why I’ve been acting so weird…”

Dice cocks his head to the side, looking at you in confusion as he cups your face. For someone so intelligent he can be a little… dense.

“You have? Well, spit it own then, doll. What’s the matter?”

Cute. It’s cute that he’s so clueless. It makes you laugh slightly, taking the tension out of Dice’s concerned gaze. Now, he just wants to know what’s making you all giddy so suddenly.

“Come on, sugar, out with it. You’re scaring me.”

“It’s just so cute, Dice. You’re cute. And I’m sure you’ll make an even cuter father.”

It takes your husband to figure out just what you’re saying.

“A cute father? What does being a father have anything to do with…”

He trails off, his mouth hanging over as his words die off his tongue. His expression is thoughtful before his bright green eyes widen, his head snapping back up at you.

“You… you don’t mean…”

You smile warmly and nod, taking his trembling hands and squeezing excitedly.

“You’re gonna be a daddy, Dice. I’m pregnant.”

Dice is frozen in shock, shoulders tense as he looks at you with wide eyes, sparkling with excitement.

After a few moments, he speaks, and his voice is so soft you can barely pick up on it.

“You… you mean it?”

You nod again, grinning and cupping his cubed face. The way he’s looking at you is a rare sight to see.

Usually, he’s got a fixed, confident smile, downplaying whatever true emotions he’s feeling. It was the look you fell in love with, when you first saw him running the casino’s main floor.

But now, he looks at you the way he did when he first laid eyes on you. It’s like he’s falling in love with you all over again.

This time, it’s you and your child.

“Oh, babydoll, you’ve made me so HAPPY!” your husband shrieks in excitement, throwing his arms around you and holding you tightly against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat fluttering against your own as you both hug each other, tears rolling down your faces. This is truly one of the happiest moments you’ll ever have.

It’ll be wonderful to have a child running around the halls. A child who depends on the two of you, and trusts you with their life. A child who you can pour your love into, teach the ways of the world to, and watch grow up.

Now that you both know you’re pregnant, Dice’s protectiveness triples in size. The man doesn’t let you lift a finger, and sometimes, he’ll even get upset with you for trying to help out around the casino or even in the bedroom.

As much as it annoys you when he pesters you because you tried to lift something slightly heavy, it’s cute to see him become so worried about you and your baby.

It seems he’s already slipped into the fatherly role, and is playing his part quite nicely. It really is an adorable sight to see.

And you can’t lie, it does feel nice to not have to do as much, and you can focus only on your job, and keeping your body healthy for your child. Dice takes over everything, including the cooking. It may not taste as amazing as yours to his standards, but damn, you aren’t complaining at all. You think he’s a fine cook, especially when your cravings hit at their worst times.

You’ll never understand how your husband is able to make pickles and ice cream taste so delicious. You’re fully convinced that you’d enjoy what he makes even if you aren’t affected by such a strange appetite.

Of course, you both pause in having sex during the months of your pregnancy, out of Dice’s worry that he’ll hurt the child. No matter how desperate you both get for each other, the most you will do is cuddle and finger each other. It’s not even close to what you’re after, but it will do until the baby is born.

The months trudge by, and after what feels like forever, you’ve reached the stage where you need to go on maternity leave from your job. Your belly is huge, even for a pregnancy. It’s so distended you can no longer see your feet. You feel like you could pop. It hurts to stand. To walk. To sleep. To move. You start to get irritable, and annoyed with everything around you.

Sometimes, you won’t let Dice even touch you, as much as it breaks his heart. However, he respects your wishes, and instead offers you kind, reassuring words of support, even if all he gets in return is a sharp comeback.

Other times, you’re clinging onto him, desperate for his comforting warmth. Dice lost count of how many times he’s been late to work simply because he doesn’t want to pry you off of him in the mornings. You’re just so comfortable… It’d be a shame to ruin all of it just because he doesn’t want to be a few minutes late. So, he stays.

Your confidence drops to your feet, and you spend multiple times a week sobbing to yourself over your looks. Your weight. Your weird, stupid cravings. The pain you’re in. And your husband dries your eyes every time.

He is nothing but kind to you, letting you bury your face into his chest and cry into him, letting your tears stain his shirt. All he does is hold you, shushing your sobs and whispering sweet, gentle praises into your ear.

“There now, my sweet. Let’s ease up on the waterworks, alright? I know it’s hard, carrying such a heavy child inside of you. I can’t even begin to fathom how much pain you must be in. And if I could take away every ounce of that pain, I would. In a heartbeat, baby.”

He slowly rocks you in his embrace, his hand fondly resting on your stomach as the baby kicks lively against it. He falls more in love with you for every kick the child offers. While it may be a burden to you right now, to him? It’s surreal. Incredible.

You’re… pregnant. You’re carrying his baby. His spawn. That’s the most wonderful thing he’ll ever see you do.

You’re beautiful to him. You’re perfect. And he’ll be damned if he catches you crying like this again, complaining about how ugly you think you are. He just won’t have it.

He gets a lot more touchy with you afterwards. If there’s ever an opportunity, his gloved hands are resting on your stomach, rubbing it lovingly as he hugs you from behind.

He even lifts your stomach slightly, holding it as you get a break from the heavy weight. God, it’s heavenly. You almost cry from relief, leaning back into him and murmuring sweet ‘thank you’s and ‘I love you’s. Dice takes notes after that. And now, he does it every chance he gets. Anything to help you feel better as you get closer and closer to your due date.

And it finally comes.

It happens right in the middle of Dice’s work shift. You’re reading a book in your chambers when you feel it. That dull, throbbing pain in your lower back, then your stomach. At first you think nothing of it, but then it starts to grow. And grow. Until it’s almost unbearable.

Shit. You need Dice. NOW.

You reach for the intercom on your nightstand when you feel something wet leaking down your legs. Fuck.

Your water broke.

A sharp, EXCRUCIATING pain hits your stomach. Fuck the intercom. You scream.

Fortunately for you, you’re loud enough. Dice bursts into the room in seconds, immediately rushing over to you.

“Sweetheart! What’s the matte–”

“The baby! It’s coming!”

That’s all he needs to hear. He quickly scoops you up in his arms, letting you cling onto his waistcoat as he hoists you up against his shoulder, and he’s out the door with you.

He’s running faster than you’ve ever seen him. You honestly didn’t know he could be so athletic when he needed to be. Was he always this in shape? Or was it just the adrenaline?

Oh, FUCK, your stomach hurts. Would you even be able to make it to the clinic? Or would you have your first baby right on the streets of the Isles?

Thankfully, your husband is fast enough.

When you finally arrive at the doctor’s, everything becomes a haze. You can barely comprehend what’s happening around you as you’re set up for birth. The doctor’s voice giving instructions to the nurses, Dice’s hand squeezing yours as his muffled voice soothes sweet reassurances, the fuzzy feeling of your body being moved to position.

All you can focus on is the horrible pain in your abdomen, ripping a scream from your throat with every contraction. You try and work on your breathing, panting heavily as you look at the blurry face of your husband,

It’s all happening so fast, but yet, you feel as if you’ve been waiting way too long. How long has it been? The hospital must have been a long walk. But you got there so quickly, how fast was Dice able to run? It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. It’s hard to breathe. What did the doctor say?

Oh, right. Push.

You squeeze Dice’s hand so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t fall off, letting out an agonized shout as you start pushing. Once. Twice. A third time.

Dice counts every push, helping you control your breathing. He won’t admit it now, but watching you give everything into the birth of your child? It’s the most incredible thing he’ll ever see. You’re so beautiful, covered in sweat and giving painful, yet determined shouts as you get closer and closer to the end.

Another contraction. Another scream from your throat as you push in response. Another voice of direction from the doctor. The cycle repeats.

For what feels like forever.

It hurts. So much. You feel something wet fall down your face from your eyes, but then you feel a gentle, gloved hand wipe it away. You relish the touch, clinging to the comfort it gives you.

After an eternity, you hear a high pitched cry ring through the room. You hear Dice gasp softly beside you, and the clinic staff “aww”ing sweetly. The doctor smiles and congratulates you both.

“It’s a boy!”

A son. You have a son. A beautiful baby boy.

But… you still feel that horrible pressure against your pelvis. Dice notices your pain, and brings it to attention. He’s worried to bits as the doctor re-examines you.

“...Because you aren’t done yet.”

Wait… What?!

Before you can ask what the hell he meant, you’re prompted to push again. And the cycle continues.

What. The. HELL.

Why are you going through this again?! You thought it was over! You already had your baby, and now all you wanted to do was hold it! Was that so much to ask for?

What were you even pushing if you already gave birth? And why does it hurt just as much? Is there a second?!

…Another cry rings through the room. And it’s not your son’s.

“It’s a girl!”

Another baby. A girl. A daughter. You had twins.

It explains everything. The bigger stomach. The extra pain you had dealt with. The reason why you could barely move. There were two babies instead of one.

You’re so happy, you could cry.

You’re exhausted. Your stomach throbs. You can barely see straight. But god dammit, you need to see your babies. To hold them. You fight against your body’s drowsiness, and force your eyes open.

Oh, goodness. The sight brings you to tears.

Dice is sitting beside you. He’s grinning in adoration, softly sobbing as mascara runs down his cheeks. He doesn’t give a damn. His gaze is focused on what he’s holding in his arms…

Two tiny bundles, with tinier heads poking out. The bundle in his left, sound asleep against his bicep, mouth hanging open. The bundle in his right, gazing up at her father with matching bright green eyes, cooing in wonder and curiosity.

What a precious sight.

You sniffle and choke out a sob of your own, squeezing your husband’s hand, reaching weakly for your babies. You want to hold them. Tell them how much you love them. How you’ll protect them.

“H-here, sweetheart. You wanna hold them?”

You nod, smiling in excitement as you cry silently. Dice slowly slips the bundles into your arms. They’re so… precious. They’re perfect. The little boy, an adorable, freckled image of you. And the little girl, a die-headed, spitting image of her father.

They’re beautiful.

You both have done it. You’ve finally started a family. And you’ve been gifted not one, but two precious children to look after. How could it get any better?

Dice watches you, smiling warmly as you both continue to cry. As you kiss your children’s foreheads, he makes a silent promise to himself.

He will never let anything happen to you. To his babies. As long as he lives.

You lock eyes with him, choking out a soft, happy sob as he scoots closer to you, leaning down and kissing your cheek. You feel a couple droplets fall onto your face from his, and laugh softly as they mingle with your own.

“I’m so proud of you, doll. You’re tougher than I could ever be.”

You grin at his words, cradling your now sleeping children as you share a soft, gentle kiss with your husband.

“I love you, my King. And I can’t wait to raise these babies with you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Dice sighs softly in contentment, caressing your cheek with such delicacy and care.

“I love you too, sugar. You and our little ones will never have to worry as long as I’m around. That’s a promise.”

You don’t have to question even for a moment whether or not he’ll keep that promise. The look of pure adoration in his eyes as he watches you and his babies is all you need to see.

He’ll make an excellent father, even though he might not think so. You remember the conversations you’ve had with him, late at night, wondering if he’d be cut out for the task. Whether or not he can provide a safe environment for his children despite being the Devil’s right hand. No one will get to lay a finger on them.

If he ever worries again, you’ll remember this moment, and you’ll remind him of it. You know fully well that he won’t ever let his children get into trouble.

Well… maybe they’ll get into a little trouble. They’re King Dice’s children, after all. But, life is boring without a bit of mischief.

You and your husband lock teary eyes once more, grinning at each other as your children peacefully sleep in your arms. You lock lips, silently promising each other that you will make this work. You can handle two children at once, as long as you both have each other to lean on. And boy…

How wonderful this journey will be.

King Dice x Pregnant!Reader (SHOW)

You’ve always wanted kids. It’s just something you’ve always dreamed of: starting a family with the love of your life and watching your children grow up into fine young people for the world to be proud of.

Fortunately for you, King Dice adores the idea of having a couple munchkins running around the house. He loves to spoil you with his riches as his spouse, but there’s just something about the idea of spending thousands on your future children that gives your husband raging baby fever.

And secretly, he’d be proud to knock you up. You’d look absolutely splendid, carrying his child.

So, you start trying. Every night you can.

It’s like you both have a game plan at the ready. Dice impatiently runs through his show, while you wait for him desperately.

You ride home together, getting a head start on the prep. The drive is excruciatingly long for your tastes, but Dice makes it up to you once you finally make it inside your home.

You have tried and failed. So. Many. Times. It was starting to get emotionally draining for you. Despite Dice’s many assurances, you can’t help but feel like you’re doing something wrong. Or maybe, you just couldn't have kids.

You… really hope that isn’t the case.

Just as you’re about to give up your fantasy, Dice convinces you to try with him one last time.

“It doesn’t hurt to give it at least one more shot, sugar. And if we don’t succeed this time, we’ll stop. I promise.” He winks at you, and a part of you is slightly eager to see what he has in mind. What would be different this time?

In several days, you get your answer.

It starts out in a similar way to the rest of the times you have tried for a baby together. It’s late at night, and you two have just gotten back from Dice’s broadcast. There’s one tiny little thing to consider, however…

The difference? You’re both pent up.

It’s been days since Dice has let you touch him like this. And fuck, you both are desperate to get off. You need each other now. This better be worth it, or you swear, you’ll make him pay for waiting this long.

Your husband leads you to the bedroom, and as soon as he kicks the door closed behind him, you both are tearing your clothes off of each other. Neither of you care about the loud -RIPPP!- that you hear every time one of you gets too impatient. You know you can certainly afford a new top, and he can afford new slacks.

You both are too damn horny to even think about the clothes right now.

Hands desperately running over skin. Wet, hungry kisses pressing over mouths. Tongues wrestling for dominance as Dice shoves you onto the bed and pins you down.

You missed this. You missed him. You had wondered how waiting this long was going to help make a baby. Would there be any difference?

Oh, there would be. You can sense it as soon as Dice presses his tip against your entrance.

Good god, he’s throbbing.

He grins so maliciously at you, you can barely even recognize him. This is nothing like how he was during the previous times you both have had sex. He must be so eager to get off inside of you.

You couldn’t wait to feel it.

“You better brace yourself, pretty thing. You won’t be able to walk for the next week when I’m done with you, you understand?”

Shit, that’s hot. You shudder and nod excitedly, your hands gripping the sheets in tight fistfuls as you prepare yourself for the wildest ride of your life.

“Answer me, pip.”

“YES! Yes, my King, PLEASE! You’ve punished me enough by making me wait this long, so for god’s sakes just FUCK ME!”

“You better watch that kisser of yours, sweetness. If you’re too impatient, I may have to make you wait even longer~.” Dice hisses in warning, teeth gritted tightly as he shoves his cock between your folds.

FUCK, he’s full.

The pain of him suddenly shoving himself inside of you causes you to shout in surprise, but your voice slowly morphs into a moan as you adjust to the feeling of him hitting all the right spots.

He’s slightly stretching you, and you can feel the occasional twitch as he adjusts to your walls hugging his erection. It feels incredible.

Without a word, he starts to move. Hard. You can barely think straight as he starts shoving his dick in and out of you.

Skin slapping against skin. Your loud, desperate moans mixing with his low, concentrated growls to create a symphony of sounds. A symphony only for your ears and his. Man, how lucky you are.

You reach up and wrap your arms around him, hugging yourself tightly against him as he rams his hips into yours. Over, and over again. He’s addicting. Intoxicating. You don’t know how you’d ever survive without him.

You want to do everything with him. You want him to plant his seed into you and sprout a baby for you both to take care of. Together. As a couple. A family.

And, you would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the way it feels to be completely loaded with his cum. To be bred by him. To feel his fluids reach your womb, providing your abdomen with a comfortable, addicting warmth that no blanket can provide.

And Dice? God, he loves it.

He loves the way your jaw goes slack at the feeling of him pounding into you. He loves the way your nails dig into his flesh when you reach up and wrap your arms around him. He adores every moan, whimper, and whine you let out as he fucks you into oblivion. God, even thinking about it gets him hard.

You’re the only one he deems worthy of having his kid. He enjoys the privilege of being able to choose whoever he wants, the freedom to have such high standards. He enjoys the fact that those high standards can be met. With you.

No other broad or bastard deserves the luxury of carrying his baby. His flesh and blood. No one else… only the best for his future child. Only the best for him. You are the best. You are the only one deserving of his love. His praise. His seed.

And god, he has a lot waiting to explode inside of you, to stuff you so full it hurts. Surely, he’s got enough to successfully knock you up. After all this waiting, he better, or he might just go crazy. He needs to see you walking around with a baby bump, carrying his kid.

FUCK, the mental image of it drives him crazy.

He’s silent. He doesn’t say a word, he’s way too concentrated on his task. He just grits his teeth, hugging you so tightly against him it knocks the breath out of your chest as he desperately rams into you, chasing after his release.

It hurts. It feels amazing. God, it hurts so good. He’s squeezing you so tightly you can barely breathe. He’s crushing you. You’re almost surprised. How much does he work out?

A loud growl of pleasure greets your ears, followed by the familiar, overwhelming feeling of warmth exploding inside your pussy, trailing up to your stomach. Shit, he didn’t even warn you.

The unexpectedness of the whole thing causes you to cum as well, and you let out a high pitched cry as you throw your head back, your walls tightening around his cock as you cover it with your own seed. There’s so much it drips down your inner thighs, but you know it doesn’t hold a candle to how much Dice filled you with.

Your stomach already has a miniature bump just from how much he stuffed you. And while to you it’s a fond, almost amusing sight, to your husband? It almost makes him release a second time.

If you look like that when you’re pregnant, he might just go insane.

Both of you are almost afraid to move, clinging to each other tightly as you ride out the high. Your body heat combines with his, and the atmosphere is almost suffocating, but you don’t care. You want to be as close to him as possible. You want him to stay inside you as long as he can.

Thankfully for you, he’s not moving any time soon.

You both lay down, with Dice laying over top of you, his arms still tightly embracing you. He’s so warm, so comfortable… you don’t want him to move, even if he’s hot and sweaty.

Dice doesn’t want to move either. His cock feels so fucking good inside of you, keeping all his fluids in your womb. Every last drop. This is sure to get you knocked up, it has to.

“Al..Alright, sugar… if this doesn’t work, we’ll stop trying so much…” he pants, smirking a little as he traces your shoulder blade with his finger.

“But I’m confident that this will do the trick. I’m betting on it~”

You breathe out a soft, gentle laugh in reply, your hands resting over his back.

“I hope so, honey… I really do.”

Your last shot. This is your last shot, before you both agree to give up on trying. You are desperate for this to work, you need it to.

Fortunately, you both eventually get what you want.

Realization hits you the fifth day you’re kneeling over the toilet, losing the previous night’s dinner. It’s the fifth day in a row that you’ve been sick like this.

On top of that, you’ve been having the weirdest cravings, mood swings left and right, and you’ve even missed a couple of your husband’s show nights because you barely have any energy.

And, of course… you’ve missed your period.

Oh, shit. It worked.

Dice knocked you up.

You smile to yourself, overjoyed at your discovery. This is perfect! You and Dice have been waiting for this, and now, you both will finally get to reap the reward of having a baby. Something you both have been wanting forever.

Oh, you can’t wait to tell Dice.

But you can’t just spill the beans now, and spoil the surprise. No… this needs to be special. It’s your first child! You don’t want that announcement to be in the bathroom, where you tell him after you’ve just lost last night’s dinner.

Speaking of which…

You hear the soft patter of footsteps as the light in the bathroom switches on, and your husband is kneeling behind you, softly rubbing your back.

“You poor thing… I’m so sorry you’re not feeling well, pumpkin.” he coos quietly, leaning down and pressing gentle kisses onto the back of your shoulder. “Just let it all out, honey.”

The way he holds you, embracing you as you lean back against the wall? It’s so tempting to let him know he’s going to be a father. To make him happy, rather than concerned. But no. You need to wait. Just a little longer…

You rest your head against his chest, taking comfort in his fresh, smoky scent. His heartbeat. His warmth. His security. God, he’s everything to you.

“I’ll tell you what, doll. You stay here tonight, alright? Get some rest for me, don’t worry about the show. And tomorrow, if you’re still feeling icky, we’ll catch a cab to the clinic, alright?”

Well… you can’t wait that long.

Luckily, your brain comes up with a brilliant idea. The perfect surprise, now that your partner expects you to stay home. You smile slightly as he scoops you up, carrying you back to bed and tucking you in.

He bids you goodbye with a loving kiss to your forehead and his signature smile before heading out to get ready for the day ahead of him.

Meanwhile, you make up a plan for how you want to break the good news. Obviously, you’re gonna show up to his show, since he doesn’t expect it. Maybe bring some food? Or chocolates? Wine? No, you can’t drink alcohol now, that won’t be right.

Wait… that’s it.

You’ve got a plan.

“And that’s all for tonight, folks! Many thanks for coming out, hope you enjoyed the show. Take care~” with a blow kiss and his signature dance, Dice struts off the stage, happy to finally be over with a long night at the show.

Weekend bashes… how he hates them. Slimy little bastards wanting to touch him, making those awful grabby hands. Two contestants a night is hard enough. But four? That’s pushing it.

Once he’s out of the public eye, he sighs as his face drops, and he rubs his eyes in exhaustion as he trudges over to his dressing room. He just wants to go home to check on you, and make sure you’re alright.

And maybe, if you’re up for it, you both would have a little fun… no, no. That’s pushing it. He expects you to be resting, as he told you to.

What he doesn’t expect is to see you seated perfectly on his couch, a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates, and two piping hot plates of food in hand.

Well, this is a surprise.

“Oh! You came, sweetheart? I thought I told you to rest! What are you doing here?” Dice says worriedly as he approaches you, not minding the gifts you brought him. He couldn’t care less about them right now.

“I did rest, for a while… but I just couldn’t stay away. I know today was extra long for you, so I wanted to surprise you with something sweet. As a reward, for getting through the weekend bash. Now come, have some wine.”

Too enticed to argue, Dice takes a seat next to you, and accepts your offering glass. He swirls the drink in his hand slightly before taking a soft sip, smiling warmly at the sweet taste before glancing over at you as you eat, noticing that you don’t have a glass of your own.

“Here, my love. Would you like some of mine?”

There it is. You smile, smoothly shake your head, and meet his eyes.

“No thank you, honey. No wine for me for a while, as it wouldn’t be good for the baby.”

Dice nods in understanding, breaking his gaze to take another sip, when your words finally register in his mind. He freezes in place, the wine glass slipping from his shaky fingers and shattering on the floor.

He doesn’t care. He didn’t even hear it. He doesn’t feel his shoes getting wet from the spill. His thoughts are clinging to what you’ve just told him.

“Y-you… you what? You’re…”

You chuckle softly at his speechlessness, leaning over and pressing a long, loving kiss to his lips, tasting the wine leftover from his first sip.

“That’s right, baby, I’m pregnant. You’re gonna be a daddy.”

“...I’m…We’re…” Dice shakes his head, embracing you tightly. You feel his shoulders shaking slightly as he buries his face into you, something wet starting to seep into your top. Before you can ask him what’s the matter, he finally gets his words together.

“Babydoll, please tell me you aren’t joking.” he grabs your shoulders, lifting his head up to look at you, dark streaks of mascara running down his face. “You mean it? We’re gonna have a baby?”

The shaky hopefulness in his voice is what gets you. You choke out a small sob of your own, excitedly nodding as you cup his face, gently wiping away the streaks. Fresh tears replace them.

Neither of you move the rest of the time. The food you brought gets cold, and the wine on the ground will surely stain the floor, but neither of you give a damn. You’re gonna have a baby.

A wonderful child who you can teach right from wrong. Who Dice can teach how to dance, and sing. You want this more than anything, and you’re overjoyed to finally have it. You can’t wait to share sleepless nights with your husband, tending to your baby’s needs. You want to see your little toddler chase Dice playfully around the house, or even backstage during his show. Maybe one day, the child will want to be just like their father, and become a star. Or, they might want an entirely new job of their own.

Either way, you and your lover are fully prepared to support your baby in whatever direction they choose to go. And by god, you can’t wait to see the fine young person they become.

The pregnancy itself is… rather rough. You didn't expect to get such a big belly, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t upset you at least a little, especially with your mood swings. You feel fat. Lazy. Ugly. And god, it hurts.

It hurts to do anything. You’re in constant pain, and there’s very little you or Dice can do about it. But the worst thing is, how confusing that pain is. One minute, you’re so hungry you could eat a horse, but after two bites of a meal you can’t eat anymore or you won’t be able to keep it down. Your back throbs because you haven’t moved in a while, but the moment you try to, your body screams in agony.

It’s enough to bring you to tears. Constantly. Especially when you reach the point where you can’t even muster the energy to attend Dice’s shows. The radio just isn’t enough to satisfy your clinginess. And he’s gone, all day. You only see him through the show recordings, and the gifts he leaves you every day before he goes to work. It’s not enough. You don’t want gifts, or notes, or phone calls. You don’t want to cling to the radio just to hear his voice singing through the house.

You want to see him.

And you bring the topic up when you finally get the chance to see him, when he comes home and you’re awake. You lament your feelings, your pain, and your problems to him. As the conversation carries on, you end up a sobbing heap on his shoulder, clinging to him desperately, your large stomach pressed against his side. You’re hurting. Horribly.

And your pain breaks Dice’s heart. Shatters it, even. He hates seeing you cry, especially when what you’re doing is remarkable. How could you say such awful things about yourself when you’re carrying your child? His child?

His arms wrap around you and hug you tightly against him, and you cry into his shoulder as he massages your back. It takes away some of your pain, but it’s just. Not. Enough.

You both stay like that for a while, Dice allowing you to slowly calm down before he tilts your chin up, making you look him in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t been home to take care of you, sweetheart… I can’t even imagine how much pain you must be in. But it shatters me to my core to hear you say all these dreadful things about yourself. You are not ugly, or fat, or lazy. You’re pregnant. And that is a beautiful thing, doll. You should be proud of that, not ashamed of it.”

You sniffle and blink at his words, looking down in thought. He… wasn’t ashamed of you? Well, that’s comforting, but it doesn’t fix your problem… you miss him. You can’t keep going on like this, not seeing him face to face. You wish you could be there with him, so you don’t have to keep clinging to the radio.

Fortunately, Dice has a solution for that as well.

“Sweetheart… Come with me tomorrow.”

Wait, what? But that would kill your poor feet, doing all of that walking just to return home at the end of the day. Would you even be able to make it–

“We’ll live at the theater.”

…What?

“I’ll come back home to get whatever you need, or want. Whenever you need it. But from now until your delivery, we’ll live in the theater. My dressing room is large enough. That way, you’ll be able to rest up, and you’ll see me much more than you have been. And, I can still fulfill my duties while keeping a close eye on you. How does that sound?”

Well, it sounds rough. Messy. It sounds like it’ll be a hard adjustment. It sounds…

It sounds perfect.

You want this. You want to live in that theater with him, sleeping on his large couch while he naps in his chair beside you. You want to watch him get dolled up every evening. You want to watch him from backstage, sitting in a chair so your back doesn’t give out. Oh, it sounds wonderful.

“Please, my King. Let’s do it. Let’s live at the theater.”

It’s settled then. The next day, Dice walks into his show building with you curled up in his arms, bags hanging on his shoulders. He sets you up comfortably on the couch, and that’s your new life from then on.

It’s perfect. Being able to laugh with him as he complains about makeup, and bosses around his faithful cards. Letting him hug you from behind and rub your large baby bump, enjoying how many times the baby kicks against his hands.

You watch him perform from backstage, hugging the curtain to keep you steady. You cling to every wink he sneaks your way as his contestants make their way through his little game. It’s a splendid little routine you both have made for one another. And god, does it make your pregnancy so much easier to handle. Now, you have him. Face to face. You have his voice, his looks, his touches, and all the kisses you could ever want.

And finally…

It happens. To the unluckiness of you and your husband, right in the middle of his show. With his first contestant. Shit.

You don’t want to ruin things for him, especially when he’s on a hot streak, and his boss is so very happy. You don’t want that taken away from him. So, you wait. You keep it hidden from him as long as possible, sending him strained smiles of encouragement as your stomach contracts.

Your fist clutches the curtains as contraction after contraction hits you, each one becoming closer and closer together. No. No. Not now. Please. Just a little longer…

“We’ll be right back~” You watch your husband wink and point towards his audience, his suave voice prompting excited cheers from his fans as he struts off stage. He turns to you with a smile, but once he sees your condition, he’s immediately all over you.

“Doll, what’s the matter? You look like you’re about to pop! Please, sit down.”

He snaps his fingers, and one of his cards quickly brings over a chair for you, another one following with a glass of water.

You take a sip as you sit, trying to brush it off, when another HORRIBLE stabbing pain spasms through your stomach. Except this time…

Something clear and wet leaks down your thighs, spilling onto the floor beneath you.

Fuck.

“Shit, Dice, I can’t hide it anymore. The baby is coming.”

“What?! Fuck! I- Okay, alright, no need to panic. Come on doll, let’s catch a ride to the hospital.”

You nod and move with his guidance to get up, when you feel your insides start to tighten. Quickly. Oh, god, you’re much too late. You should have gotten his attention from the get go.

You won’t make it to the clinic in time.

“Dice-! It’s too late! We won’t make it, this baby is coming now!”

“What are you saying, doll? Are you really gonna give birth in the theater?!”

“YES, DICE! FOR GOD’S SAKE!” You shout, gritting your teeth as you clutch onto him. “We’re out of time! Just call the doctor!”

Dice looks at you in surprise for a moment before nodding, gesturing for one of his cards to get the doctor on the phone while he gets you back to the dressing room. Fuck the show. The audience can wait.

The only thing you can focus on is the excruciating pain you’re in, as your husband carries you onto the couch, setting you up and allowing you to squeeze his hand. Your soaking bottoms come off, and he covers you with a couple warm blankets as he rushes to the phone.

You clutch the sheets tightly, your eyes squeezing shut as you focus on your breathing. It fucking hurts. This is easily the worst pain you’ve ever been in. You feel like your insides are about to burst. So much so, that a scream rips from your throat.

Dice is back in seconds, looming above you, smoothing your hair back and murmuring comforting praises to you. You clutch his hand, looking him dead in the eyes. You’re both out of time. The baby is coming. Now.

“Dice…”

“The doctor is on his way, sweetness. Do you think you can-”

“Dice, you need to catch this child.”

“I… What?”

“It needs to be you. The doctor won’t make it. It’s happening. Now.”

Dice looks at you in shock, staying frozen for several moments, until your shouts snap him out of his daze.

“Dice, NOW!”

He springs into action, coming around to your front, helping you spread your legs. Holy shit, is this really happening?

You scream in agony as your body lurches on its own, and you start to push. Over. And over. Yes, yes it is.

With one free hand, Dice nervously keeps you steady as you go through the process, encouraging you and allowing you to continue holding his other hand.

Then, he goes silent.

First, the head. Then, the shoulders. With one final scream and a push, you deliver your child, right into Dice’s hand. It's a boy.

To say he’s in awe is… an understatement. He doesn’t have the words. This small, beautiful baby is… it’s his.

You just had his child. He’s a father.

Another scream interrupts his thoughts, and he looks up at you, confused and slightly alarmed at your pained expression.

“Darlin’? What’s going–”

Before you both can process what’s happening, the doctor steps in, and examines the situation. It doesn’t take him long to figure out what’s going on, and he directs Dice to hand him the child in his arms.

“You’re having twins, sir. I’d assume you’d like to help your spouse with the second child as well?”

“...” Two. Two babies. You and Dice are having two babies. You both look at each other, your desperate eyes boring into his already nervous ones.

How can he say no to that look? He’s already helped you with one child, how could he say no to helping with the other?

“Alright, sugar. Are you ready?”

A scream and another push is your reply. Guess that’s a yes.

Another few rounds of pushing ensues while the doctor takes care of the first child. Dice finds it in him to keep you steady and focused, while losing his cool himself. But eventually, baby number two is crying in his arms. And this one is a girl.

A boy, and a girl. What are the odds of that?

Dice hands off the second child to the doctor with shaking hands, taking the first one back in his arms, now that he’s been wrapped comfortably with a couple baby blankets.

He looks just like you.

You lay back, sweating bullets, trying desperately to catch your breath. Your mind is fuzzy, your vision spotted. What the hell did you just…

You slowly come back to reality, and by the time you do, Dice is seated beside you, tears streaming down his cheeks as he grins down at your cooing children. Your heart throbs in want, and you find yourself reaching for them.

Dice looks down at you and smiles, planting a soft kiss to your forehead as he hands you the tiny bundles of joy. The girl, a small, white die cube headed baby decorated with striking green eyes and purple pips, coos happily towards you and squishes your face.

The little boy, with your matching eyes and purple freckles to match his father, giggles in delight.

Oh, how precious.

You and your husband share a soft, tender gaze with each other, getting lost in one another’s eyes. You find the insecurity and worry amongst the overwhelming joy in those bright greens of his, and lean up to kiss him. When you lock your lips with his, you mumble quiet reassurances into his mouth, promising that he will make an amazing father.

And you’re not just spitting bullshit to make him feel better. For god’s sake, when you were running out of time, he found it in him to step up and help you deliver your babies. Both of them.

He gave you everything you needed when you were in pain. When you needed him, he was there. The whole time. And judging by the way he’s looking at your children, you know damn well he’ll do the same for them. In a heartbeat.

You can’t wait to see what he’ll do with them. You can’t wait to watch him dance with them, singing sweet jazz melodies to them as he takes care of the housework when you’re too exhausted. To watch him blow all your savings on ridiculous clothes for them, insisting that his babies will not be seen in anything less than perfection.

You can’t wait to see him dry their tears. To see him encourage their laughter. To show them how to protect themselves from the dangerous world. To teach them how to attract a room, and get everyone to break their backs to meet their demands.

You both have a long run ahead of you, but you know that it will be the best damned thing you both will ever do.

You both will finally get to enjoy what a family can bring.

I hope you guys enjoyed these!! If you want more content with the kids involved, let me know. I'd love to make more with them if you guys are interested. But for now, I leave all the interpretations up to you. Please enjoy these, this one is so long it literally made my phone lag LMAO

#cuphead #the cuphead show #cuphead dont deal with the devil #king dice #king dice cuphead #king dice x reader #king dice headcanons #smut #fluff #pregnancy

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luveline · 2 years

Note

for your 700 celebration <3 congrats btw!

coming home from work to james cooking for you, the house clean, etc but just wanting to cuddle with him b/c he's all that matters to you

James was more than pleased with himself.

Knowing how horribly tired you'd been, he’d left work early to clean the whole house top to bottom. It had been something you'd both neglected this week, busy with work and friends and life and honestly it didn't matter so much if the place was tidy because it was your home, and what did he care if it looked lived in?

Still, the mess had slowly been dragging the both of you down, you more than him, so he'd tidied, sweeped and hoovered and mopped all the floors, painstakingly folded and put away all of your clean clothes and collected all the sullied clothes to wash, then changed the sheets on your bed so that tonight you'd be able to stretch out under clean sheets and breathe in the smell of fresh linen.

Afterwards, he'd turned his efforts to making something that wasn't frozen or takeaway. This was the trickier part - he was no chef. Cooking should've been part of Hogwarts' curriculum, James reckoned, because he knew nobody who'd completed their schooling there who could also feed themselves, too used to the spoils of the Great Hall.

You drifted in like a vision - he loved everything about you, even run down and exhausted, looking like a dream. You put your bag and coat down on the table, which had previously been flooded by letters and bills and bric-a-brac, seeming not to notice your home's sudden cleanliness, to walk straight into his arms.

He was at first a little put out, having been more than excited to see the look on your face at the sparkling counter tops, the oven looking as new as the day you'd bought it, when you tightened your arms around him, face buried in his chest. He finally remembered to wrap his arms around you in turn, pushing his nose into the soft strands of hair at the top of your head.

"Jamie," you sighed, his heart softening at the nickname. "I missed you."

"You saw me this morning," he said quietly, amused, afraid to disrupt the shelter you'd taken in his embrace.

"I missed you all the same," you said firmly. He felt your frame relax in his hold.

James smiled. It didn't matter how clean the house was, how it was in disarray half the time and a war zone the rest, when home was right here with you in his arms.

#jade's asks #request #drabble #james potter x reader

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wrenqueenisboss · 3 years

Text

DSMP x f!reader headcanons (seeing you in a ball gown for the first time)

Them reacting to you dramatically walking down the stairs in your beautiful ballgown. Warnings: none (I don’t think)

Note: you guys aren’t yet dating in this headcanon (except for bench trio. That is strictly platonic)

Dream:

When you walked down the stairs in your extravagant ballgown, the breath left Dream’s lungs, leaving him speechless

He met you at the bottom of the stairs and held his arm out like a gentleman

He didn’t even bother to try to hide the blush on his face, he knew it would be useless he didn’t care if people saw him blushing

“Y/n, my dear,” he said, looking you up and down. He whistled sharply, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “You look stunning.”

You giggled. “Thank you. You look quite dashing yourself.”

He’d parade you around, showing you off

Compliments you the entire night (each compliment gets more flirty as the night draws on. You’re bright red by the end of the night)

he would not be able to take his eyes off you. You looked so beautiful in your gown, face illuminated by the warm lighting as you danced, a joyful smile on your face

Dream would sweep you off to the the dance floor where you’d waltz the night away, staring into each other’s eyes with unadulterated love

George:

George almost choked on his drink when he saw you enter the ballroom looking like an goddess on earth

blushing like a tomato, he would approach you shyly and ask you for a dance

“Lady Y/n? Would you care to share a dance.”

He smiles like a thousand suns when you say yes without hesitation, gently leading you in a waltz.

He might stumble a couple times because he was so distracted by your beauty, but you two laugh it off. he may or may not stumble a couple times just so he can hear your laugh again

One time, you caught him staring

After you two had fulfilled your duties by being at the ball for as long as was required, he’d want to take you outside

Under the stars, you two would just talk.

Until you got tired. When you fell asleep on his lap, he tensed up for a moment before relaxing and gently stroking your hair.

Sapnap:

Sapnap was chatting with Dream and George (they attended the ball as a couple) when George pointed out that you had arrived

He looked to where you were and legit couldn’t stop himself from smiling ear-to-ear

“She looks... amazing,” he mumbled.

George laughed, which made Dream smile. Dream kissed his fiancé’s head before addressing Sapnap.

“Go tell her that, idiot.”

So Sapnap walked over to you and straight-up said, “You look beautiful, Y/n”

blushing at the compliment, you asked him to dance (he happily accepted the offer)

Literally the entire time, he would not stop flirting with you or telling you how beautiful you looked (as he should)

Dream and George were so happy that their ship was sailing, btw

Karl:

Karl was just rambling on and on about how excited he was to dance with you (everyone agreed it was adorable)

He was smiling so freakin’ wide when he saw you. Everyone swears it lit up the whole room

He sorta tripped over his own feet with nervousness on his way to greet you at the bottom of the stairs

“Wow, Y/n.... You look really good!” He mentally slapped himself for giving such a “bad” compliment

You returned his sunny smile before complimenting him back, which made both of you blush

You guys most likely didn’t waltz for very long, instead, Karl would take you outside and put on some of his own music for you guys to jam to in fancy clothes

Quackity:

Quackity was joking around and talking with a group of people when he heard your name whispered next to him

he followed everyone’s gazes to see you, walking down the stairs in the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen. No, you looked beautiful. The dress just highlighted that.

When he got over to you, he bowed dramatically, causing you to giggle.

“Would you care to dance, my lady?” he asked, extending his hand

you gladly took it and got swept to the dance floor

I feel like waltzing with Quackity would be surprisingly fun (idk why)

the entire time, you guys would be causing a little bit of trouble by subtly knocking into other pairs as you waltzed

by the end of the night, your stomachs hurt from laughing so much and trying to stop yourselves from laughing

Wilbur:

Wilbur was talking with the rest of the SBI members when you and your gown caught his movement

He almost dropped his glass on the floor (techno casually caught it before it could shatter)

He didn’t even realize that his feet were walking him over to greet you

like the gentleman that he is, Wilbur led you down the rest of the stairs, guiding you to the ballroom floor

He placed his hands on your waist and you rested yours on his shoulders

“I presume this means we’re dancing?” he says with a cheeky smile

You giggle and nod as he starts the waltz, moving smoothly with the music

all of the SBI are really happy that Wilbur has found someone like you

Philza is smiling, Tommy is (jokingly) calling you guys disgusting, and Techno is just nodding with smug approval as you rest your head on Wilbur’s chest.

Bench Trio (platonic):

You and the bench trio (y’all are called the bench crew) decided to attend the ball together as friends

well, Tubbo platonically asked out Ranboo. Which left Tommy to platonically ask you out (you said yes, ofc)

When they saw you walk down the stairs, they cheered.

I swear, these kids were so obnoxious. Like, the whole ballroom could hear them cheering and clapping for their friend walking down the stairs

everyone thought it was adorable, tho

Tommy gave you a high five when you reached the bottom

after getting some food and refreshments, you guys joined everyone else on the dance floor

Tommy, to make things more “interesting”, played his disks instead of the waltz music

Dream, who was organizing the function in this headcanon, was NOT happy

You guys were dying of laughter at watching Dream’s facial expressions when the music changed to Tommy’s upbeat songs

it was the best night of your guys’ lives

Technoblade: (might make this into an actual fic if it’s requested)

it was during one of your sexual tension-filled training sessions when Techno asked you if you wanted to go with him

After a moment of shock (which he used to defeat you) you accepted

“You’re lucky I said ‘yes’, Tech. Normally I don’t accept the invitations to dance from people who beat me up everyday.”

“Give yourself some credit, Y/n. You’re really good. But yes, I am lucky.”

You felt so freakin’ powerful as you confidently walked down the huge flight of stairs in your gorgeous gown.

Techno was speechless. Even the voices were quiet (before they whispered about how stunning you were) he tried to erase the shocked expression from his face before hie reached you

You smiled as he held out his hand to you

“M’lady.” His voice was comforting even as it elicited butterflies in your stomach.

Technoblade’s heart jumped when you held his hand.

you looked so angelic in this light. Even though you had a reputation similar to his, you had such a wonderful personality that drew him in

Because of both of your guys’ agility that was developed and honed through your years of combat, you danced so gracefully

It was as if you were the breeze moving through the room

Everyone turned their heads to look at you two

When the music became more fast paced, you switched to a different style of dance, trading moves and moving as fluidly as rivers

This was the moment that Techno realized he was in love with you

Before the night ended, he complimented your outfit and told you how beautiful you looked

at one point, it got cold so Tech gave you his dark maroon suit jacket (imagine techno in a dark dark red suit! asdkfhaskdjfh)

He let you walk home with it as long as you returned it to him at training the next day

Needless to say, the SBI family was teasing Techno for the next couple weeks

he didn’t mind, tho

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vidalinav · 3 years

Text

Snippet (3)

Cassian stood in front of her apartment door, practically breathing on the surface. He was already tired, and he’d only walked up the stairs. Perhaps he was out of shape, but no... it was that the mere idea of this that made his body ache and his stomach turn uncomfortably.

He might have laid his forehead there, on the wood, if he was sure, it would not make a sound. Cassian did not want to make a sound. He wanted to be invisible, to float through the walls, to be in her presence without having to beg for it... but in truth, he would have settled for Nesta knowing he was already there. To her opening the door to her apartment as if he was welcome. Even if he was not.

He took a breath, eased himself out of his thoughts, before lifting his fist where it lied on the green peeling paint.

Just knock.

Cassian lowered his hand.

No, he couldn’t do this. Couldn’t make himself reveal what he already knew—that she would not open the door and even if she did, she would not be happy to see him. She’d slam the door on his face, and he’d run away with that confirmation and with a new bruise and a terrible ache in his chest.

Cassian walked away. He had to walk away, or he’d never recover...

He began walking down to the bottom of those five flights of stairs. A whole other world beyond them. One that didn’t seem to include her, or... recognize her or... want her to be a part of it. She didn’t want to be a part of it and Cassian ached at that too.

But a thought entered his mind...

What if she did want to be included? What if she wanted to experience it all and didn’t have the opportunity, the hand out held out for her, because she was too scared, and by the time she got the nerve, she’d be left behind? The world--this world--was safe. He would make sure she was safe, and she’d be able to explore and experience it all. What he felt, what he saw, what he breathed. She didn’t have to be scared.

Cassian didn’t have to be frightened.

And maybe...

Nesta could sense him there. Was perhaps waiting for him to knock, because she’d wanted this as much as him. Because she’d cared for him. He knew she did... or just because she wanted the company. He’d take that too. Anything she gave him.

The thought made him want to run back up there. Try once more. So, he did, his feet pounding on the steps until he stood in front of green. A color that made him nauseous. He tried to breath, to imagine fresh air and the wind on his face.

His hand was poised to knock...

Just knock.

But, no...

He should have brought food.

The last time Cassian had seen her, she was thin. Nesta had always been on the small side, but she’d been smaller and thinner lately. She could use some muffins... or... or... What was her favorite food?

Cassian didn’t know, but he’d ask Feyre or Elain, and come back with food and... tea. She liked tea; he knew. She’d always gotten peppermint at the townhouse. Always drank it when she was at the House of Wind.

Tea and food, he could do that. It was early now anyway, Nesta could be asleep for all he knew. She did always have late nights. He’d get food and tea, and when he came back Nesta would surely be awake.

Cassian lowered his hand. A mission on his mind as his feet pounded along the stairs with the smell of baked bread in his nose, the feel of hot tea on his palms...

Cassian paused, halting near the last step.

But what if he lost his nerve? What if she wasn’t even there when he came back? She could have something to do during the day, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything about her. He didn’t even know what she liked to eat!

No, Cassian decided, he had to do it now.

So, he ran up the stairs once more. The clinking of metal and concrete and the sound of his steps filling his ears. He’d knock. He wouldn’t lose his nerve.

He was almost at the last step, and then he'd knock. He’d knock this time.

“Would you stop that racket?” A fae yelled from beneath the stairs. Cassian peered over the railing. A stout male carried a broom stick like brandishing a sword, and the male hunkered back at the sight of him.

Cassian couldn’t help the way he stepped along each foot as if the nervous movement might somehow make him seem smaller. He never liked being so tall... And the height of the stairs didn’t make him seem less intimidating. On a battlefield and in the bedroom, his physique had come in handy—advantageous even. To trapezing through the city and to Nesta’s tiny apartment building, his size had made him no friends.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

Cassian chose to ignore those words, didn’t let them hit him like a door to the face. Because he had been there, hadn’t he? Too many times. Too many pep-talks that went unrecognized for he could never find the nerve to knock—to be what she needed.

The fae male lowered the broom, sweeping casually, moving back and forth as if the interaction—Cassian being there—wasn't odd at all... or perhaps was too odd, and he couldn’t fathom not doing anything while the minutes passed by.

The male started to whistle. A tune that reminded Cassian of old days, though he couldn’t remember which. There’d been so many, too many that Cassian wanted to forget. The melody drifted past his ears until he could only hear shouts... screams... war tunes... and drums. There’d been too many who whistled that tune until they could whistle no more. Cassian couldn’t remember them all.

He could only think of one--who’s voice had quieted so much that he would have taken any shout, any cruel word to hear her again. To see her awake, alive, and fighting. Because she had stopped fighting, hadn’t she?

He watched as the male paused, looked at him, and began the sweet tune once more.

Cassian turned back to the door, raising his fist to the wood.

Just one knock.

“She’s not here, you know.”

Cassian knew that was a lie.

He felt her there. A string pulled taut and tight to where she lied in that room of hers. He wanted to grasp it, tug on it and see if she’d answer... Cassian couldn’t bring himself to wonder what he would have done if she’d ignored it, if she tore it apart like the rest of her.

And it was that thought that made him lower his fist...

He’d try again another day.

Same fic as yesterdays. Post ACOFAS, Pre-ACOSF. One day it will be done and titled. I love nervous wreck Cassian btw. Maybe I’ll keep him this way.

I have a list of people who are tagged, but do y’all want to be tagged on snippets??? I never know. I’m only tagging these people for now.

@arinbelle, @thewhelk, @ladynestaarcheron, @regolithheart

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #vidalinav

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interstellarre · 3 years

Text

Delve In The Depths. Chapter II.

Word Count. 1.5k

a/n. Just a quick btw, Meno gave Xiao the nickname "Emerald duck" because emerald ducks have greenish teal stripes on their heads and Xiao has teal undertones in his hair.

Trigger Warnings. Mentions of death and violence

Series Masterlist

Chapter II.

Again and again these waves crash over Xiao's subconscious. Riptides of lost human dreams, the tsunamis of guilt, and the eons of pain build each other up, growing larger as they drown him in endless suffering. Waves of black vapor cloud his person. He clutches his mask

He can hear their screams now as he writhes on the top floor of Wangshu Inn in agony, barely supporting the weight of his body with his arms leaning on the balcony rails.

"Xiao, Xiao!" he turns his head to see Verr Goldet franticly searching for him.

"There's someone downstairs, the-they, Verr Goldet stutters on her words, waving her arms around unlike her usual composed self.

Xiao doesn't wait for to finish, he grabs his pole arm by reflex prepared to strike the threat down.

Instead he's met with a person grappling with pain on the floor.

"Why slime condensate exactly?"

"Hm?" Xiangling gives you a genuinely confused look despite it not exactly being the social norm to add slime liquids to a meal. She was climbing up a sandbearer tree. The striped squirrels on the ground scatter upon her arrival.

"What gave you the idea to add slime into your dishes?" you clarify, trying not to come off as rude. Tossing the wicker basket between your hands as a form of entertainment while your culinary friend ducked her head underneath a branch.

The trees ruffle and flocks of crimson flinches and golden flinches fly off to the sky as Xiangling forages around in the tree branches for bird eggs.

"What gave you the idea that not everything is edible?" she playfully teases, now placing bird eggs by sets of two in the basket she previously gave you in Wanmin Restaurant.

You giggle, covering your hands with your mouth. She motions for you to put the basket down and come over while she grabs you by the shoulders ("Don't you dare-") and hops down. Unfortunately, you aren't heavy enough to support her body weight when she jumps down with her full force.

"Ugh!" you groan as you both tumble down to the floor. You raise a hand to your head and cover your forehead. "Was that really necessary?" you sigh, already far too used to her antics. She snickers.

As you regain your footing, you ask, "How far along are we exactly? My mother will have an aneurysm if we step foot in Moon City.*" Xiangling had already run off, and with the basket no doubt.

You look to your right and find her by the lake counting hydro slimes behind a crack between a few slabs of stone. You crouch down besides her. Her charcoal hair brushes against your mulberry silk skirt.

"1,2,3,4." Yes! this is definitely enough for my new dish!" she pumps her fist in the air.

You don't remember there being a lake to the far right in the places your mother told you to stick to.

"Let me guess," you strike a thinking pose, you want me to set up a new shop here for your new culinary competition?" you sarcastically muse.

She rolls her eyes. "No, silly I-," she stops at your amused expression. "Ah- well go on than."

You reach your arm to summon your now unsheathed dagger attached to the leather belt on your waist, ignoring the long bow and arrows attached on your back and rather choosing a melee weapon,

Standing up from your hiding spot, the group hydro slime flock, well bounce towards you.

The air turns frosty and Xiangling's teeth chatter while she rubs her arms in hopes of warming up. "Don't turn me into a chef popsicle before I get the slime condensate [Name]!"

As you kneel down to slam the stiletto dagger into sand, sharp edged flower patterns appear on the ground. The slimes teeter back at the sound chill between their mass before large icicles spring up, piercing their bodies and turning them into goo.

"Woo!" Xiangling jumps above the rock pile and excitedly cheers. Pumping her arms up. "That's my girl!"

"It was nothing really. What was it you needed next again? Of course after you've collected the slime condensate of course." you stop talking as Xiangling sweeps the slightly frozen slime fluids off the crystals you've created into a glass bottle.

"Well talking about other ingredients, I actually wanted to try something." she mentions with a certain twinkle in her eyes.

"You have my attention." You wave your hand at her to go on.

"You know that cooking competition? The one I had in the Mondstadt with the chef named Brooke?"

"I don't recall you telling me that, can you specify?" racking your brain for memories of Xiangling's rantings about food. You suddenly feel drops of sweat on your back despite not being lukewarm at the very best. It must just be from the excitement from fighting the slimes, you think pushing away your other thoughts on the matter.

"Well anyways, we found this extinct species of boar with the help of the traveler, I believe they're called the honorary knight now?" she taps her chin. "That's besides the point but, anyways, it made me think of the different varieties of possible meat options I could use with different monsters. Can you go with me north of Jueyun Karst with me to find a Stonehide Lawachurl?" She claps her hands together into a begging motion. "Please, Please?"

"Mhm, I'm not sure how fast we can make it there? You didn't hear my question before when I was asking where we were before. I'm planning on packing my bags early when I go home overmorrow." you say counting the possible time it would take you to pack all your belongings. Black spots appear in your vision. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"Hmm, I'd say if we're lucky, a few hours? It's lucky that it's still the early morning huh?" Xiangling turned her attention to you from the mushrooms she was picking underneath the trees.

"[Name]?"

She looks over to see you on your knees, black substance withering out of your body. Sweat drips down your forehead.

She frantically shakes you, but your vision has gone black.

"[Name]!"

The blood on Bosacius' arm dripped to the ground creating a thin string trailing only to be diluted by the pouring rain water behind Bosacius and a certain teal haired adeptus. Bosacius gripped his injured arm with his other.

"You need to treat that wound," Xiao said, glaring at his fellow adeptus' wound. He could see the majority of Bosacius bone creeping out of his flesh. A familiar sight.

"Rest assured, I've been in worse state. I just never expect it to hurt as much as it always does," grimaced Bosacius through his smiling expression. The water soaked through his garments and drenched his hair.

"You sound like one of those mortals, trying to fight through their deathly injuries only not to see the next day," replied Xiao looking forward to their destination of Jueyun Karst. He could see the towering peaks getting larger and larger as they move on despite the misty atmosphere.

"We're all too mortal for our liking these days." said Bosacius, his expression unreadable.

The sound of steps softly crushing the blades of grass underneath them and thunder rumbling filled the air while their owners remained silent.

"Have you told Rex Lapis about the constant pain you've been experiencing?" said Xiao, breaking the silence.

Bosacius bit his bottom lip while his working hands, well, what was left of them tensed up. "No, I didn't see the need to bother him. I'm sure he has other pressing matters to attend to now, especially with the incline in aggression from monsters around Liyue Harbor recently. It's strange," The older man looked up to the sky, while Xiao had a distracted look on his face from thinking about the increased monster attacks. "I have yet to figure out the cause behind it."

"I believe Cloud Retainer and Mountain Shaper are free this evening, I'll ask them for their input on the situation later."

They had arrived at Jueyun Karst, the floating island in the middle of the adepti abode was lit up, symbolizing the availability of Cloud Retainer.

"I'd imagine we don't have the need to place an offering in the middle of the lake huh?" Bosacius winks at Xiao. Xiao looks down at the lake, full of ripple currently from the cloudburst. The empty bowl in the middle overflowed with liquid.

Bosacius gave a forced smile at his correct prediction of their fellow adepti's availability. "Well, I suppose it's best for me to head off and find Indarias to heal my wounds."

"That would be for the best." confirmed Xiao

"Thank you for accompanying me for this trip."

Xiao turned his back and Bosacius was gone

"Hey! Emerald duck!"

Xiao swore he heard the inter layers of hell again as he pinched the bridge of his nose

"Oh archons," he cursed under his breath. Menogias tumbled towards him, no grace or posture in her current childlike state.

*Moon City refers to Mondstadt as Mondstadt translates to Moon City in German.

a/n. Incase anyone was wondering the reader's constellation is "The Maiden" or "Virgo". I'm planning on making a character sheet for the reader soon, so watch out for that!

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin xiao #genshin Zhongli #genshin x reader #xiao x reader #childe x reader #la signora #delve into the depths

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animeandhorses12 · 4 years

Text

Naruto x reader smut

~It is all in the title~

(Y/n) pov

So here I am cleaning Narutos apartment because I lost a stupid bet.

Flashback

"OI, (Y/N) - CHAN" Naruto called out to you.

"What now" (h/c) girl said annoyed.

"Since I am back from training with prevy sage and you promised me we would go on a date once I got back" Naruto said happily.

"I never promised a date I said I would buy you ramen, you idiot" (y/n) said annoyed.

"How about we can have a competition,

Who can eat the most ramen and the loser has to be their slave for a day". Naruto said excitedly.

I sighed "Fine I will do it".

(Btw you ate 5 bowls of ramen and naruto ate 7 bowls)

End of flashback

I sighed, as I sweeped the floor.

I was in deep thought until I felt arms wrapped around me and a chest pressed against my back. I teansed up. I turned my head abit to see but it was Naruto. I blushed alittle and continued to sweep while naruto clinged on my back. After a few moments.

"I'm hungry, (Y/n)-chan" Naruto whispered my ear.I blushed but thankfully Naruto didn't notice. I sighed.

"Alright".

~Time skip~

Now I am washing the dishes after Naruto and I ate. I felt the same arms around my waist. Since my hair was in a ponytail. Naruto had full access to my neck, so he started kissing my neck.

"Come on naruto we aren't like that" You tried to say without moaning.

" So... I like you, no love you to much to resist" As he started kiss my neck once again.

I blushed red as He found my sweet spot.

Naruto turned me around to face him, once he did, he started kissing my lips. We kissed for a minute. Naruto bit my bottom lip which made me gasp. Then Naruto darted his tongue in my mouth and I moaned as his tongue explored my mouth.

We broke apart after awhile to breathe. Naruto tugged at the bottom of your shirt, so you lifted your arms up as naruto took off your shirt.

"You know to think about it I am on my Mating season" Naruto whispered huskily in my ear. Naruto hands snaked behind me and unclipped my bra which cause my bra to fall to the floor. I blushed a deep red and used my arms to cover myself. Naruto pulled my arms away my chest and started pulling me to the bedroom. He layed me down on the bed and hovered over me. Naruto started stripped me until I was in my panties, in front of him. His bulge in his pants grew bigger. I flipped him over so I straddle his waist and connected our lips once again. I took off Naruto's jacket and shirt. I started to kiss down to his neck and started find his sweet spot. Once I found it, he moaned. Once I left a bruise on his neck. I started kissing down to his waist line once I got there I pulled down his pants and boxers and saw his member point up. I blushed darker then red when I saw how tall it was.

Naruto noticed I was staring.

"Is there something wrong?"

I nodded no quickly

And started pumping his shaft. Then I started sucking on tip before taking all in my mouth. I started bobbing my head along his shaft. Naruto moaned under me which turned me on even more. Once he came in my mouth. Naruto flipped me over so I was on my back. He put his manhood at my entrance and started to push slowly into me. I gritted my teeth because it hurt a lot since it was my first time. Once Naruto pushed it all in he waited until I was ready for him to move. After a few moments. I nodded my head and He started to pump in to me slowly. Naruto and I moaned loudly as He started to move,

"(Y-n)-chan p-please mo-a-an my name again".

I moaned Narutos Name loudly as He went faster.

"Nar-uto I am abo-ut to-"

"I know me to-o"

We both moaned loudly as we came.

Naruto fell to the side as we both were out of breath. I cuddled against naruto side as naruto pulled the blankets up over our naked bodies.

"I love you naruto"

"I love you too"

We both quickly fell asleep afterwards..

#naruto x reader smut #naruto x reader imagine #naruto #naruto x reader #shounen

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cutaepatootie · 4 years

Text

Holidays of Bread and Wood

Pairing: Jungkook | Reader Genre: fantasy au | angst | fluff (the fluffiest thing I’ve probably ever written) | a bit of enemies to friends to lovers au bc I’m a sucker for it Word Count: 10k

A/N: fashionably late, as always... Ugh! So, here it is, finally, my gift for my lovely secret santa @softjeon !! I hope you like it as much as I liked speaking to you through my anon messages. I also hope we keep in contact and get to know each other properly after all this! Jungkook reminds me of soft, fluffy bread, and that’s why this idea came to my mind. I loved participating in this secret santa project, I think it was so cute! Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to participate @btswriterscollective , the project was lovely. Now, for my lovely readers who I have abandoned a bit lately :( I hope you enjoy this too, it’s written from the bottom of my heart. Lots of love to everyone and hope you all have a New Year full of happines and health! HAPPY NEW YEAR BTW! I WISH YOU ALL A 2020 FULL OF HAPPINESS AND HEALTH ✨ ✨ ✨

Every December now smells like freshly baked bread and wood to you.

Its cold wind brings you memories of him every morning as you are kneading your mixture of water, flour and a pinch of nutmeg – the secret ingredient that makes your bread taste so special. It seeps through the open window of your small kitchen and shakes your entire body. It seeps under your flour-stained apron, getting through your clothes and reminding you of his soft touch. It sounds like forest and shines like snow under the sunlight. It fills your nostrils with familiar scents.

Every December now feels like distant memories of a man you once knew, who loved to carve his dreams in wood.

* * *

Every start is difficult.

A new place, a new home, new people to call neighbors, new routines, new experiences, new fears… But you are used to it by now.

Starting from zero is something familiar to you, it is part of you.

Your father was the son of a prestigious cook from the capital. Because of that, he always knew about flavors and scents. And because of that, he fell in love with your mother as soon as he tasted her bread. She was a woman who had grown in a small farm in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by golden wheat and dreams she couldn’t reach: opening a bakery in the capital. Bread was her everyday routine, her passion and her dreams, and that was the reason why her father put all his savings inside a sack and sent her to the capital to follow her dreams. Your parents met each other when they thought they had all their lives planned, putting each other’s worlds upside down. They decided the capital was too small for them, so they travelled the whole wide country instead. And, when they were old enough to feel as if they had achieved every goal they had in life, you appeared.

In the shape of a girl with big, dreamy eyes, with the strong determination of your father and the skilled hands of your mother.

As far as you can remember, you have always followed your parents all across the country. Every three years, you would all settle in a new town, filling it with the happiness that your parent’s goods brought them. Then, when those three years passed, you would say goodbye, pack your things, and find a new place to discover and call it home – or, at least for another three years. And, when your parents died, you kept doing just that, because it was all you knew.

Still, every start is difficult for you.

Leaving the place you called home for the last three years is difficult. Saying goodbye to the people you called neighbors and friends, is difficult. Breaking your routines is difficult. Leaving your experiences and fears behind is difficult.

And yet, you can’t live without all that because it still is everything you know.

You sigh as you place a jar full of flour on top of one of the cabinets. It is the last one, which means you’re fully settled in this new town now.

Whipping away the sweat that has gathered on your forehead with the back of your hand, you sit down and admire the place you will call home for the next three years.

The shop is smaller than the last one you had, but it is cozy and warm. You close your eyes and imagine it already filled with people, and bread, the scent it will have, the noise, the atmosphere. You can’t wait to hear the usual banter between the neighbors as they wait for the first row of bread to come out of the wood-fire oven. You can’t wait to see the smiles on children’s faces as you gift them a small bread each time they come to the shop after playing in the park.

It is all new, and it feels scary, but you’ve never been more excited. As if you hadn’t been doing the same thing for the past 30 years of your life.

The first two days are peaceful. Some neighbors visit the bakery, curious about the goods you sell. The day after, those same neighbors show up at the shop again, this time, accompanied by more people. They tell you they have never tasted a bread like yours.

After he first three weeks, you already have some regular customers. They all greet you by your name, waving their hands in the air as they exit your bakery with one of your baguettes under the arm.

Kids visit your shop too, under a long day of playing in the center of town. They show up with a red nose and cold cheeks, mouth hidden behind their thick scarfs.

“Hello Marcela,” you smile at a girl with golden locks. “What would you like to have today?”

You know Marcela’s favorite, your cinnamon bread rolls, but you ask her anyways.

“I’ll have a cinnamon bread roll,” she smiles, showing you that her front teeth are gone.

“Will you be able to eat them without all those teeth?”

She laughs. “I can chew well with my other teeth. Yesterday, I ate some nuts and nothing happened.”

You smile. “I can give you a glass of warm milk if you want. I know you can chew like a grown lady, but if you soak the cinnamon bread roll in milk, it will taste even more delicious and it won’t be so tedious chewing it.”

“Warm milk?” Marcela says, eyes lighting up.

“Yeah.”

The rest of the kids, Marcela’s friends, think your idea is wonderful, because they all order the same afterwards.

You can’t help but smile as you watch the kids sitting at your kitchen counter, eating his cinnamon bread rolls happily while a white moustache of milk adorns their faces.

Maybe that’s why you love your job after all, despite all the moving and goodbyes, because you’re able to put a smile on people’s faces with just some bread and some milk.

. . .

“Well, now I think everyone in this town has tried my bread,” you say on your fourth week at that small town. An entire month has passed since you first opened your bakery.

You keep sweeping the floor as you hear Lucrecia munch her brown sugar biscuits.

“Hmm,” she mumbles. “Not everyone.”

“Not everyone?” you ask yourself, halting to a stop and resting the broom against the wall next to you, “What do you mean? Yesterday, the Mayor and her husband came to have breakfast. She was the only person in this town who hadn’t tried my bread yet!”

“Well, unless you went to the mountains and found a man dressed in black and gave him your bread, not everyone in this town has tasted your bread,” Lucrecia shrugs.

You raise your brows. You thought you had given your bread to everyone in town for them to taste it, but maybe you were wrong and there was another neighbor who you had left forgotten. Now you feel terrible for the poor man.

“A man dressed in black in the mountains?” you ask.

“Yep,” Lucrecia nods after finishing her last brown sugar biscuit. “There is a man who has been living alone in the mountains for some years now but only a few people have seen him. I guess he prefers to be left alone, because every time someone went there and tried to be nice to him, he basically invited them to run away from his mountains. Everyone in here is scared of him.”

“Oh,” you mumble. “He never visits the town?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Never, in the ten years he has been living in the mountains, has he visited the town. There are rumors that he’s a murderer running away from justice, others say he’s a wizard. Most of us think he’s just a bitter man who regret many things he did and now just wants to die alone.”

“He’s old?”

“I guess,” Lucrecia shrugs again. “No one has seen him well.”

“Hmm…” you mumbled, eyes lost in the street outside your shop. You have the habit to give every neighbor of the town you settle in a taste of your bread. Leaving that man behind would be breaking your habits.

The next morning, you find yourself packing your things to go visit that mysterious neighbor. Traditions are traditions, and what would you be without them? Your parents started them, and you are determined to follow them until the end of your days.

You woke up early to bake a round of nut bread. It is one of your favorite breads, so maybe the man will like it.

You put the pieces of the nut bread inside a cloth and tie it making a small bow. You keep it inside your basket and walk outside your shop. The sun is starting to rise and you can hear the roosters in the distance starting to wake up. Soon, the entire town will be awake and filled with people.

So, before anyone can see you, you lock the shop behind you, pick your horse from the stables and your small carriage, set everything ready for the journey, and walk away from the town.

The woods that surround the town are beautiful, even more covered in snow. Wind blows all around you, making whistling noises as it scurries in between the trees. It reminds you of how much you love your journeys, the solitude and quietness of it all.

You don’t know where you’re going, you just know what Lucrecia told you, that the man lives in the mountains behind the forest.

Will you find him? You don’t know.

Will you get lost while trying to do so? You hope not.

You don’t know how much time has passed when the stone path that led you here disappears and turns into one of dirt.

Your horse neighs, a thick puff of steam dispersing in the air as he does so. You haven’t noticed it, but the air around you has turned colder and the vegetation, thicker, making the sunrays disappear behind the foliage of the trees. A shiver runs down your spine and you hold your coat tighter to your body.

You can only hear the footsteps of your horse and the sounds of the wooden wheels of your carriage crashing against the dirt. Somewhere in the distance you hear birds and other animals – or at least, what you suppose are animals.

Thinking about a plan B in case some creature decides to attack you, you grab your sack of nut bread and start tracking your surroundings with your gaze. It’s then, when you realize there’s a hut hidden in between the trees.

“Looks like we found it, Twinkle,” you whisper to your horse, petting his neck.

You spur him towards the hut. Its roof is covered in snow, and all its windows are closed with thick wood shutters. Maybe this isn’t the man’s hut after all, or maybe he’s not home.

You make your horse stop, keep the sack of bread in your arms and hop off the carriage, feet landing soundless on the snow-covered grass.

“Wait for me in here, I’ll be back in a minute,” you say to your horse, petting him some more to calm him.

You knock on the front door of the hut, also made of a thick, dark wood. No one answers. You knock again.

After ten minutes, you give up, walking away from the door and deciding to take a walk around the hut. It’s bigger than it looks from far away, hidden behind the thick trunk of the trees.

Behind the hut, there’s some sort of shed. Thinking that maybe the man is working inside the shed and didn’t hear you arrive; you walk towards it. As you are about to knock on the door, you see it is already open.

Carefully, you fully open it until you can distinguish what’s inside the shed. Tons and tons of wood are stored in there. Piles of cut trunks in all sizes and shapes. It smells like pine and humidity.

“Hello?” you ask, voice echoing inside the shed.

Again, no one answers.

You know it’s not polite to enter someone’s house without their consent, but since the door is opened… You take some hesitant steps inside the hut, careful not to step on anything important.

“Hello?” you repeat. “I’m Y/N, the new baker of the town. I came here to introduce myself and give you some of my bread for you to taste it,” you say, but to no avail, because the place is empty.

The inside of the shed looks like a carpenter’s shop. There are shelves full of animals and different objects carved in wood. Wood shavings fill the floor you walk on, making soft noises as you step on them.

In the middle of the room, there is a worktable full of untouched pieces of wood. All sorts of carpentry tools are displayed around the room.

Maybe the man is a carpenter? That’s why he lives in the woods? Because he has easy access to trees and wood?

You walk closer to the shelves, appreciating the different shapes and creatures.

“What are you doing in my house?” a voice echoes around the shed all of the sudden, startling you and causing the sack of bread to slip from your hands.

You turn around quickly, coming up with different excuses for your rude behavior.

“H-hello,” you stutter, fear filling your whole body. “I’m Y/N, the new baker of the –“

“I didn’t ask who you are,” the man interrupts you, taking a step inside the shed, a step closer to you. “I asked what you were doing in my house.”

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to come off as rude. I was just walking around the place, saw this shed and the door was open…”

“So, you see an open door and you walk inside the place, even if it’s the place of a stranger?”

“Oh, n-no, I… I just…” words die in your mouth and your cheeks turn red. You are sure the man hates you by now and think you’re completely stupid.

“You what?” he urges you.

You lift your gaze to stare at the man standing by the door of the shed and you frown. Well, man? He looks like he’s your age more or less. His voice isn’t thick and raspy at all as you had pictured it would be, he doesn’t have a thick beard covering his features and he definitely doesn’t look hermit-like or scary as Lucrecia told you. He looks younger than you had pictured him to be, and definitely more delicate and… Well, handsome. Such a contrast with his harsh words.

“Do you have difficulties answering questions?” he says, raising his voice a bit and starting to lose his patience.

“No, I’m sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m Y/N the new baker in town. As a welcome gift I wanted to give you some of my bread.”

“I don’t like bread.”

“You haven’t tried mine.”

“I don’t want to try yours,” he answers, holding your gaze without even blinking once.

You narrow your eyes. Alright, you entered his house without his permission, but now he’s being plain rude towards you. You already apologized!

“Alright,” you nod your head, grabbing the sack that had fallen on the floor. It is full of small wood shavings. “I entered in here without your consent, and I am sorry for that. I came here with my best of intentions, didn’t mean to offend you. But you didn’t have to treat me so poorly. I’ll leave now, with my bread since you don’t wanna try it.”

“Alright.”

“Good,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

You wait for him to say something else, and when you see he isn’t going to do so, you stroll towards the door and walk past him. On the outside, you turn around and look at him once again. He’s staring back at you.

“Nice figurines, by the way. Such a shame you don’t wanna be nice to your neighbors, I’m sure they would buy all your work for a good price.”

“They’re not on sale.”

“Such a shame too. Goodbye.”

And with that, you nod once again and walk towards your carriage. You’re not someone who gets angry easily but the way he spoke to you and how he treated you… Maybe he’s not some old man, with thick beard and a scary face, but he’s just like Lucrecia told you he would be.

He’s still staring at you when you climb on top of your carriage and spur your horse, walking the same path of dirt you followed towards his hut.

. . .

“Don’t frustrate yourself sweetie,” Mrs. Gah says. She’s one of your everyday clients, a nice old woman who owns a flower shop not far from your bakery. She says the scent of your freshly baked bread makes her flower bloom happily. “It has always been like this since he first moved in here. We haven’t even seen him around town. We just know he lives here because some people cross him when they go to the woods to get wood.”

“I’m not frustrated, Mrs. Gah. “I honestly don’t care that he didn’t want to try my bread, what makes me angry is the way he treated me. I just wanted to say hi!”

“You know what?” she says. “His loss. He will regret not having tasted your bread, believe me. If he hadn’t rejected that bread, I wouldn’t be here eating the most delicious nut bread I’ve ever tried.”

You can’t help but smile at the old woman’s words. It’s not worth it being so down because some stranger was rude to you. His loss.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gah,” you laugh.

The neighbors of the small town soon make you forget about your encounter with that rude man. Christmas is just around the corner – tomorrow, actually – and you have lots of bread to prepare. These holidays, everyone wants to have some of your bread at their table.

You spend entire days locked in your kitchen, trying new recipes and trying to improve your usual ones.

To you, Christmas Holidays smell like freshly baked bread, opened windows from which the winter air seeps carrying scents of pines and snow. It has always been like that, ever since you have a memory to turn to.

“Oh, crap,” you protest as you get the bread out of your stone oven.

It is just as uncooked as it was when you got it into the oven.

You click your tongue and open the wooden door behind your big stone oven. You shake your head, reprimanding yourself for not having noticed it sooner, when you see you’ve run out of wood.

You go to the pantry where you keep all your ingredients and wood, only to realize that there isn’t any wood either. How come you didn’t think of having extra wood for the holidays?

It is 24 of December, six a.m. in the morning. Clients will start arriving soon and you don’t have any single piece of bread.

You would go to the usual place where you buy wood, the house of a farmer who collects loads of wood and then sells it to the neighbors, but this early you’re sure it is closed.

You will have to take care of the problem yourself.

Without thinking about the cold and how sleepy you still are to go into the woods for some wood, you grab your coat, some axe you had lying around there and start your way towards the woods

The axe is heavy and you haven’t picked wood since you were little and accompanied your father into the forest in summer.

You don’t plan on getting too deep into the forest, since you just need a few trunks for today, but you don’t know the paths around the forest too well and when you realize it, you’re lost.

You sigh loudly, a white puff of air leaving your lips.

“Calm down, Y/N, it’s still early and you can find your way out of here.”

You haven’t brought your horse either because of your plans of not going too deep into the forest. The thought doesn’t help yourself to calm down at all.

The only thing you can do now, given your circumstances is at least take advantage of the situation and pick as much wood as you can.

The few first blows with the axe are pathetic – and you try with a bush, not even a tree. Your hands and arms are strong from kneading the bread dough, but you don’t have the technique, nor the knowledge to pick wood properly.

After some minutes – maybe more – you finally gather a decent piece of wood.

Wiping away the sweat from your forehead, you stare proudly at the piece of wood lying on the ground. The first one, of many more you are going to need.

“You won’t even be able to light a small fire with that,” a voice says, echoing through the open space of the forest.

You let out a loud shriek, letting your axe fall on the ground.

You turn around, searching for the owner of that voice. When you focus your gaze in the place where the voice came from, you see the carpenter with his dark cloak and equally as dark clothes.

“Oh, Lord,” you say, bringing a hand to your chest. “You scared me! What’s wrong with you appearing in places all of the sudden?”

“The first time you were in my shed, and now you’re in my forest.”

“Excuse me? This is not your forest,” you laugh, turning around once again and picking your axe from where it fell on the ground. “This is the town’s forest.”

The man laughs sarcastically. “No, it isn’t,” he says. “You trespassed the limits of my property a few kilometers away.”

He points with his chin behind you.

“Well, if this is your property, you should have it delimited with a fence or something.”

He shrugs. “I don’t need to do that, no one goes that deep into the forest.”

You sigh. He’s kicking you out, again.

“Alright, you don’t need to say more. I’ll pick my things and leave your property. I got lost searching for the best wood.”

“What are you doing in here, chopping wood on your own?”

“Today’s Christmas Eve and people want to buy my bread for their family dinners, but I have no wood at home nor at the shop, so I can’t bake bread! Which means I’ll ruin their celebrations!”

“You think you will ruin their celebrations because they don’t have your bread? Is it that good?”

“You would know if you had tasted it when I offered you some,” you answer, arching a brow.

He sighs and takes off the hood of his coat, letting you see his face fully for the first time.

His features are round and soft, a big nose that sits well in the middle of his face, puffy cheeks, almond-shaped eyes, thin lips, dark hair, pale skin… He looks straight out of a fairy tale.

“Let me pick some wood for you,” he says, walking towards you.

You grab your axe with more strength and take a step back.

“No, I can do it myself.”

“Yeah, I can see,” he mocks, pointing at the small piece of wood lying on the floor next to all sort of branches.

“Why would you want to help me, anyways?” you frown.

“Because if I help you, you will get out of my forest sooner.”

You narrow your eyes, you knew he had second intentions, and that those second intentions had something to do with getting rid of you.

“Alright, but first, you teach me. That way I can do it myself the next time.”

“You don’t buy wood from that poor old farmer in town?”

“Yeah, but it’s too early, the man has to get his good sleep.”

The man scoffs and holds his right hand in front of you. You stare at it with a deeper frown in your face.

“Give me your axe,” he ends up saying after a few seconds of silent confusion.

“Oh, yeah, right,” you nod, handing him your axe. “Be careful, it was my dad’s axe.”

He plays with the axe in his hands. “Well, I’ve seen worse axes I must admit.”

You roll your eyes and watch him walk towards the nearest three. It has some cuts where you’ve hit its truck with your axe. Seeing that, he raises his brows and stares at you.

“I’d love to see you baking bread, smarty-pants.”

In his lips, something similar to a smile appears.

“Your technique is not that bad, you’re pretty strong from how deep the cuts are, but you’re not hitting the trunk in the right angle. You can’t cut wood in a right angle; you have to do a 45 downwards angle like this…”

He throws his arms backwards and then, slams the axe in the trunk of the tree with all his strength. The movement is quick and sharp. He mimics that movement a couple more times until a good piece of wood detaches itself from the rest of the trunk.

You look at it with a satisfied expression on your face.

“I must admit it looks like a good piece of wood for my stone oven,” you say, nodding your head.

The man throws a proud smirk your way.

“Except others, I don’t mind appreciating other people’s work when it’s well done.”

The smirk disappears from his face and, instead, he rolls his eyes. Good, he was starting to get too cocky.

“Alright, your turn now,” he says, giving you the axe.

You grab it in your hands with strength.

“Focus on the trunk and don’t think about it too much, just hit it with the axe.”

You nod your head and mimic his previous movements, throwing your arms behind you.

“In this angle,” he says, grabbing your elbows and relocating your position. You tense up for a moment, his touch unexpected and somewhat warm.

He notices it and takes some steps back, his hands disappearing from your elbows.

“Alright, I’m ready,” you say, eyes focused on the tree trunk.

“Go ahead then, hit it.”

You nod and, with all the strength you can muster, you hit the trunk with force. Retreating the axe is hard, and you almost fall on your butt doing so, but you’re not one who gives up. So, you deliver another three blows to the trunk of the tree until a decent piece of wood falls from it.

“Not bad,” the man says from behind you.

“Not bad at all!” you say, satisfied with the result. “Now, I just need to fill this entire sack with pieces like this,” you say, pointing at the huge – and empty – sack behind you.

The sun seeps through the foliage of the tall pines and other threes when you fill the entire sack. You’re sweating, completely out of breath. The man looks like he isn’t doing any better than you.

You took turns to chop pieces of the trunk, and so, both of you are equally as exhausted.

“I’m gonna go home and grab a glass of water,” he announces as you close the sack with a bow.

“Okay, I’ll go home too. Oh, and thanks for the help.”

He shakes his head and stares at you in silence for a couple of seconds.

“Do you want to come to my house and drink some water too? You look tired,” he offers, startling you a bit.

“You’re being kind to me? I think that’s a bad sign, I should go home then.”

He rolls his eyes and grabs the sack of wood, starting to walk in the opposite direction from where you are facing.

“Don’t be silly, you need a glass of water. I’m not that evil to let you die of thirst in the forest.”

“Hmm… I don’t know if I should believe your words.”

You follow him through the path he himself had drawn towards his hut over the snow.

“What’s your name, by the way? You already know mine because I introduced myself.”

He stays quiet for some seconds, as if pondering if he should answer your question or not.

“Jungkook,” he ends up saying.

“Jungkook,” you nod. “Well, Jungkook, you were incredibly rude to me the first time we saw each other. You could have kicked me out of your house more nicely. But, today you have helped me a lot, so thank you for teaching me how to cut wood.”

He looks startled by your words, but hides the emotion from his face as soon as it arrives.

“D-don’t thank me,” he stutters. “It was pathetic seeing you cut those tiny pieces of wood.”

As his hut comes into view, you catch something you didn’t see the first time you went there. The front of the house is full of wooden tanks, most of them filled with grass and other vegetables that didn’t look too appetizing.

“What’s with all those tanks?” you ask, pointing at them with your head. “Do you have a deer as a pet or something?”

He looks at the tanks and remains quiet, leaving the sack full of wood on his doorstep.

“You have a deer as a pet?” you ask, this time serious.

“No,” he sighs. He opens the door of his hut and motions for you to walk inside. “Reindeers.”

“Reindeers?! I had heard about people who had pigs, even goats as pets but… Reindeers? Oh Lord.”

Jungkook shrugs and closes the door behind him. His house smells just like his shed did, of pine, wood and humidity. Somehow, the scent makes you feel comfortable and relax.

“You want some tea?” he asks from the kitchen.

“Oh, yeah, tea would be nice, thank you,” you answer, standing in the middle of the living room, not knowing what to do.

Every table, every piece of furniture is made of wood, and it looks like it has been made by him.

“Are you a carpenter?” you ask after some seconds.

Jungkook appears with two empty mugs and two plates. He places them on the coffee table by the sofa.

“More or less…” he hesitates. “I’ve never sold any of my pieces, but yeah, you could say I’m a carpenter.”

You nod your head and keep looking around you. The place looks cozy, the fireplace in front of the couch lit, the fire dancing happily.

“Impressive,” you murmur.

Suddenly, an idea pops in your mind.

When Jungkook comes back to the living room with a teapot and pours the tea inside each mug, you start talking.

“Hey, I want to offer you something.”

“More bread?” he asks, arching a brow.

You roll your eyes. “You wish, I’m never offering you my bread ever again,” you take a pause to drink from your mug. “I see you like reindeers, I don’t think you have them as pets because they’re wild animals and very stubborn ones, very difficult to tame. I don’t know why you want to feed them and make tanks for them, but if you keep giving them grass and old vegetables to eat, they’ll move to other mountain.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “What do you want with that?”

“What I’m telling you is that I know one things reindeers like, and it is bread.”

He frowns. “Bread? Why would you know that?”

“Because my grandfather was a farmer and my mother taught me everything she had learn from him about animals.”

“And why would reindeers like bread?”

“What? Why would humans like bread?” you mock him. “We both have taste buds, alright? They’re animals with good taste.”

Jungkook arches his brows.

“Where do you wanna go with that?”

“Okay, here comes the deal. I give you the old bread I haven’t sold during the week so you can give it to the reindeers, and you provide me with wood in exchange.”

“Didn’t you buy wood from that man in town?”

“Yeah, but I like how you cut the wood better, it will fit perfectly in my stone oven. What do you say? I think we both end up winning with that deal.”

“And how am I going to give you the wood?”

“The same way I’ll give you the bread. I have a horse and a carriage, I can bring bread every Sunday, and you can give me wood instead. My carriage is resistant, it will keep up with the weight and the journeys.”

Jungkook takes a sip from his mug, pondering over the idea you presented him.

You arch a brow, a bit impatient. It’s a good opportunity to obtain good quality wood – which is essential to make good bread – and to get to know him better. You’re not gonna lie, he intrigues you. You’re a really open person, so used to moving and knowing new people, that it’s part of your personality now. The fact that he’s so closed off and distant, makes you want to know everything about him and make him your friend.

“Are you even thinking about it?” you say after a couple of minutes.

“Alright, alright, it does seem like a good proposition. But, if the bread thing doesn’t work, we’ll stop.”

“It will work,” you nod, remembering your mother’s words. “If there is one animal who is good for transporting things during winter, it’s the reindeer. But they are really stubborn and difficult to train, so give them once piece of bread per day, and they’ll be all yours.”

“Another thing, I really appreciate my loneliness, so you’ll only stay here for as much as the exchange lasts every Sunday.”

“I’m okay with that, I have no time to waste either,” you shrug. It’s not the truth, though, you want to spend time with him and get to know him, but you’ll have to be slow, the same way you have to be slow gaining a reindeer confidence. Oh Lord, are you comparing Jungkook to a reindeer?

“Then, the deal is sealed,” Jungkook nods.

You nod and finish your tea in one gulp.

“I have to go now; clients will be waiting and I haven’t baked one single row of bread today. See you next Sunday, business partner.”

He remains serious as he watches you laugh at your own words.

You don’t think too much about it, you’ll end up warming his heart, just like a slice of freshly baked bread warms your body in the morning.

“Oh, I forgot,” you say before exiting the hut. “Merry Christmas Jungkook.”

. . .

On Christmas day, you watch the kids play with their new toys from the inside of your shop.

A hot chocolate in hand, you bask in the beauty of the morning. Sun shining, snow melting on the ground, birds chirping and flying around happily.

You’re happy. With your lifestyle, with what you do and what you will do in the future.

. . .

The next Sunday, you gather all your remaining bread from the week and put it in a big sack.

You prepare your carriage, your horse and start walking towards the woods. You hope you don’t get lost, but since snow has melted, the dirt path is clear.

Jungkook is already waiting for you when you arrive. He has a pile of wood by his side, more than you expected and more than you probably need for a week.

The exchange is simple, just like the following exchanges.

You give him the bread, and he gives you the wood. Polite words are exchanged, and you can see the boy starts looking more relaxed around you, but nothing else happens.

Life keeps going on, you keep waking up at 5 a.m. to make bread, open the shop and close it by the end of the day with a huge smile on your face.

Snow melts completely, trees grow green leaves once again, flowers bloom, green grass cover the paths that lead to Jungkook’s hut, and a reindeer or two start appearing by his hut, going to his hand-made tanks to eat your bread.

One Sunday morning you arrive to the hut with your carriage full of bread. It is Autumn and soon, it will be a year since you came to town.

Jungkook isn’t waiting for you like he usually is. Instead, he runs to you as soon as you appear, shouting something about reindeers and hurrying up.

“You need to hurry up!” he is beaming, you have never seen him looking so happy and thrilled.

“Alright, alright, calm down, you’re gonna frighten Twinkle,” you say, coming to a stop and hopping off your carriage.

“Come on, give me the bread, we have to fill the tanks quickly.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Reindeers! A lot of them! C’mon, grab a sack and give me the rest, we need to fill the tanks before they go away.”

You quickly grab one of the sacks and hand him the rest and follow him towards the clear in which he placed the tanks. At least ten reindeers are in there, sniffling inside the now empty tanks.

You open your mouth in surprise, you had never seen so many reindeers together.

“C’mon! Fill the tanks!” Jungkook tells you, already filling one himself.

When all the bread is poured inside the tanks, the both of you walk away from the clear to a place where you can still watch the reindeers eat without startling them or making them uncomfortable.

“They’re beautiful,” you gasp. You had seen a reindeer before, but never ten in the same place, and so big!

“Yeah, they are,” Jungkook says with a smile on his lips.

You decide to not say anything else, letting him bask in the happiness of the moment.

. . .

After that day, the reindeers go to that clear every single Sunday without fail, and you and Jungkook stay there to watch them eat.

You start closing the bakery on Sunday, deciding it’s not bad to take one day to rest.

You and Jungkook speak about the reindeers, putting a name to each one and deciding which trick you’re going to use to distinguish each one of them. Then, the conversation about the reindeers turn into conversations about your weeks, and the conversation about your weeks turn into conversations about your life.

You’re used to meeting new people every now and then, so it’s not difficult for you to open up to someone. When he asks about your life, you answer happily, telling him about all the towns you lived in, the adventures you lived and the people you’ve met.

After some weeks of exchanging facts about your life and anecdotes, you realize you’ve told Jungkook everything about yourself, but you still know few things about himself.

Turns out your second Christmas Day in town is Sunday, and as you do every Sunday, you visit Jungkook’s hut with your carriage full of sacks of bread.

As you’re watching the reindeers eat from their tanks, Jungkook hands you something.

It is a small rustic bread made of wood.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, smile small as he waits for your response.

You play with the small wooden bread in your hands, and then stare at him.

“I didn’t bring you anything,” you say, cheeks turning red in embarrassment.

Jungkook shrugs. “You didn’t need to. You’ve helped me a lot this past year, I know this might look like a stupidity,” he says, pointing at the clear with the reindeers in it. “But to me, it’s not. So, thank you.”

“Well, thank you, then,” you smile. “I’ll put it on one of the shelves at the shop.”

As soon as you arrive home, you get the wooden bread from your bag and place it on the shelve that decorates the entrance of the bakery. It is usually full of flowers and other plants, but now is filled with Jungkook’s wooden bread too.

. . .

The next Sunday, you show up at Jungkook’s house with the usual sack full of old bread and an extra sack – smaller – with some of the bread you baked on Saturday.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“I know you don’t want to taste my bread,” you say, quoting the words he told you the year before. “But I thought since you gave me one of your pieces of art, I would give you one of mine.”

“You call your bread art?”

“Of course,” you smile.

After pouring the bread into the tanks and greeting the reindeers, instead of staying there and watching them as you usually do, you go to Jungkook’s hut and sit at the table in his kitchen. You display the different varieties of bread in the middle of the table, as if it was a tasting.

“Alright,” you say. “You’ll try a piece of each one of them, and, in the end, you have to tell me which one is your favorite.”

He tries your bread, smelling each one of them and playing with the pieces you give him in his hands.

He closes his eyes, ignoring every sense that isn’t the taste.

In the end, his favorite one ends up being the nut bread, and you laugh, because you knew from the beginning that he was the nut bread type of person.

. . .

In the end, Jungkook warms up to you.

Well, he warms up to you, or he warms up to your bread, you still don’t know. The fact is that he looks more relaxed and friendly with you, and you finally get to know the man that hides behind the mysterious man who lives in the mountains and never visits the town.

Word spread around town that you and the man in the mountains are friends, and neighbors start looking at you with harder gazes. But you don’t mind, because the man who hides behind that mysterious man in the mountains is a kind man, boy at heart, whose eyes hide thousands of stars and dreams. Who laughs so brightly, it can melt snow. Who sings to the reindeers when he thinks you’re not paying attention. Who feels lonely and express himself through the things he carves into wood.

And somehow, you find yourself warming up to you during Spring, and Summer, and Autumn, and then Winter again.

He starts reminding you of bread, of wood, of pine and snow.

Sundays are a sacred day to you because it’s the day when you see him and get to know another tiny piece of him.

. . .

You spend your third Christmas day in town with Jungkook.

You smile as you remember how shy he looked when he asked you if you wanted to spend the day with him.

“Hmm… Do you any plans on Christmas Day?”

“Yeah, waking up at 5 a.m. making bread, selling it to the people in town, eating by myself and going to bed early. Truth is that I don’t do anything special on Christmas Day, what about you?”

“More or less the same. I carve something that has to do with Christmas – I know, pathetic – eat and then go to bed. Santa doesn’t visit me since I moved here.”

You laugh. “What are we? A pair of octogenarians? Mrs. Gah is almost ninety-years-old and her plans on Christmas Day are funnier than ours.”

“What if we spend it together this year? You know, we can eat at my hut, play some chess… I made a chess board and figurines last week.”

You find yourself answering him with the quickest “yes” you’ve ever given.

. . .

“Didn’t know you made wine,” you say, taking a sip from you glass.

He shrugs. “Some years I do, some I don’t. This year I found some grapes in the forest so I sued them to make wine.”

“It’s tasty,” you hum. “It’s been years since I last tried wine.”

A stomach full of good food, a glass of wine in your hands, two nice rounds of chess filled with laughter… What else could you ask for?

Maybe it’s the wine that pushes you to finally ask the question you’ve been answering yourself for weeks. Maybe it’s not. You end up asking it anyway.

“Why reindeers?”

“Hmm?” Jungkook asks, taking a sip from his own glass of wine.

“Why do you like feeding reindeers and not… Razorbacks, for example.”

You laugh at your words, but Jungkook turns serious. The cracks of the fire are the only sounds that fill the hut.

It looks like you’ve touched a delicate subject.

“If you don’t wanna tell me that’s right…”

Jungkook places his glass on wine on top of the table and focuses his gaze on the empty dishes on it.

“No, I wanna tell you,” he nods his head. “I want you to know.”

He stares at you and a wave of electricity shots through your body.

“I met Luna when I was six and she was four. She came new to the village I was from and we soon became good friends. It’s just like any other story, honestly, we grew up together, explored the world together, fell in love… Typical thing. The only thing that wasn’t common about us was her…” his gaze darkens, voice turns sad. “Luna was so special, so kind and wonderful, that the world had to compensate all that somehow. She was sick, ever since she was born, she was always sick. Every winter she would fall sick, lock herself at home and wouldn’t go out until the snow had melted and the trees had started to turn green again.”

He pauses. You let him have a moment of silence.

“It had been like that ever since she was a child, every year worse than the previous one. And still, the only thing she hated about falling sick every winter was missing the Christmas Holidays and the reindeers playing in the snow. She loved them. During the days when she was still not as sick, we would go to a lake in the outskirts of the village that was always full of reindeers in winter. We would watch them and try to pet them. We never got to pet them, though,” he lets out a small laugh.

“When we had enough money saved, and everything in our lives planned, we moved here. I had heard that there were loads of reindeers in this mountains, and bought this piece of land. I had always been good at making things with wood, so I made this cabin for the both of us. She loved it, I had never seen her look so happy.”

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling softly at you. “We lived in here for some years, she still fell sick every winter, but at least, she could see the reindeers playing in the snow from her window.”

He makes another pause. This one is longer, feels thicker and heavier.

“One winter, she fell really sick, like really, really sick. It had been worse than I had ever seen. Fever, Vomits. Deliriums. I contacted a doctor, but he could do anything. Luna died before the snow melted that year.”

You bite your lower lip. You hadn’t thought about that story, you had always thought Jungkook simply liked reindeers. Just like he liked wood.

“Ever since then, I’ve stayed there because… I have nowhere else to go. I tried to feed the reindeers, make them as happy as they made her. But all I’ve done is lock myself away from the world, become bitter and carve everything she ever loved in pieces of wood.”

“Those wood figurines, are they all for her?”

He nods with his head. He leads you to his shed, lights a candle and shows you every little piece and figure he ever did. From a reindeer, to a moon, to an apple tree.

You see the longing in his eyes as he explains every little figure. How much he would have loved to gift them to his Luna.

“That’s why I feel so grateful for all the help you have given him. You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”

You stare down at his lips for a moment. It would be so easy to reach out to him and discover how goof they would feel touching yours…

But no, it’s not the moment, nor the place. You’re not even sure if he’s fully ready to say goodbye to his Luna.

So, instead, you take a step back and shake your head with a smile on your face.

“Don’t thank me, I’ve always been happy to help you, and now, even more than I now it’s for a beautiful cause. I’m sure Luna loves what you’re doing for her wherever she is.”

You stare at him as he places the wooden figure of a reindeer back on the shelf.

You’re not sure if you will be able to smell wood every again without the image of Jungkook caressing his figures delicately coming to your mind.

. . .

And time keeps passing, but this time, it seems as if it passes slower.

You don’t know if it’s because you know that this is your last year in town and that, when winter arrives, you’ll be packing your things and finding new places to discover, new people to meet, new stories to tell… Or if it’s because you’ve found a place that feels like home.

Yeah, home, a permanent place. A safe place. A place to come back to. A place to grow old in.

For you, making bread had always been your home, that’s why you never cared too much about moving to a new place and all that. But now, making bread is not enough.

You find your home in the morning breeze that seeps through the window of your small kitchen as your kneading bread, the special scent of the town filling your nostrils. You find your home in the smiles of children like Marcela, in the conversations with people like Lucrecia. You find home in every Sunday, packing your things and putting them on your carriage. You find home in feeding the reindeers and then watching them eat happily.

You find your home in Jungkook.

You feel safe around him, you feel happy, comfortable.

Maybe that’s why time passes so slowly now. Because you feel safe, and happy, and comfortable, and every other good feeling.

But even if it passes slowly, it passes, and winter arrives.

You already told people in town that you would move when you arrived, so they all know it’s their last winter with you. But somehow, you never found the courage to tell Jungkook.

At first, you thought he wouldn’t care, on the contrary, if you went and never came back. Better for him.

Then, you just forgot about it, forgot about the fact that you would have to part soon and say goodbye.

And now… You just can’t find it in you to tell him you will leave and probably never come back.

But you know you must tell him, you can’t just disappear without saying goodbye. Not to him.

So, on your last Sunday with him, two weeks before Christmas Day and one before moving away, you tell him.

You go to his hut and there he is, smile wider, eyes brighter than ever before. Waiting for you.

You grab your sack full of old bread and Jungkook rushes to help you. The sack is heavy, but today your heart feels heavier.

You’ve fallen in love with Jungkook, just like you fell in love with bread the first time you saw your mother making it, kneading it with her bare hands.

You follow your routine, pouring the bread into the tanks, watching the reindeers eat. You try to keep up with the conversation, acting normal. But the truth is, that you can’t, that your mind is elsewhere.

“Are you alright?” Jungkook asks. “You’re too quiet.”

You bite your lower lip. He’s giving you an opportunity to tell him. You can’t miss it.

“I need to tell you something, Jungkook.”

He becomes serious immediately, eyes pierced on yours.

“Alright. Go ahead.”

You clear your throat and look away from him.

“I’m moving away.”

“What? Moving away? But you came here just… Three years ago.”

“I know,” you nod with your head. “But… I only stay three years in each place. I’m a nomad, just like my parents.”

You can feel Jungkook’s stare on you.

“I thought you just liked to visit places, not that you… Didn’t have a permanent home. And you’re telling me now? When are you going?”

You gulp. “Next week.”

You stare at him just in time to see the hurt in his eyes.

“Next week… You had three years to tell me and you’re telling me that you’re moving away next week now?”

You shake your head. “I’m sorry, I know this is not how it should have been done… But there’s no way back now.”

“No, there’s not.”

He takes some steps away from you, hurt written all over his features, making your stomach churn each time you stare at him.

“Please, forgive me Jungkook, I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well you did, making me trust you and open up to you just for you to throw it all away by disappearing?”

You gulped loudly.

“I wasn’t thinking about the future when I was getting to know you. All I was thinking about was how happy I was when I was with you.”

Jungkook keeps his eyes on yours for some seconds.

“If you’re so happy with me, stay here. Don’t go.”

Jungkook words feel heavy as he lets them go. They held more meaning than it seems. The both of you know it, but you’re not going to acknowledge, because that would mean letting go of the rest of the things you know.

“I can’t, Jungkook,” you shake your head. “This is who I am, this is what I am. Without this, what would I do? My parents did this, and I’ll do it for the rest of your life.”

“Then, you’re not that happy when you’re with me.”

You shake your head again. “You don’t understand… I’ve spent all my life going from one place to another, what will I do if I stay rooted in one? I don’t know how to live like that without feeling asphyxiated.”

“I do understand, Y/N,” Jungkook says. Sad eyes staring into yours. “You’re the kind of person who goes to places, turn them into theirs, fill them with memories of them. Make everything smell like them, taste like them… Make everyone fall in love with them. Just for them to disappear, leaving a huge void in the place they were. Luna was like that too.”

Your eyes fill with tears. You don’t remember the last time you cried – probably when your parents died – so used to laugh all the time and show others your brighter side.

“I-I…” you stutter.

No coherent words come to your mind. You’re left blank after Jungkook’s words. His words reminded you of your parents. The huge void they left in you when they died, the memories of them, the love you had for them… Are you the same?

“I wish you good luck, hope you finally find a place to call home someday.”

And with that, he turns around and starts walking towards his hut, facing his back to you the entire time.

You don’t run after him.

You don’t call his name.

You don’t tell him that, without him, you will never be able to find a place to call home.

You don’t look for him during the next week.

Instead, you start packing your things, saying goodbye to the neighbors. To Marcela, who cries and hugs you and whom you gift a box full of your cinnamon breads. To Lucrecia, and Mrs. Gah… Everything feels like all the other times you moved from a place you had used to call home for three years. You feel nostalgic and sad, but also excited for what’s about to come.

When you think about Jungkook, though, anything feels like the other times you moved to a different place.

You can’t leave the town without letting him know how important he’s to you. How much he feels like home. He is more than enough for you to stay, but you’re too coward to admit that to yourself – written in a letter feels less real. You tell him that he reminds you of all the good things you love in life, of bread and wood and Christmas Holidays.

You tell him that you love him.

You tell him that, maybe someday, you will see each other again.

You write all that in a letter and leave it stuck on his front door.

You never receive a response for that letter, though.

. . .

The day you leave, a row of neighbors wait for you in the center of town to tell you their final goodbye.

You thank everyone, a kind smile on your face. This time, the smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

It’s such a familiar scene to you that it’s part of your unusual routine by now.

You get on your carriage and check that all your belongings are packed in it. You’re doing just that, when the crowd separates, and a man dressed in all black clothes appear. He carries a heavy-looking sack with him.

The people gasp, and you let a soft: “Jungkook?” escape your lips.

He hops on the carriage, grabs your face wit both hands and presses his lips against yours. Your eyes widen, and the crowd lets out a loud gasp.

“W-what?” you stutter once you part the kiss.

“I haven’t been able to answer your letter, I’ve been busy packing my things.”

“Packing your things?” you ask. “What do you mean, Jungkook?”

“You told me I’m your home, the place you want to go back to every time. It wouldn’t make sense to stay in the hut when you’re my home too.”

Your eyes start filling with tears.

“I’ve lived in there for years, lonely, thinking I was doing it for Luna, when I was doing it for myself. Because I was scared of the outside world. Just the opposite of you. You love the outside world so much… I think it’s time to let myself see all that… By your side.”

Those tears that fill your eyes, begin rolling down your cheeks.

“Are you sure, Jungkook?”

“I’m more than sure.”

This time feels like all the other times you moved from a place you had used to call home for three years, except for the fact that you will be accompanied by someone who reminds you of holidays of bread and wood, reminds you of home.

* * *

Every December now smells like freshly baked bread and wood to you.

Every December now feels like distant memories of a man you once knew, who loved to carve his dreams in wood.

Every December now feels like a man you know. A man who loves hugging you tightly from behind every morning as he watches you knead the bread dough. A man who kisses you and it feels like fireworks are exploding inside your body. A man whose laugh sounds like happiness. A man whose eyes shine like a thousand starts locked inside a small jar.

Every December now feels like Jungkook and the wooden figurines he carves on the back of your bakery as you take care of the shop, like Christmas Holidays and the bread you make together before sitting at your small table and eating dinner together.

Every December now feels like Jungkook, feels like home. And you’re happy, because you know it’ll stay like that for a long time.

#secret santa #snowflake #bts #bts x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #btswriterscollective #jjk

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claroso · 3 years

Text

Like Real People Do

Zevran and Clara Amell have been dancing around the unnamed tension between them for months now. Finally out from underneath the thumbs of their respective jailers, they appreciate being able to take their time and enjoy the dance.

I’m referencing the Correspondence Interruptus quest in DA:O btw

Zevran lunged forwards, raking his daggers across the hurlock's side as he ducked under its swing. He felt leather armor and flesh give under his blades like butter. The monster screamed.

He danced back from the hurlock's next swipe, the rusty mace slamming into the ground. He hefted his dagger and threw it. The metal flashed as it spun through the air and lodged in its leg. Were it human, that would be a killing blow. But for a darkspawn? The thing simply growled, picked up its mace, and limped towards him.

The hair on his arms suddenly stood on end. That was the only warning he needed--he threw himself back a split second before a fireball crashed into his enemy. It screamed again, contorting in agony as it burned.

Then the carved end of a staff smashed into its head. The hurlock collapsed. Behind it, Clara Amell snarled and brought her staff down again. Its decaying skull split like a pumpkin, blood splattering across her pale face.

Zevran's heart skipped a beat.

The fire guttered out as the mage straightened, her eyes sweeping across the battlefield. A handful of steps away, Wynne and Sten stood at the ready, their weapons raised.

"We're clear!" Clara called after a moment.

They all relaxed.

Zevran grinned. Working with a mage was a rare treat with the Crows, but being able to work with a mage who could predict darkspawn attacks? Amazing. They didn't have to be on edge every second of the day. And travel went so much faster without checking for ambushes around every corner. He knew he was getting spoiled traveling with Wardens, but he was determined to enjoy it while he could.

Of course, it didn't help with bandits or anything of the non-tainted variety, but that became rarer and rarer as the stories of the last two Grey Wardens spread.

Clara barked out orders--to search the bodies, the cabin nearby--and they wordlessly complied. Hardly anything was left intact after a darkspawn attack, and this one was no exception. The house was barely standing and the animals had run off long before they arrived. And the remains of three farmers were strewn around the clearing.

Unfortunately familiar with the sight, he began searching the poor souls' home. Even with such carnage, he enjoyed working with the Wardens far more than the Crows. Clara at least listened to him. He didn't with her disagree often, but she didn't threaten bodily harm when he did.

Actually, now that he thought about it, threats of bodily harm were surprisingly rare with his new group. Except Morrigan, but the lovely witch usually kept it limited to Alistair.

And he kept a substantial cut of the loot, he thought as he rummaged through a chest at the back of the cabin. He slipped the few coins into his belt. The dirty leathers he tossed. That left a single leaf of parchment at the bottom of the chest. He broke the seal with his thumb and opened it, a smile spreading across his face.

"Zev!" Clara called. "We're leaving!"

He jumped up and rushed back to the group. Wynne dabbed at the bloodstains on her robe and Sten's face, as always, was stoically impatient. The Warden, wearing a mismatched set of armor over her Circle robes, sported her usual scowl. As he grabbed her hand and swept into an overdramatic bow, her expression shifted to confusion.

"My dear Warden." He purred, holding the letter up with a flourish. "I believe I've just won the bet."

She scoffed. "No chance in the Void. Let me see that."

"I apologize, but as I've said before," he dodged her outstretched hand and winked. "Poetry simply must be read aloud."

Sten grunted, somehow putting an entire lecture's worth of disgust into the sound, before turning on his heel and marching off.

"I rather agree with our taciturn friend. I'll see you back in town." Wynne said, starting down the trail back to Redcliffe.

"There's no way that's worse than the letter I found last week." Despite their companions' lack of enthusiasm, Clara had the slightest curve of a smile. Practically jumping up and down with excitement for her, really.

"Shall I?" Zevran said, raising an eyebrow.

She waved toward the path. "Walk while you talk, Brother Genitivi."

" 'My dearest Virginia Trueroyal,' " He said in a deep Fereldan accent.

"That's awful."

"Hush now. The audience doesn't speak. 'My dearest Virginia Trueroyal,' " He scoffed. "That can not be a real name."

She chuckled. "Get on with it."

" 'Regarding: Bodice ripped.' Oh, how scandalous!" He spun around, walking backward ahead of the Warden so he could wiggle his eyebrows at her. " 'Enclosed are seven silver and my most heartfelt apologies for said bodice.' "

Clara suddenly grabbed the front of his armor and pulled him roughly to the side, narrowly missing a tree.

He didn't stop. " 'I would blame the cold ocean spray, the loss of my favorite shirt, the bucking of the stallion,' " He winked, and she rolled her eyes. " 'or perhaps the strain of maintaining all such elements while sitting for a portrait, but I was certainly not myself. I hope you will forgive me and not take it upon yourself to find your own determined way in this world.' "

" 'Yours, Ser Rival Grouseman' " He finished with a flourish.

"That was terrible." Clara frowned.

"Exactly!" He exclaimed, delighted. "I will accept payment in silver or fine leather goods, mi estrella!"

"No, that's actually, really terrible. It's not even dirty!"

Zevran gasped. "How can you say that? The 'bucking of this stallion', the 'cold ocean spray' ripped this poor woman's bodice open!"

"It's too subtle." She argued. "I don't want flowery details and sighs in the moonlight. If you're going to talk dirty, at least give it to me straight."

"Well, if you insist."

In a very appropriate display of maturity, she stuck her tongue out at him.

"No matter." He said as they stepped into Redcliffe village. "Leliana can break our tie."

A few minutes later, they stepped into the tavern. Wynne sat at a table in the corner with a tome and a mug of ale in front of her. Sten was nowhere to be seen.

After dealing with the blood mage and possession of Connor at Redcliffe Castle, Clara had refused to stay when Teagan offered. Instead, they had found rooms in the village. Since they'd cleared the dead from the town and broke the siege, they'd been welcomed back with open arms. Any unoccupied room was free for their use. Sten had taken up in a hut on the edge of town. The mages settled in an empty house so they could practice without disturbing anyone. The rest stayed in the rooms above the tavern.

They'd only been there a week, but it was a much-needed break from their constant travel. They still hunted down pockets of darkspawn and bandits to ensure the town was safe, but they also slept in real beds and ate at the tavern every night. Leliana even volunteered at the local Chantry, dividing resources and praying with the town.

Speaking of their lively bard, Zevran spotted her rushing towards them with Barkspawn at her heels.

"You're back!" She exclaimed. "How did it go?"

"I think all the bandits ran off." Clara pulled down her hood and ruffled her sweaty blonde hair. Half of it stuck straight up, making the fierce warrior look more like the head of a broom. "Didn't see anything human all day."

"And the darkspawn?"

"Not gone, but it is a blight." She shrugged. "I think we'll leave the day after next. The guard should be able to handle what's left."

"More importantly," Zevran said, "I found the winning letter!"

Leliana grinned. "I'll get the drinks!"

After drinks were delivered and they'd settled at a table, Barkspawn curled over Clara's feet, Zevran read the letter again, with plenty of flourishes and suggestive looks. The redhead giggled through the entire thing.

When he finished, Clara shook her head. "Not a chance, Zev. Mine's better."

"I don't know." Leliana said. "There is a certain poetry in it."

"What? Why are you on his side?"

She shrugged. "None of the letters I found can compare. I'm not wasting time betting on a horse that can't win."

"Fine." Clara huffed. "Then you're the deciding vote. Pick one."

Delicately tapping her chin, the bard paused, obviously deep in thought.

"You can't be serious, Leli." Clara demanded, leaning over the table. "Mine's better! Just pick mine!"

He chuckled, admiring her fierce frown. So competitive!

Leliana smiled sweetly. "It's only that poetry is best when read aloud. Zevran really made the words come alive, don't you think?"

She fluttered her eyelashes as the Warden's mouth dropped open. Clara had staunchly avoided reading aloud any of the letters they found.

"Yes," he purred, "won't you indulge us, Warden?"

"I--you can't--fine!" She snatched her bag from under the table and rooted through it, muttering under her breath.

She slapped the parchment to the tabletop. " 'Miss Ambrose'." She started, a determined set to her shoulders.

" 'A long, slow grind, the motion careful, aided by generous application of oils. Size is no concern with my equipment, and I am always mindful when stuffing, not risking a--risking--" Clara stuttered, her voice climbing higher with each word. "--a burst before every order is fulfilled.' "

Leliana giggled and he pressed a fist against his mouth.

" 'My meat--" She winced, her pale skin red as a tomato. "--goes hand in hand with satisfaction.' "

He laughed. She fought down a smile and took a deep breath.

" 'Your interest astounds, but I would not question a customer's choice in nighttime reading." She said quickly, her voice strangled. "Three pound sausage again next week? No cheek, of course.' "

She collapsed against the table, arms over her head, shoulders twitching, as Leliana and Zevran howled with laughter. Barkspawn joined in with an actual howl.

"Maker's breath," Leliana sighed. She wiped her eyes. "That was marvelous, my friend. You win."

Clara looked up, hiccupping with laughter, and tried her best to glare. "You're all terrible people."

"What a performance!" Zevran cheered and clapped. "More than worth the five silver."

She rolled her eyes, but accepted their coin without further grumbling.

"And with that, I must be off." Leliana said, standing up. "I promised I would be up early to repair a barn. Zev?"

He sighed. "Yes, I suppose. As long as you buy the drinks again tomorrow."

"Helping the locals now?" Clara asked, refilling her cup.

"I might as well." He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and waving off Leliana. "Idle hands and all that, you know."

She frowned. "Are you tired of patrolling already?"

"Oh, there is no need to pout, my Warden." He said with a wink. "You know I only have eyes for you."

She hid a smile behind her cup of wine. Zevran grinned back, putting his feet up in Leliana's empty chair. They settled into a comfortable silence, simply observing each other.

He and the Warden had been dancing around each other for the past month. They each knew what it was and where it was going--into bed, most likely, though he had no qualms about a tent or wall if that's where the moment led them. But this, the dance, was equally enjoyable. Flirting, teasing, finding out how to make her smile or blush down past the neckline of her robes.

And learning how she flirted back. That's how he knew that arguing and knocking her shoulder against his was practically a wink and a loosened bodice for Clara.

Suddenly, her mouth dropped into a true pout, eyes shifting behind him. He turned to see Alistair move quickly across the room and out the front door with his head down.

He frowned. Something had happened between their stalwart Grey Wardens. For the past week, Alistair and Clara had barely even acknowledged each other. The playful teasing was replaced by awkward silences and short, to-the-point conversations. And occasionally, he caught her staring at him like she did now. Hurt danced across her expression with abandon.

Then she scowled. In one smooth motion, she picked up her cup and drained it.

Zevran blinked. Slowly, he pushed his whiskey over to her.

She drank that just as quickly, though with a lot more coughing after. Barkspawn whined and pushed his head into her lap.

Well. This was worse than he thought.

"Mi estrella." He said, leaning forward with a smirk.

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "What?"

"You've drunk far more than your usual fare." He nodded to the empty cups. "Sleep here tonight, in one of the empty rooms upstairs."

"That's...probably a good idea." Clara stood with a groan and tucked her staff under her arm.

"I shall escort you."

"What possible ulterior motive could you have, I wonder?" She mused as they started up the steps.

"Believe me, I am not a subtle man." He said. "When I have a motive, you will know."

They ducked into the room at the top of the stairs. As she shucked off her armor and robes, he wandered the edges of the small room, faking interest in its small baubles and plain furniture.

"If I may pry, my Warden..."

She glanced at him, suddenly tired and thinner than she had any right to be, clad only in a thin sleeveless shirt and trousers.

"You're asking permission? That's new." She noted dryly.

"Hm. I noticed some tension between you and your fellow Grey Warden recently."

Her shoulders tensed. She winced at the movement, hand going to her right shoulder.

He padded over to the bed and sat, gesturing her towards the middle. "Here, sit."

She shifted onto the bed.

He began to knead her broad shoulders. She tensed at first, either at the new intimacy or his cold fingers. Only when she relaxed under his hands did he speak again.

"Did you disagree on how Connor was dealt with?" A feint.

"No."

"On our next journey?" Zevran found knot after knot in her muscles, like a string of pearls underneath her skin. He started to doubt this plan--having this conversation and taking care of her horribly abused muscles demanded his full attention and right now he wasn't sure which was more important.

"No," she sighed, "we both think Orzammar is the best move."

"Then he finally confessed his affections?"

Clara's head snapped around to meet his gaze.

He smiled slightly. Braska, he hadn't meant to say it quite like that. But she was a blunt woman, she might prefer a blunt approach.

"Maker," She twisted away from his hands, "I hoped it wouldn't be obvious."

"It's not your fault. Alistair is rather blatant about his feelings, though." He chuckled. That was a bit of a white lie. They were both obvious about their falling out, but a tiny fib never hurt anyone. "The poor boy has been mooning over you for a few months now."

"I must have done something to lead him on..." She said with a deep frown. "I'm a terrible friend."

He shrugged. "Well, I can't comment on that last bit, not having much experience in the area. Flirting, though, I am quite skilled in. And its all about intention."

When she didn't respond, he placed a hand on her arm, drawing her attention up to him.

"Clara, you can't lead someone on unless you mean to."

She smiled weakly.

"A massage, for example." He continued. "This could be just a friendly massage, but I hope you know enough of my intentions to tell otherwise."

She blushed, but reached up and squeezed the hand on her arm nonetheless. He pushed past the excitement buzzing in his chest. Despite knowing about their mutual interest, the acknowledgement of it thrilled him.

"Good. It's not your fault, or Alistair's, for that matter. It was just... a miscommunication."

"You make it sound so simple." Clara sighed.

"Only because it is." He said. "Give it some time and you'll both be able to look back at it with laughter."

She scrunched her nose. "Maker, you sound like an old man."

"A beauty such as yours, my lady, inspires the wisdom of ages."

She groaned and fell back against the bed dramatically. "Not more poetry!"

"Your storm-grey eyes cut my chest to ribbons," Zevran said, leaning on one hand to smile down at her. She rolled her eyes. "such do I ache for you."

"Your laugh soothes my pain and heals me." His fingers dug into her sides and she squealed as he tickled her.

Loud and unrestrained, the laughter transformed her. Her face, so often grim and lined with worry, turned bright and open. A smile split her face nearly in half.

Zevran admired the sight, his mission tonight accomplished, when she suddenly grabbed his wrists tightly. She shoved him, rolling them over and pinning his wrists above his head.

"Ha!" She crowed, victorious and beautiful, only inches above him. His heart stuttered. "That's--"

He leaned up, closing the space between them, to meet her lips. He felt, more than heard, her gasp. A breathless moment passed before she returned the kiss with a sigh.

She pressed down more firmly into him. Her hands released his and snaked down to cradle his face. Warmth trailed behind her touch, tracing patterns across his cheeks, down his neck.

He tilted his head, slanting his mouth open in invitation as he wrapped his arms around her. She ran her tongue teasingly against his bottom lip. Then, she bit down, slowly, deliberately.

He groaned as she pulled away, opening his eyes to see Clara, flushed and grinning down at him

"Your lips enthrall me." He murmured.

She chucked, brushing a kiss over the corner of his mouth. "You're absolutely terrible."

"I believe that speaks more to your taste in men than my taste in poetry, mi estrella."

"Are you ever going to tell me what that means?"

"I've no plan to."

Clara kissed him again. Her hands were buried in his hair now, grasping and pulling for new angles, as she hummed deep in her throat. And he let himself drown in her warmth, just for a while.

Sometime later, after her hand was underneath his shirt and his was gripping her thigh, Zevran pulled back.

He arched an eyebrow. "This was not the intention in my suggestion, Warden."

"So?" She grinned, her eyes dark and wild.

"So, you were close to collapse only five minutes ago." He brushed his fingers against her lips, following the curve of her smile. "And, if I have my way, this will be quite acrobatic. You'll want to be awake for it."

Truthfully, he was enjoying the chase far too much to jump into bed right now. He'd never had the luxury of time before--the lovers he had taken in the past were either jobs or other Crows. Both were always rushed, fumbling selfishly for whatever pleasure they could take before moving onto the next. This, her, would be the first entirely of his own choice, free from his masters. If he wanted to savor it, he damn well would.

Also, he made a point not to fall into bed with someone distracted by another man. Even if it wasn't 'like that'.

He'd had precious few friends in his life and never any friend as close as Clara and Alistair were. He wouldn't be responsible for the end of their friendship. After they mended their ways, then he could move forward.

Zevran shifted out from under her and brushed a kiss against her cheek. She fell back on the bed and yawned widely.

"Rather proving my point, Warden."

"Fine. It's your loss, really." Clara said, smiling as she closed her eyes and curled around a pillow. "I'm an animal in bed."

"I've no doubt." He muttered, hardly able to contain his own smile as he left.

#dao #da:o #dragon age #dragon age: origins #origins #ZevWarden #Zevran x Warden #Zevran x Amell]#zevran arainai #Zevran x female Amell #Zevran x female Warden #female amell #female warden #Clara Amell #ZevWarden fic #dragon age fanfic #fuck i already posted this under the wrong blog #whatever :(

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ashes-orielly · 4 years

Note

👀 little teeny tiny crack fic of undertale drumbot? i need to see this ahdgfjdjksjhg

Hey the tiny lil crack fic inspired by this post (btw @sorrowsunny look at the thing I did) ended up being... not so little. Enjoy!

***

The Drumbot was one of Carmilla's more... interesting experiments. Which, Nastya knew from personal experience, was saying something. After his Incident, the only part Carmilla had been able to save was his heart and a file download of his personality, which she had altered to her will before inserting. And for all Carmilla was a scientist, she wasn't an engineer.

To put it bluntly (and that was for the best, Nastya didn't do well beating around the bush), Carmilla had shoved the Drumbot's heart and file into a metal contraption made of a clock, and he was forced to wander around on a spinning wheel with two metal balls at the end of his 'arms' and a screen that was perhaps meant to serve as his face.

The hat on top of his box was a nice touch, though.

The Drumbot's new body (if you could even call it that) made it hard for him to do the things he used to. His 'handballs', as Raphaella had called them (causing Ashes to spit out their drink, but the name stuck) were magnetic, could become electrified upon will, had laser and blacklight capabilities, and could play any song the Drumbot could think of. The only problem then was that Carmilla forgotten to add fingers. And as it was, she met her unfortunate and completely accidental end before she could do anything about that fact. Which meant, of course, that the Drumbot came to Nastya.

"You want... my help?" she asked after listening to his request. "I don't know a thing about biology. That's Raphaella's area."

The light square on the Drumbot's screen moved to the bottom left corner, which might have been his equivalent of not meeting her eyes. "She scares me," he said after a moment, robotic voice monotone but somehow still conveying shame.

"...You do know you can't die, right? What do you think she'll do to you?"

"Look what she and Carmilla did to Doctor Pilchard."

"You can't prove anything," Nastya said, probably too quickly. "That being said, I.... see your point. Will you let me run a diagnostic on you first? You know, look you over, maybe glance at your code? That way I can make sure I won't break you."

Two new glowing blocks showed up on the screen. Was he... blushing?

"Sure," he said after a pause too long. Helios, was Nastya going to have to explain how completely and utterly gay she was? Maybe she could just have Aurora lock the Drumbot in his room for a few centuries- he'd have to forget about any crush by then.

Nastya shook her head, telling herself to focus. There would be time for that later, and she had been dying to check out the Drumbot's tech.

"Sit here," she said, pointing at a spot on the floor. They were in her engineering room, and she always worked leaning against the wall or by crawling under or in things, and so saw no need for chairs. Brian sat, if you were using a loose definition of the term. His stick? Leg? robotic pole folded, so that he was hovering a bit lower than before."Good. Now, can I check your back? Carmilla had a love for hidden compartments."

He nodded, and she ran a hand over his back, searching for the hidden cavity where Carmilla would have placed the port. Her fingers caught on a latch, and she pulled it open with a grin.

There was the port, with the drive sticking out proudly. And, right beside it, was a little silver switch labeled on one side EJM and on the other side, where it currently rested, MJE.

Now, let us all be clear. Nastya wasn't the type to go pressing big red buttons just to see what they do- that was more Jonny's expertise. And Ashes'. And Tim's. And Ivy's, and Raph's, and- Okay, maybe it was her that was the outlier.

That being said, this wasn't a big red button. This was a switch. And no self respecting engineer can resist a switch.

The metal moved easily beneath her finger. And for a long moment, nothing happened.

Then metallic golden smoke started pouring out from little vents in the Drumbot's handballs, and ukulele music began from somewhere she couldn't see. Two projectiles flung themselves from wherever in his box they had been hiding, and Nastya let out a yelp as she ducked for cover.

The Drumbot made that might have been a shriek, if he had the vocal range, and raised his smoking hands to his box like he was trying to hold his head.

Nastya tripped over herself trying to back away. Her eyes dartwd between him and the two little drones circling above him. It didn't matter, really- they were quickly obscured by the gas. A mask dropped from the ceiling, and Nastya shoved it over her mouth and nose, silently thanking her amazing girlfriend.

The smoke filled the room entirely now, obscuring everything. She didn't even know where the door was. No escape, then. She pressed herself against the wall, watching where the Drumbot had been.

Out of the fog, two beams of light appeared, shining towards the middle of the mass. The drones, the logistical part of her mind said. The other parts of her mind watched in mute terror at whatever Carmilla had done, whatever Nastya had done.

A voice- not the monotone of the Drumbot, but an actual voice- emerged from the mass.

"Now the party's arrived."

Aurora's ventilation finally kicked on, clearing the gas from the room. Little by little, the Drumbot was revealed.

Or what had been the Drumbot, anyway.

Because standing in the middle of the room was a man made of metal. He stood, one hand holding his hat (the Drumbot's hat) and the other held dramatically behind him, sweeping open his coat. His eyes met Nastya's, and he sent her a charming smile.

"I see you know how to have a good time," he said, still posed dramatically. The spotlights reflected off his metal skin, and a part of Nastya tucked very far away made to swoon. She hit that part with a shovel and shoved it behind a locked door in her mind.

"Drumbot?" she asked uncertainly, finally lowering her mask. Now that she could see him better, she saw the clear panel in the center of his chest. Under the glass lay a bright red heart, pulsing steadily.

"The one and only." He swirled his hand and bowed deeply. "Well, sort of. Apparently Carmilla split me in two."

"And you- box you- didn't tell us why?"

"Because it would cause you stress, and I'm not fond of causing stress in that state. The means simply didn't justify the ends."

Nastya was smart- scary smart. And she had known Carmilla better than anyone except Jonny, had listened to many a rant about what makes someone human. Every mechanism had been a test to that- am I still human without a heart, blood, lungs, eyes, the list went on. Eventually Carmilla had come to a conclusion, an answer. She found out what made them human- really human- and poked it with a stick.

"Your morality," she said with realization. "The switch altered your morality?"

"Exactly. I'm the fun Brian." He sent her another grin- who smiled that much?- before a thought seemed to strike him. "The fun Drumbot? No, I like my name. Is it even my name now, if I'm only a heart?"

"Drumbot Brian," Nastya suggested quickly. Philosophy always gave her a headache. "Are you going to do that... smoky thing every time you switch?"

"What? Oh, no. That was a one time thing. The spotlights get to stay though. Hey, we can even use them for our performances!" His face lit up as he thought, and Nastya felt herself relax a fraction. "We would need more, of course. A lot more. Huh." Their eyes met once again, and in a split moment he had a gun pointed at her.

"Let me give you a lesson," he said. "I'm Ends Justify Means. That means the thing I want- the ends- are worth whatever I have to do for it. So! I want more spotlights, and you're an engineer. That means I'm perfectly willing to hold you at gunpoint and slash or shoot you to make it happen. Get it?"

He pulled the hammer on the gun back, and Nastya felt herself relax all the way. He would fit right in.

#flick writes a thing #the mechanisms #drumbot brian #nastya rasputina #am I following cannon?#no #do i care?#also no #gun tw #ask to tag #the definition of crack taken seriously

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

Text

The Shrill (1/?) (Sci-fi)

Characters: Henry Cavill x small! innocent female reader (AU)

Summary: Something was haunting the whole world. A trial to test everybody's will power to live that an unspecified sound could make humanity turn into a death zone with four factors to describe them once they've feel the attacks. You've thought everyone was considered safe in the black mansion you were living in because nobody has reacted to the Shrill for a long time. Until now...

Warnings: Murder. Blood. Angst. Choking. (Not in a sexual way, bb's. *wink wink nudge nudge* The sexual part will be on the next) Aggressive Henry but also sweet.

Words: 2,500+

A/N: This kept me up all night. It's all in my head and I tried to sleep it off until it reached to a smut and I was like..Ooooh. OOOOooooOOOH. I NEED TO WRITE IT OUT! Hehehe. Here you have it! 💕💕 You'll have your mad Cavill smut on part 2! Btw, I’ve written a body type, If it isn’t your body type then feel free to imagine yours instead. I couldn’t put “*your body type*” because I didn’t like the look of it in the overall imagine. Also, a certain scene was inspired by Divergent! Thank you!

REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE IT A LIKE, IF YOU’RE LIKING THIS SHORT SERIES! THANK YOU! TAGLIST IS OPENED IF YA WANNA BE TAGGED BY THE SMUT PART--I MEAN NEXT PART. OKAY? 😍😘

Taglist: @vikingsbifrost @sofiebstar

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots/fics are definitely from moi.

MY WORKS ARE NOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

Fifteen different people in one huge mansion. A black mansion to be specific. The world has created and experienced chaos and madness as the entirety of humanity was now suffering from a wide unearthly signal that could get certain people to act berserk.

Nobody knew why. Nobody understands the reason and where does it come from, but the people who were living in the huge Mediterranean mansion that you were in were completely free from the violent reactions that may cause.

With violent reactions that can be considered brutal for a kill.

Everyone was laughing in joy, some even had alcohol wrapped around their fingers as they try to blur out all what was happening around the world.

You and Henry were sure that everyone was safe; until one person who had reacted on the sound.

There it was. That certain sound; a high pitched signal. Everyone looked at each other, sensing who were reacting towards the shrill. The effects were truly indistinguishable, you wouldn't know who and what will hit them when the signal can be heard. But, there were contingencies you've felt and heard while everyone was quarantined in the mansion.

There were four factors as to how you would react towards the sound. You've witnessed the most horrifying reaction which was Brute. Your own father has managed to terminate every single one of your family except for you. He was also included in the brutal murder as he aimed the gun to his head. You didn't know if it was intentional or not but he neglected you from the massacre and you didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

You've had hypothetical presentiments as to why they've reacted that way. Facts which are considered sixty-five percent accurate based on how you've been observing everyone's actions. The reason why they've began to violently react to the signal was because they never had committed any wicked sin and actually had a good heart.

Second was altruism. Some people have reacted towards the signal with goodwill and compassion. However, those people were thoroughly godawful in their lives. Committing such abysmal sins which can be considered unlawful to the law and especially to the eyes of God. They suddenly become all incorruptible and law-abiding after the shrill that they don't remember what happened nor do they remember who they were and have been.

Third was The Hushed. Humanity has given these people lemons and not bread. These people were the ill-tormented. They were given the affliction of never having to get to speak what their heart says no matter what happens. All their lives they have lived in agony and now they were receiving such curse into not having to talk nor having the fate on reacting towards their environment. They were completely the epitome of a coma. Their souls and mind were still living on earth but they were forbidden to move nor react towards their environment.

Last, but not the least as your current observations weren't fully factful; was the Unbalanced. They were the combination of every factors that has been said. They all have their days, it's either you react with brute, altruism or become the Hushed in every other day. They were the unstable ones, the people who you couldn't read when they are attacked by the shrill. To know that they are considered the Unbalance start from acting like a demented person until they were acting normal one day then not on some.

The one that you couldn't get the bottom of is why specific people weren't being attacked by the chime and you couldn't comprehend why you haven't been passively reacting towards the problem at hand and nobody could answer that question for you.

Thus, this ill-fated moment was the most terrifying memory you can ever decipher as the love of your life have caused you a busted lip and a frightening gun in between your forehead.

"Listen to me and I hope you take this into consideration, Nugget." Henry skeptically started; voice all calm and soothing, standing completely tall and jacked before you. Your height differences thoroughly sweeping to the eyes of everyone maybe even cute to some as you stood five foot one before him with big bones; wide hips and small chest. Technically, a bottom hourglass with those stomach flab hidden behind the hoodie of your boyfriend that reached your thighs. An imperfect interpretation of how humanly you were, unlike your love who seemed to be utter perfection.

The latter crossed his burly arms across his prominent chest, combing a hand through his curly locks and sighing deeply to himself like he was trying to understand what his thoughts has been telling him, he licked his lips before peering down at you, giving you that worried gaze he would give whenever his thoughts get the best of him.

You gave him a reassuring smile after he pulled you away from the group of people who were bonding all together. At first, you were questioning why he'd held your wrist, pulling you away from them. But, now you understood his actions.

Despite of sounding confident all the time, today the walls began to break as you've seen your powerful looking man so scared for what he could do to the people around him if he was attacked by the Shrill.

He'd languidly taken the gun latched in between his belt. A frown etched upon his features as his stubble was growing longer. Henry checked the black pistol in his hand, clicking the chambers open to see how many rounds it could take before shutting the clip back and handling the grip to you with a small, glum smile.

You've stared back at him with incredulity. The gun on your palm without knowing what to do with it. Your lower lips wanting to pop out because of what the message actually sounded like. A shake of your head was the only reply you could muster as you felt your heart being grabbed by a claw at a rickety future that was bound to happen because nobody knows how this trial would take.

"If...If I somehow react to it and be a part of the Brute," he trailed off, stepping closer to you and reaching out for the side of your jaw; his rough, calloused fingers dancing across the nape of your neck as he subtly gave a smooth caress. Beautiful ocean blue eyes with tiny specks of brown on his left eye, gazing down at you with a look you've seen since the moment you've manage to develop feelings with each other when the nightmare happened; utter love and respect, "---and if you must shoot me before I cause chaos to everyone, do it. Understand?"

Another shallow shake of your head, repeatedly doing so with a begrudging heart, "Henry," you pleaded, not wanting to do it as the action will fall on your hands. The responsibility of shooting him would be your nightmare forever. "N-No, I--I don't even know how to shoot a gun. I--I won't ever forgive myself if that ever happens. Ask me anything, but that!" the tremble of your voice was evident. You shook your head once more, objecting at his wishes and never submitting.

"Panic will consume you and once it does, you're surprised you've already shot me to death, Y/N." Henry tried to lighten the mood as he managed to get out a toothy grin. Though, you knew his heart was shaking at the painful truth he could decipher, "I'd rather accept that you shoot me. I'd rather see your face before I die,"

You could feel your eyebrows in a tight knot, your heart beat ceasing at the responsibility on your hands. The soft cookie in you coming out with tears forming around your eyes. Henry stared you down with a tender beam, entirely leaning down to plant a kiss on the side of your eyes to stop you from weeping out.

"Love can be a bloody brute, and I mean that literally, Nugget." the latter whispered, finally pecking your temples before the ones in between your eyebrows.

You've felt his warm breath that you wished not for it to turn cold. He was the only who you could depend. The shoulder whom you cry on and a person who you've loved to the fullest and killing him won't ever be the best idea for you.

Once the soft pillows of his lips left your forehead, he had lean his forehead with yours. Eyes fluttering closed as he took in everything. Your warmth, scent and soul like he wouldn't get to reach for them ever again. "Don't hesitate, okay? Just shoot."

The shiny metal barrel was now aimed between your head. A bloody lip and a wound on the end of your eyebrow have been given to you by your own boyfriend as he'd reacted very different with you. From the moment he was tightly closing his eyes as the shrill went on and on. You knew he was next.

At that, you've managed to speak your heart and tried getting his attention before he could even hurt the people around you who eventually became your friends.

You've rather let him hurt you than see him hurt others or even himself.

The mere image of you being violently hurt by a huge, brawny man wasn't completely pleasing to the eye. Everybody were scattered in the large living room where tables and chairs were ruined with troubled gazes in their eyes. They were stuck to their feet as they watched the scene unfold.

Irith, a police woman who lived in the same mansion as you do; snatched her gun out of her holster, quickly aiming the firearm at Henry who'd grabbed onto you, tackling you down the floor and in between you with his hand gripping your neck in a choke hold. The gun he'd given was taken away from you; maybe because you've technically given him the opportunity to do so and it was now in his palms.

"He's going to kill you, Y/N! You’re gonna die!"

Irith clicked the safety off her pistol and you've heard it. Your boyfriend's fingers wrapped around your neck as tight as he could with an apathetic gaze like your Henry wasn't even there at all. "No-No-No! He’s not! Please! Don't do a-a-anything! Don't hurt him! Move away!"

You croaked out and pleaded with a cough; forcibly clawing out to get his fingers away from you. To no avail, Henry was very much stronger than you and getting out of his hold was like asking the heavens to show you the pot of gold on the end of the rainbow.

"H-Henry," another croak before he tightened his hold around your neck. The air seeming to be cut off better than before. You've stared into his eyes, trying to find him in there but all you could see was a person whom you didn't know. A complete utter murderer who just wanted you dead.

You've stopped struggling against his hold, tasting the blood in your mouth as he breathed deep above you, his thick thighs on either side of you as he pinned you down. Irith didn't know what to do and dropped her aim. Panic settling her nerves as she watched you get choked by your boyfriend who'd been anything but violent to you before it even happened.

Your fingers left his, mind flying at the thought to fight him off. Shaky fingers reaching out to touch the side of his face which ignited a feral growl out of him once he'd felt your cold, trembling fingers. The other hand of yours nervously gripping onto the barrel, aiming it better between your forehead as Henry's face morphed into a painful wince.

You can't let him go that yet. No. Deep inside, you know he was still in there.

"Shoot...me," you whispered in between gasps and heaving breaths. The air soon cutting your lungs shut. "I-It's okay, lo-love. Y-You can shoot...shoot me,"

All the response he has ever did was a loud groan, his finger on the trigger but never flicking. He stared you down with that wavering gaze, like he has been struck by lightning. Your thumb reaching out for his lip, soothingly caressing with a firm will as you spoke out loud with a slowing heart, "It's...It's okay...I love you...Always..will,"

Something was shutting off inside him. All he could see was that you were a target he should eliminate because you were part of the humanity who tries to ruin the world because of their irresponsible actions. Yet, your voice. It was echoing inside his head, like a soothing one which could calm that certain switch and the nerves sending inside his brain for the kill.

The veins on the side of his head were popping out and you could see him struggling with something. His lips shaking as you felt it on your thumb. He tightly shut his eyes closed, hardly breathing out of his nose as he was whimpering like something was hurting him.

It was. His head was hurting because he was fighting it off.

You've caught his attention again, slowly caressing your fingers across the apples of his cheeks like a touch to reassure him to just do it and end his pain instead. You stared into his tightly shut eyes and gave a solemn smile, "Y-You're...the best I've ever had...D-Don't...worry, I-It's okay,"

Your pleading was like an ambulance being sent to rescue him. He snapped his head away from you, breath completely labored as he was wrestling with those small voices whispering inside his head; telling him to just pull the trigger and end his misery. But, the other echo screaming at him that pulling the trigger will just add more misery and probably even guilt and utter madness for himself.

"F-Fuck!" He lividly cussed out loud. Snapping his eyes open and you've seen the most grief-stricken picture. His eyes rheumy and dewy like he was on the verge of crying.

Then, you've heard the safety click back. His fingers shaking a lot more as he does so before falling on the floor, rolling away from you with a maddened groan.

He was in luck and also for you because you were close to having your breath taken away from you before he even managed to stop himself. You breathed in deep, like you were trying to catch your breath again and mewling at how free it was to feel your air back in your lungs.

Yet, you were about to reach out for him in the midst that you were still in a haze from being choked out. You've blinked your eyes open to see him scurrying away, feeling as if your heart was ceasing again. He stood on his feet, avoiding the terrified looks on everybody's faces. Though, the most painful part of everything that happened was not his aggressive action towards you. But, from how he bypassed your hold on his hand and thoroughly shunned away like you were disgusting.

Hence, you knew he was mad at himself and probably for you because you let it happen. The guilt beginning to eat him alive just before you even knew it.

MARSHALL LOOKS SO SO CUDDLY. I WANT PAPA BEAR TO JUST HUG ME ALL NIGHT. 😪😣😍😍

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typinggently · 4 years

Note

Time for some more 3 am crackhead thoughts with yours truly. This week's concept is Bruce in super hero themed dresses with thigh high socks no shoes (I'm having a thing against shoes this week idk). Just imagine him laying around the tower with a short dress rising up his T H I C C ass and he's just laying on the couch watching TV. - Monster anon

firstly: I love it!!! thank you so much!!

secondly: You know what this reminds me of? Before I got really into feral Bruce, I had my (dearly beloved) “Bruce Wayne being a thotty Bottom is extremely important to me” tag. Which is a mouthful, I know. But the idea is this: Bruce? Thicc yet Repressed. Brucie? Thotsona.

Waning: Semi-public? Public??? sex? Slight exhibitionism. Clark & his alien anatomy

Now.

Have I watched…a SINGLE…DC film that came out in the few years? Apart from SSquad and Wonder Woman (do you know how sad I am that I’m missing BoP because of the whole virus situation?!)? No.

And yet. Jason Momoa is very hot, you know?

So what I’m saying it that when I read that, half asleep, my brain supplied that the person to stumble upon this gorgeous view should be Arthur? For reasons that don’t extend past “he’d slap that ass no questions asked”, to be entirely honest. Which is exactly what Bruce is aiming for, arranging himself on that sofa with that little dress that barely covers his ass, practically arching his back in invitation. Arthur would have to test that bounce and who could blame him?!! Certainly not Bruce, that’s for sure.

(Bruce riding Arthur on that couch and Clark walking in, so Bruce’s first instinct is to push Arthur deeper into the cushions and rest his elbows on the back of the couch, as if practising his splits against the back of the sofa while flushed and panting and wearing a slutty little orange-green dress is something he does on the regular. Clark 100% doesn’t mind and he also naturally very much knows that Bruce has a cock up his ass as they speak, but he’s amused by the show Bruce is putting on for him and decides to stay and entertain his little ‘getting caught’/exhibitionism kink. Bonus if Bruce actually comes like that, trying to talk to Clark while Arthur, who was getting smothered by The Tiddies, is mouthing at his nipples and slowly rocking up into him)

But to sweep sleepy-nasty me away with a broom, I do have some thoughts regarding Clark.

Because as a concept, Clark is very sweet and polite and chivalrous. In reality, he is all those things, but he’s also a hot-blooded alien farmboy with an intense sex drive. Which means that if he’s confronted with the visuals of Bruce in a dress with the red skirt just short enough that the hem is resting on the curve of his ass and thigh high socks on his thick thighs, he’s going to act.

So he’ll walk up with his usual cheer and be all “Hey, Honey, are you watching something fun? :)” and his hand is on Bruce’s thigh. Just like that. Very natural, very casual. (And he’s not acting. He’s very casual and natural. Sweetheart is wearing a short outfit? Wonderful. Let’s touch him, show him some appreciation)

And Bruce is stubborn. He’s not going to lose(?) this game(which he himself started by wearing a teeny tiny superman-themed dress). So he holds an entire conversation with Clark, as if the hand on his thigh is perfectly natural. Considering it is to Clark, Bruce is really just fighting himself, btw.

But to be fair - Clark isn’t putting his hand just anywhere. He took his warm palm and put it right on the little strip of skin above the thigh highs. High enough to brush against the underside of his ass, thumb now and them playfully slipping underneath the hem of his underwear, letting the elastic snap back at Bruce’s ass.

So that conversation lasts about five to seven minutes before Clark is all “By the way - I like your outfit.”

Bruce, who’s been trying not to grind his cock against the sofa cushions due to the warm hand on his thigh, squeezing him absent-mindedly when Clark’s making a point, goes “hmmm.”

“I just think - I mean, I’m not an expert on these matters, but aren’t you supposed to wear something tiny underneath a dress like this?”

“Tiny?”

“Yes. Not that your underwear isn’t lovely, but I think it lacks a certain - a certain appeal.”

Bruce hums again, then goes on to explain why he’s wearing cotton briefs (they’re best for your skin etc etc). Clark isn’t listening. He’s feeling Bruce up (politely). “That’s lovely, sunshine, but I think it really doesn’t do the look any favours. I think you should better take them off.”

“???” Bruce says, but too late.

rip (hehe) Bruce’s underwear. Torn to shreds to reveal his gorgeous ass.

What I’m getting at is that Bruce in his thotty, thotty outfit is getting tongue-fucked, shaking to pieces on the sofa while the TV is still on.

And Clark, the bastard, will stop out of the blue, pull back, flip that skirt back down as if the fact that one of Bruce’s legs is on the floor, his thighs spread widely and kiss-wet where the skirt is riding up is in any way subtle. Bruce, shaking and needy, has to listen to Clark hold a conversation, his own face pressed into the cushions, hole hot and needy, clenching on nothing as he prays for whoever wandered in to just leave so Clark and his wet chin can get back to work.

Clark, contrary to popular belief, isn’t an asshole. He’s simply polite enough to stop his activities and exchange a few kind words. That’s very nice, actually. And when he notices that Bruce is very needy and very unhappy with that turn of events, he slips his hand back underneath that ridiculous excuse of a skirt and pushes a few fingers into him to make him happy.

Bruce, hole suddenly stuffed, is keening into the cushions.

“Are you alright, Darlin’?”, Clark asks, gently fucking three thick fingers into his hole.

The other person is nice enough to leave shortly after and Bruce is finally, finally getting a proper fucking. Alien twin cocks stuffing him to the brim, Clark and his super stamina fucking him languidly into the cushions. Very hard thrusts, but slow. It’s brain-melting, honestly.

And speaking of brain-melting. Clark at some point realises that he hasn’t seen Bruce’s face properly yet, so he flips him and the dress has a boob window where the crest of el would be. Just. Slick bouncy pecs, nipples threatening to slip past the hem of the window.

At that point, Clark loses the friendly-languid pace. And the sight of Bruce, flushed and panting, with his puffy pink nipples (Clark had to tease them and make sure they’d slip into the window for easier access) and his skirt fluttering now and then, hinting at his cock - that’s just a lot. That’s understandable.

After all that teasing, Bruce comes relatively quickly, and that display (moaning, splattering his cute dress, tightening around Clark etc) sends Clark over the edge as well.

But honestly? In that display? Once isn’t cutting it.

Maybe Clark just goes straight back to teasing. Or, more likely, he’ll be all “thank you so much, sweetheart, that was fun :)”, kiss him, flip his dress back down and leave, only to return two hours later and find Bruce in the same position he was in originally(=as Clark left him). Only now he’s fucked out, languid, drowsy, one leg still hanging over the edge of the sofa so the curve of his ass is almost visible, still a little kiss-slick and definitely well-fucked, judging by the slight bruises.

Clark goes “ah, well, don’t mind if I do” & walks up to do the same exact thing all over again. Hand on Bruce’s thigh, fingers brushing his slick hole right from the start this time, polite conversation. & that’s how Bruce gets eaten out (again) and fucked (again).

In conclusion: dresses + thigh highs + feigned nonchalance…terribly effective combination

(babes it’s 1:41…thank you so much for your horny late night thoughts…they’re an endless delight…I hope you enjoyed this nastiness in return 💝💝

I will also proofread this tomorrow and apologise for any sleep-deprived weirdness in spelling or grammar…thank u…)

#superbat #drabble #filth #oh wait and!!#aquabat #? is that the name?!

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alittlextrathatway · 4 years

Note

Dialogue no. 40!

A/N: So I went wayyyyy far into established Brettsey land for this one. All thanks to @dopemixtape btw who helped me with nearly all the details in this prompt response. (the names, the scenario, all of it). She’s a blessing to my life (and also the person who introduced me to Brettsey in the first place.) Anyway, hope you like it!

40. “I never stood a chance, did I?”

—————————————-

Casey focuses on repairing the railing on the back porch stairs. A few years ago, he probably would have let this particular repair sit while he took care of the paying jobs for people other than himself, but these days repairs to his own home are fairly pressing – For a few reasons.

One of which is bounding out the back door and running toward the stairs without a single glance up.

“Careful!” he scolds, reaching out a hand that lands on a tiny chubby stomach. “Not a good place to be running right now, munchkin.”

He sets aside the hammer, setting it down as far out of the way as possible, and scoops up the four year old with perfect shimmering ringlets currently doing her best to give Casey a mild heart palpitation.

“I told you the back stairs were off limits, didn’t I?”

Her tiny teeth sink into her bottom lip and she shrugs with unconvincing innocence. “Maybe.”

‘Maybe’ is her answer for everything these days. He’d like to have a talk with the child who taught her that word. A four year old doesn’t need to know loophole words like that. Especially not his four year old. His is a devious little risk taker who looks deceptively like a small innocent angel.

“Morgan!” comes a tired yell through the open back door. A second later, Sylvie’s worried face comes into view. Though, that worry becomes an affectionate eye roll when she spots their daughter in his arms. “You just can’t stay away from him can you?” she asks their daughter with a chuckle.

Morgan ignores Sylvie’s observation and turns in his arms to focus on Matt. She fiddles with buttons on his henley as she speaks. “Daddy, I made you something. Wanna see?”

“If I come see, will you stay inside while I finish up out here?” He asks her with a skeptical stare.

She nods, curls bouncing and blue eyes shining excitedly. “Promise! Let’s go, daddy! Go!” She orders as she points through the open back door and into the house.

“Okay, where are we going?” He asks as he passes Sylvie with a shared amused glance.

“Drew’s room! I wanted him to see too!”

He puts her down once they cross the threshold and she takes off down the hall to the nursery. Sylvie tugs his hand to get him to hang back.

“Brace yourself,” she warns him. “She’s about to pull out her pout and her big eyes and we both know how you get around those. Let me just remind you, she has you wrapped around her tiny chubby little finger. Do not give in.”

He chuckles and shakes his head dismissively. “I’m not that bad,” he argues.

Sylvie’s eyes widen and she looks as though she wants to say something else, but ultimately she simply smiles at him and waves him on ahead of her. “Whatever you say, Matt.” She laughs mutely at him and repeats herself. “Whatever you say.”

They step into the room and instinctively Matt drifts toward the crib. He glances down at the tiny wriggling baby, hands scrunched around his still wrinkly face. He smiles and gently rubs his son’s belly.

“How you doing, buddy?” He asks, hoping for a glimpse of a smile. Drew hasn’t quite gotten there yet. Though Sylvie swears she saw a genuine smile once, Matt’s pretty sure it was gas.

“Mommy, daddy,” Morgan announces as she stands between two pictures she’s taped to the wall opposite Drew’s crib. “Drew and me would like a puppy.”

Sylvie presses her lips together with barely restrained amusement. “You…and Drew would like a puppy? Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” she says as she neatly folds her hands across her back, like a professor preparing for a lecture.

Matt suddenly sees a flash of her going off to college and feels a pang of something in his chest. He’s not sure what it is, but he knows it’s telling him to enjoy the moment. She won’t be this little forever.

“And how do you know this?” He asks, genuinely curious.

“I drawed him a picture of a puppy and he liked it. So he wants a puppy too,” Morgan declares as if it should be the most obvious answer in the world.

“Ah,” Sylvie says with a soft chuckle and a nod. “Makes sense. Please, continue.”

Matt scubs a hand over his face to get control of his own impending laughter and shares a delighted grin with his wife.

“This,” she says as she dramatically stabs a finger at a picture of a frowning stick figure family drawn in blue crayon. “Is us with no puppy. See how sad we are? I drawed Drew crying. I know he’s always crying but, trust me, this crying is sad crying.”

“Wow,” Matt replies, feigning concern. “That looks pretty bad, yeah. And the other picture?” He asks as he points to the drawing in red crayon.

“This!” she tells him, beaming at him with a smile that looks exactly like Sylvie’s. “Is us with a puppy! Look! I drawed the puppy! I drew a dalmatian so he can ride in the firetruck with daddy! And now we’re all happy! Even baby Drew. I drawed him crying again but that’s just cause he’s hungry. So, see? We have to get a puppy so we’ll be happy!” She stops, points wide watery eyes at him and folds her hands under chin. “Right, daddy? Please?”

She draws out the please and sticks out her bottom lip and dammit if it doesn’t almost rip the word yes right out of his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sylvie staring at him with a smug smirk. He knows she’s just waiting for him to cave. Thankfully, his beautiful compassionate wife takes pity on him.

“We’ll think about it, sweetheart, okay?”

Morgan sighs with her whole body and slumps her shoulders as she nods glumly. “Okay.”

“Honey, why don’t you go turn on Paw Patrol for a little while, okay? Daddy needs to get back to work and I need to feed your brother.”

Her mood suddenly brightens, complete with a springy hop. “I get extra TV time?”

Sylvie smiles and nods but follows it with a stern reminder. “But just two episodes. So choose wisely, munchkin. Copy?”

“Copy, Chief!” Morgan yells with an excited salute. Calling Sylvie Chief started as an inside joke between him and Sylvie. He told her once that if their home was a Firehouse then she’d the Battalion Chief and it stuck. Over the years, it seems Morgan’s followed his example. “Can I go turn it on now?”

“Have at it,” Matt says as he sweeps an arm across the open nursery doorway. “Backyards off limits till I say so,” he reminds her as she skips off toward the living room. Once she’s gone, Matt takes a step closer to their daughter’s crayon artwork and studies them carefully.

“Matt,” Sylvie starts. The warning in her tone is obvious so he knows what’s coming next. “You are not seriously considering getting our four year old and our newborn a puppy, are you?”

He turns to face her with an overly wide smile. “No, of course not.” He leaves one beat of silence before he can’t hold it in any longer and has to change his story completely. “But…Ritter’s been volunteering at a dalmatian rescue–”

Sylvie breaks out into hysterical laughter, effectively cutting him off. “God, you are such a sap for her!”

“Yeah, well, she has your eyes and your smile so I can’t really help it. Those eyes and that smile should always be happy,” he admits as he reaches for her waist and pulls her into his chest. He chuckles to himself as he contemplates his own words. “Damn. I never stood a chance, did I?”

She shakes her head at him but never once stops smiling. “No, no you didn’t.”

This would be the moment where she could put an end to this dog idea. All she has to do is say the world and he’ll drop it. But she doesn’t. Secretly, he thinks she wants to spoil their kid too – despite giving him hell for it.

“God, I love you. Even if you spoil our daughter every chance you get,” She scolds half heartedly as she dips her face closer and closer to his. She steals a lingering kiss, and then pulls back to look him in the eyes. “But if you get her dog you’ll have to fix the fence in the backyard. Some of the boards are loose.”

He thinks about it for a moment and then shrugs one shoulder. “I can do that. Easy. I even have some extra lumber left over from a job. It’s in the back of my truck.”

Sylvie snickers through a resigned sigh and then completely caves. “Fine, you fix the fence and I’ll call Ritter after I feed the baby.”

“Now look who didn’t stand a chance?” He asks her teasingly.

“You’re lucky I love you and that our daughter is impossibly cute.”

He drops a grateful kiss to her temple and then meets his wife’s bemused gaze with an earnest expression. “Trust me. I know. I’m the luckiest bastard in all of Chicago.”

And that’s the God’s honest truth.

#brettsey #chicago fire #brett x casey #matt x sylvie #emdeedot45 #prompt game #fanfic #my fic #angellwings writes

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moonb-eam · 4 years

Note

the star or the high priestess for the tarot card inspired aus!! (it’s ok if u don’t wanna do these ones, no hard feelings!!) ahh I love your fics btw💕

the high priestess: magic, dreams, knowledge

“i had this dream, and now…”

possible AUs/settings: visions, sold fortunes, magic au

hello my darling, thank you so much!! 💛

it’s possible i got a bit carried away by this au (over 8k carried away) - but it’s inspired by one of my favourite books, and i had so much fun writing it 💫

i hope you like it! 🔮

ce destin est un marée (et nous sommes emportés)

read on ao3

Summer 1886

In the north end of the Paris, on the edge of the artist’s haven of Montmarte, sur le Boulevard de Clichy, you’ll find a man standing on top of a box in front of an old theatre. He’s strangely dressed, sporting a bright red suit and a top hat cast in shimmering gold. His beard is dark and neatly trimmed, a cane rests over his wrist, and a monocle dangles from his breast pocket. There’s an elegance about him that’s contrasted with a certain strangeness—it excites you. It makes you stop in your steady pace down the boulevard. It makes you perk your ears up.

“Venez tous! Venez tous!”

You listen as the man weaves a tapestry of words and images that floats over the gathering crowd, settles across their shoulders and tickles the backs of their necks with curiosity.

L’homme fort: the strongest man in all of France, capable of breaking apart stone with his bare hands.

Les acrobates: a death-defying act starring a pair siblings who have come all the way from the exotic south.

Les danseuses: no man alive is safe from the spell these young ladies weave as they move.

Then the man lowers his voice to a whisper. You feel yourself leaning forward involuntarily.

He tells of a new addition to their family, a young man plucked from the gutters of Paris like a rare jewel from the sewage—a young man of otherworldly abilities.

Le cartomancien.

Every secret you hold close to your heart can be found within the folds of his cards. He knows when you will meet the love of your life. He knows the last words you will say before you die.

The man raises his voice, spreads his arms out wide.

“If you are brave enough to discover your future, mesdames et meisseurs, you can meet this young man and his magical deck of cards for the low price of deux francs!”

This prompts scoffs from some of the crowd. They turn away, not wanting to spend their hard-earned money on such trifles. But you, you linger there in the boulevard, thinking about your present: directionless, bleak, your father’s unchanging disappointment a phantom pain between your shoulderblades. You feel a constant thrum under your skin, an unearthly restlessness waiting to break free from its mortal confines. Your future is as murky to you as the hazy mid-summer sky, and you wonder if knowing would ease the stress at all. Perhaps knowing what lies ahead in the future would give you purpose in the present.

The coins in your pockets are heavy with implication. Father’s money, the money of land ownership and property taxes and squeezing tenants until they bleed.

The thought of using that money for something Father would look down on with such distaste makes you smile. There is victory in the small revolutions, perhaps.

You consider it. You imagine sitting at a dimly lit table, watching cards fall to the surface like leaves in the autumn before some faceless, mysterious fortune-teller, and the idea is as enticing as the sweets you used to see in the windows of Le Bon Marché when you were a child.

But then you hear a clock chime in the distance, that dreaded mark of time passing, a warning that you are risking lateness to your meeting with Father’s business partners. And so, much like the sweets, you leave the man standing on the box, the theatre and the fortune-teller, because you know this is something that will forever be out of reach.

You take a hurried step back, turning to the direction you were first headed in, and nearly collide with a young man and woman coming towards you.

You step aside, lowering your hat in apology, but the pair barely take notice of you, talking excitedly amongst themselves.

You stare as they pass.

Not at the girl. She is pretty, yes, dark-haired and with a sweet smile, but the boy.

The first thing you see is deep, oceanic blue; eyes as alluring and freeing and terrifying as the Atlantic itself.

Then you take in more details in rapid succession: a straight, elegant nose, clear smooth skin, full lips curved into an inviting smile as he says something that makes the girl hit him on the arm in retaliation, his cheeks dimpling as he laughs.

You are late, you are squandering your final chance to gain Father’s trust as the minutes tick by, but you cannot move. You are fixed to the middle of the street because you have never seen a person so beautiful that they’ve caused such a violent reaction in you: a lightning storm roaring in your veins just from the sight of them, just from the thought of stroking your fingers across their cheek.

It scares you, this rush of instant attraction, for as exhilarating as it is, as good as it is to feel so alive you could soar, your heart is heavy with the knowledge that this is something else that is wrong with you. This is something else that makes you different. Something else that ensures Father will never approve of you.

So you merely watch as the beautiful boy passes you, as he disappears into the mouth of the old theatre and becomes nothing more than a memory. A dream.

You leave quickly, now inexcusably late to your meeting, and you will yourself to forget about possibilities and overturned cards predicting futures and fate lines that can be broken, or diverted.

You may have a strong will, young Monsieur Demaury, but you forget one thing: that just because you cannot see your own future, does not mean it isn’t already in motion.

Autumn 1888

Lucian de la Lune is sitting at a small table, across from a man with a perfectly-groomed moustache, waiting for him to pick a card.

He doesn’t know the man’s name—he never asks for names, in order to keep client privacy. He asks only for a word, something to identify them to him when they request appointments for readings.

This man called himself Oberon.

Oberon keeps fluttering his fingers across the fan of cards spread across the table, humming under his breath, but eventually lands on one, carefully picking it up from the fan spread across the table. When he turns it over, he raises his eyebrows, dropping it back down to the table as if the thick cut of paper is slowly catching fire, threatening to singe his fingertips.

The image on the card is a cloaked figure with a lantern, one skeletal hand stretched out to an unseen, unsuspecting person. The pale messenger. The dark omen. Death.

“Death, then is it?” Oberon says with a wry smile. “My time has come?”

Lucian de la Lune sighs, tugs the sleeves of his white shirt back over his wrists. It’s silk, one of Yann’s, and it swims on him, gapes open on his neck and collarbones in a way he knows they notice, the men and women who come into his small room inside the theatre—the one shrouded in navy blue and deep purple curtains, with tall, misshapen candles alighting every available surface. All of it—the eccentric room, the loose silk shirt, his perpetually messy hair—compounds to form the image of the pretty, mysterious boy with the magic cards and all-seeing eyes. The infamous Lucian de la Lune.

“It is not as literal as that.” He says to Oberon, waving a hand out over the table. His tarnished signet ring catches in the candlelight, a muted flash of light thrown across the ceiling. “The cards never are.” He picks up Death in his left hand, flipping its face towards Oberon. “What it means by death is rebirth. There’s a change coming for you, monsieur, whether you are ready for it or not. A necessary destruction in order for rebuilding.” He flits his gaze over to the man, who is staring back at him, rapt. “Choose two more, please.”

Oberon does, with more excitement, plucking two cards from the fan quickly and laying them face up between them.

The first is five thorn-stemmed roses, all cut sharply at the bottom. Unforeseen challenges approaching. But the card is inverted to Oberon, signifying a fall, of some sort. A price paid from dishonesty.

The second is a man, hanging by the foot from a wooden post. Also inverted. A possibility for change and self-reflection, but for Oberon more likely a stagnation of the self through materialistic pursuits.

“Ah,” Lucian de la Lune murmurs. It is becoming clearer to him. He lays a finger down on a card. “The five of wands, monsieur. It is reversed to you, signifying a coming challenge. Circumstances will change, and you will need to adapt to them.” He moves his finger to the other card. “The hanged man, which is also reversed. You are stuck in the habits you have created. These are selfish habits. They have led you to a life only concerned with profit, by any means, and if you keep in these habits,” he sweeps a hand across the three cards laying between them, “ there is a chance you will lose everything.”

Oberon stares at him, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows.

Lucian de la Lune sits back in his chair, satisfied. He’d had a feeling, when the man first stepped into his room, that there was an uneasiness about him; something he couldn’t put a name to, but gave a sensation like holding a stolen loaf of bread in your hand. A forbidden sort of feeling.

Caught. Which would imply breaking the rules. Which, in turn, could imply:

Exploitation. Criminality. Fraud.

It had only been a guess, but his guesses are usually right.

Always trust your instincts, Lucas, Maman used to tell him. Us Lallemants, we’re never wrong when we get a feeling about someone.

Now, the man across from him laughs, clapping his hands together in front of his chest.

“Well,” he says, grinning, chest puffed up with bravado, “that was very entertaining. But you’re not as good as they say you are, are you?” Oberon’s eyes glitter teasingly at him. “Because I can assure you, my business is secure, mon cher. I can assure you, I am very good at what I do.”

Lucian de la Lune shrugs, picking up the cards one at a time to place them back into his deck, their worn, fading edges smooth and familiar under his fingertips. “The cards only ever show one possibility, monsieur. One future.” He shuffles them with easy, practiced movements, letting the low hum of energy they hold seep into his hands, their hushed, ancient voices singing through his veins. “Each choice we make introduces a new future, or sends us careening towards the one we are meant to meet.” His fluid motions cease, suddenly, and he’s flipping a card over onto the table, face up.

Death.

He smiles sweetly. “You’re the one who made the appointment, monsieur. But then again,” he says, placing the deck down, “this is merely a game. Entertaining, as you say.”

An expression crosses over Oberon’s face as though he just bit into a rotten piece of fruit.

Lucian de la Lune’s smile only widens. “I believe you still owe two francs, monsieur.”

There’s a moment of silence, the two men staring at each other across the table. Then Oberon laughs, digging into his coat pocket for coins. “I think perhaps I underestimated you,”he says. “You are a rather fascinating creature.”

He slaps five down on the table. Nearly triple the usual rate.

“A little extra just for you,” he says, standing. “For giving me a great deal to think about.” He slips into his overcoat and smoothes down the lapel, gathering his cane and hat from the hook by the entrance. “I thank you for your time, Lucien. It was most enlightening.” He winks, tips his hat, and then disappears through the curtains.

It’s only when the curtains still, when Oberon’s footsteps recede into silence, that Lucien de la Lune exhales, rolls his shoulders away from his ears, and becomes Lucas Lallemant once again. It’s like shedding a skin, when he lets himself lose Lucian for a moment, when he doesn’t have to worry about being seen. Gone is the easy confidence, the lowered lashes and air of mystery. Instead there is only Lucas, with all of his scars and distrust.

(But here’s a secret. Lucian de la Lune is not magic, not really. Lucas Lallemant is.)

His Maman was. And her father, and his grandmother, and her great-grandmother, and so on to the very start of their name.

The Lallemants. There is a strange energy in their veins.

But it’s a volatile kind. An all-consuming kind. The kind that made Lucas’ father fall madly in love with Maman, then abandon her when Lucas was just a boy.

It’s the kind that, as the rumours go, drove Lucas’ Maman mad, the catalyst for her running away, for her leaving a thirteen-year-old Lucas behind. It’s the kind that made her disappear. It’s the kind that Lucas grew to see as a curse more than a gift—something for him to fight against, to repress.

He used it only a little, when he lived on the streets. Just enough to survive in the slums of Paris. He distracted shop owners so he could steal food, made a policeman fall asleep in an alleyway so he could escape and one time, saved a baby bird from being run over by a carriage with a well-timed gust of wind.

He wouldn’t use it any more than that. He wouldn’t let magic overtake him like it did Maman.

It’s with a touch of irony then, that he sweeps his gaze across his surroundings, lingering on all the trimmings and trappings that are put in place to say, magic. The energy he so fought against, the gift that is a curse, that is the thing he makes a living from now.

He could say it was pure chance that he met Manon one day on the street, how he was at the end of the little bit of money he’d made selling newspapers, was considering professional thievery, and Manon had taken one look at him and decided he would be perfect for Hercule Barnet’s Monde des Merveilles. He could say it was pure chance, but another cartomancien would scoff at such a thing.

Fate. That is what drives every moment in our lives.

Maman believed in fate.

Lucas picks one of the coins up from the table and rolls it between his fingers.

Was it fate that brought him to this place? To the theatre? This room shrouded in dark curtains? Was it fate that caused him to pull at threads of his magic every day, to tell husbands if their wives are faithful, to tell young women when they’ll meet the man of their dreams, to tell businessmen if their investments will prosper and to tell those sick in love whether or not their feelings will be reciprocated? The futures Lucas saw were rarely pleasing, and were often only vague notions of intent, possibilities as thin and fleeting as smoke. He’s had people break down into inculpable misery in his room. He’s had people react with violent anger. He’s been threatened. He’s been obsessively stalked. He’s had people try to steal his deck, convinced that the cards are cursed.

(But it’s not the cards that are cursed, it’s the boy who wields them.)

You encounter unbelievable faces of humanity, when you deal in the future.

“Lucas?”

He startles, stepping back from the table, and Daphné is poking her head between the curtains, her hair piled up messily on her head, with wildflowers braided sporadically into the strands. She smiles when she sees him.

“Do you have any more clients for the next hour or so?”

Lucas shrugs, rolling his shoulders back, trying to ease the tension at the base of his neck that’s bene plaguing him all morning. “No appointments, but there may still be some that wander in.” He knows what she’s going to ask, the same she does every Wednesday, and he gives a pre-emptive defence. “So no, I’m not coming to lunch.”

Daphné groans, waving a hand out at him. “Lucas. It’s the middle of the week! And it’s freezing outside. No one’s going to come in.” She steps through the curtains, her pale-pink dress brushing against the floor as she moves. “Come with us.” She pleads, bouncing on her toes excitedly. “The girls and I had a fabulous show last night, and we’re celebrating. We want to go to that new café by the park, the one with the incredible pastries.”

Her excitement is catching, her brightness a welcome change from Lucas’s dark curtains and low lighting. Lucas feels the stirrings of a smile, but he shakes his head.

“No. Another time, Daphy.”

Daphné huffs, blowing a stray strand of hair away from her face. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun.” Lucas argues lightly, pocketing two of the coins from the table and holding the other three out to Daphné. “Look how fun I am: I’m giving you extra funds for your decadent lunch.”

“Oh my.” Daphné laughs, taking the coins from Lucas. She examines them in her own palm. “Where did you get these? Another admirer slipping you extra money under the table?”

“Perhaps.” Lucas says, busying himself with reshuffling his cards. “Use it to get yourself one of those pastries.”

Daphné eyes him over her flat palm. “Lucas, are you sure? You could keep this money for yourself.”

“I don’t want it.”

Daphné watches him intently for another moment, eyes dancing over his face, travelling down to his hands, to the cards rapidly flitting between his fingers.

“Alright.” She says eventually. She steps forward and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Lucas.”

Lucas nods. He doesn’t tell her that he has no desire to take the money because it feels like being bought, in a way, like the man was attempting to stamp ownership on Lucas with a few extra pieces of change. Spending that money, to Lucas, would feel like solidifying that ownership.

He doesn’t say it, but he knows Daphné will understand anyway. They all would, all of them that perform for Barnet, who get pulled aside after their shows by wealthy patrons who bombard them with offers for lavish dinners and tickets to the opera. It’s a regular occurrence for them, and it gets all of their backs up.

Daphné squeezes his arm, the warmth and comfort in the gesture saying, It’s alright, Lucas, you’re still your own person. Lucas is at once infinitely grateful for her, for Manon, for everyone in the small family of strange creatures that populate Le Monde des Merveilles.

“You’re welcome,” he says quietly, the movements of his hands slowing as he returns her smile. “Enjoy your lunch.”

Another squeeze to his arm, and she’s gone, disappearing between the folds of the curtain with her pink dress trailing behind her. Lucas looks back down at his cards, his smile fading to something quiet and fond, and without thinking, he picks a card, setting it face-up on the table.

He blinks at what he sees.

A messenger with good news. A bringer of love and fortune. A romantic hero on a white horse.

The Knight of Cups.

Lucas snorts inelegantly, at the card that’s telling him a knight in shining armour is about to appear before him a sweet word and whisk him away, and places it back into the deck, shuffling the knight’s amorous eyes out of sight.

The best thing that has happened to Lucas in the last few years was being given a place in Le Monde des Merveilles. Steady income. A place to live. Food to eat. Friends. A certain level of fame that gives him access to most corners of the city. He does not consider wishing for more than that, ever. Wishing is for fools and romantics.

Lucas shuffles the deck again and focuses, letting the energy of the cards guide his touch. He pulls out one that calls to him, loud and desperate, begging to be seen. He lays it face-up on the table, and there, again.

The Knight of Cups.

Lucas scowls down at the table, at the knight’s eyes that are painted so full of hope.

“Enough,” he says aloud, to the cards, or to the universe, to the magic in his bones and the great magnet that tugs the chains of fate along the surface of the Earth. He says it to all of them at once, slamming the deck of cards down on top of the knight. “It isn’t funny,” he whispers, but he’s not entirely sure what he means by that.

It isn’t funny to make me look towards the door with hope, even when I know nothing will come.

It isn’t funny to promise on things you can’t deliver.

It isn’t funny to pretend that good things happen for no reason.

With a heavy sigh, Lucas pushes himself away from the table and out of his small room, the curtains blowing apart before him, a burst of magic erupting from the centre of his chest that’s unchecked, uncontrollable, and makes a door down the corridor slam shut.

He winces, but he keeps walking, turning a sharp right and making a direct line towards Barnet’s office, which he knows at this time of day will be unlocked, empty, and always has a fresh pot of tea sitting on his desk.

Lucas could really use a cup of tea right now. Preferably one with a strong whiskey in it.

He returns to his room slowly, balancing his cup of tea with a stack of stolen biscuits from the hidden cupboard in Barnet’s office, and he’s not paying attention to what’s in front of him. His eyes continuously drift from his cup to his feet to the biscuits and back to his feet, so Lucas doesn’t see him at all, at first. He has no idea he’s there until there’s a short clearing of a throat, a polite, “Excuse me—”, and Lucas’ head snaps up, his tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup.

He nearly drops the biscuits.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” There’s a young man stepping away from the thick curtains marking Lucas’ room, one arm stretched out as though he’s going to catch any tea that spills onto the floor, but seems to think better of that and snatches his hand back, eyes wide.

Lucas stares at him.

“I, ah…” The man fumbles his hat off his head in a clumsy grip, nearly dropping it with one hand and and catching it with the other, laughing at himself nervously. “I’m sorry,” he says again, bowing his head towards Lucas. “I was hoping to see you, but you were out when I arrived, so I…waited.”

Lucas is still staring at him. He’s staring hard, because the man before him is tall, young and handsome, very handsome, and he’s wearing a thick, expensive coat and perfectly-polished shoes, and Lucas hates it, but the first place his mind goes is to the amorous eyes of the Knight of Cups.

Fucking great magnet. Fucking universe. Fucking cards.

The young man looks like he’s struggling to find something else to say, but Lucas is also struggling, so they stand there, staring at each other for a moment that stretches itself too long, too intimate for strangers in a dim, empty corridor.

Lucas coughs and straightens slightly, desperately grasping at the edges of his Lucian de la Lune cloak, trying to pull it over his Lucas Lallemant face that is too open and honest, too taken aback by the appearance of the man before him, so sweet-faced and honey-voiced that he may very well be from a fairy tale.

“You…” He swallows the tremors in his voice down. “Did you want a reading?”

The young man blinks at him like Lucas woke him from a deep sleep. “A what?”

“The…” Lucas gestures with his pile of biscuits to the thick curtains. “The cards. A reading for your future.”

“Oh! Oh.” The man laughs again, light and warm like a ray of sunlight, and he nods. “Yes, of course. I mean, that’s what you do! Of course.”

“Alright.” Lucas steps around him to enter into his room, quickly dropping his biscuits on the corner table, snapping his fingers to re-light the candles that went out, and taking a rushed sip of his tea to fortify himself. The sip he gets is almost entirely whiskey, which he supposes is rather appropriate, but makes him give a strangled cough. The young man follows after him slowly, carefully, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to enter into Lucas’ little world.

Lucas watches as his eyes roam over the midnight blue curtains, the dripping candles and the round table at the centre, then his eyes find Lucas again, and stay there.

“This is a wonderful room,” the man says. “It suits you.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow. He thinks, that’s a strange thing to say when you don’t know me at all, but he bites back from saying it, swallowing the words down with another sip of tea, and heading right for his table.

“The price of a reading is two francs.” He says flatly, busying himself with straightening the tablecloth and shifting the candles around.

“Oh, of course!” The man plunges a hand into his coat pocket, and Lucas hears the sounds of coins rattling around in there. It’s a sign of wealth and a sign of carelessness, having so many in such an easy place to steal from.

So, wealthy yes, but perhaps newly wealthy. A recent inheritance is most likely, given how young the man looks—barely older than Lucas himself.

The man places two coins down on the table, two francs exactly, and he’s still standing awkwardly behind the other chair, his coat open and his hat in his hand. He looks like he’s halfway between sitting down and running away.

Lucas makes the choice for him. He walks around the table, hands outstretched. “Here, I will take your hat and coat. You can sit down.”

The young man nods, his nerves as palpable as the November chill in the air outside. His movements are jagged and uneasy, his eyes constantly shifting from the ground to Lucas’ face like he can’t decide where to look. Lucas wonders if the young man is looking for an answer to an illicit question. Maybe it has something to do with the beautiful coat in Lucas’ hands, with the money that bought that coat. Maybe this man makes his money like the man from this morning does: in the darkness. Maybe he’s unlucky in love, and he’s going to ask Lucas for help. Dozens of young Parisian men come to Lucas’s table every week with the same predicament.

Lucas is curious, and he’s rarely curious about the people that come to him.

“So,” he says at length when he sits again, reaching for his cards and giving them a quick shuffle, hastily turning the Knight of Cups back over the correct way, “what is it that you’re looking for?”

The young man shrugs, a movement startlingly contradictory to his fine coat, his elegant features and his nervous posture with its ease and insouciance . “I don’t know, really. I suppose I just…” he shrugs again, shifting in his seat, eyes fixed on the cards in Lucas’ hands, following them as they slip and fold into one another. “I suppose I’m curious about what you can see in my future. Or even in my present.”

“Hm.” Lucas sets the deck down on the centre of the table. He lays a finger on top of it. “If you have a clear question, it helps to give a clear reading. Is there anything specific you would want to know? Something to do with finances? Love?”

The young man smiles at Lucas. “Finances and love? Those are the most common inquiries you get?”

“Most people view them as the focuses of life.”

“But you don’t?”

“What I think does not matter.” Lucas replies shortly, and he removes his finger from the deck. “If there is nothing specific you’re seeking then it may dirty the waters of what I can see. Do you understand?”

The man nods. He’s still smiling at Lucas, more confidently now, his shoulders loosening from where they were sitting high around his ear, but his eyes are soft in the candlelight, pale grey-blue catching on the flickering flames.

“Very well.” Lucas murmurs. He gestures at the deck. “Shuffle those until you feel ready to begin.”

The young man inclines his head and he’s reaching forwards, ghosting his fingers across the top of the deck before touching them, as though he’s nervous to. As though he’s not sure if he deserves to touch them, just as he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to enter the room. Lucas shivers as though those long, careful fingers are hovering just above his own skin, mapping out the shape of his body.

When the young man does touch the cards, he touches them gently, reverently, his fingers smoothing across the worn edges, dancing along the intricately-patterned designs on the backs. He looks fascinated with them, as though each card is an entire world of possibility, and he would be right to think so, but he would also be the first person to sit at Lucas’ table who seems to think so.

Lucas shifts in his seat. He can’t stop watching the young man’s hands, listening to the sound of the paper under his fingertips, his own skin prickling with the phantom sensation of a touch on his own skin, and there’s a moment where his mind trips, stumbles on the thought of what it would be like to be touched like the man is touching his cards: so thoroughly and adoringly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the flame of a candle near the floor burst into a violent, bright orange, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, holding his breath until the flame returns to a low, pale yellow. He tastes blood inside his mouth.

This is not right. The cloak of Lucian de la Lune keeps slipping off of his shoulders, revealing too much of Lucas Lallemant to the confines of the small room, to the bright, piercing eyes of the young man across from him.

“I think,” he says softly, breaking into Lucas’ thoughts, “that I am ready.” He places the pile back down on the table.

Lucas takes one steady, calming breath. He avoids the young man’s eyes, focusing on the deck as he moves it to one side, then in one swift movement, spreads it into a fan across the table.

The young man makes an impressed noise, which really is unnecessary, and Lucas feels his lips curling into a pleased smile at the sound, which is equally unnecessary.

Focus, Lallemant.

“Take a moment with the cards,” Lucas orders, waving a hand over the fan. “Find one that is calling to you, in some way, one that you feel yourself being drawn towards. When you do, take it from the pile, and lay it face up on the table.”

He expects the young man to proceed how everyone else normally does at this point, taking their time to consider each and every card, to dance their hands across the fan until eventually picking one that is chosen, they believe, at random; what they think is a split-second decision, but really is an insert of fate into their hands, forcing a choice when making one seems impossible.

But that is not what this young man does. Without hesitation he sends a hand out, fingers touching down on a card off to the left of the fan, nearly at the edge.

“This one,” the young man says, and it’s said without any doubt, so confidently that Lucas feels his own mouth dropping open slightly in surprise. Out of all the people who come into his room, out of all the desperate, future-seeking people in Paris, Lucas would never expect this young man to be the one who knows his card right away.

Is fate forcing his hand so strongly? Or is it a blind choice, one made too quickly, without any thought at all?

Then, the young man is picking the card up, he flips it over on the table, and Lucas blinks down at it.

A hand, hovering in the air, holding out a single coin.

Wealth. Prosperity. A coming successful business venture.

“The Ace of Pentacles,” Lucas says, nodding down at it. “It seems that you have had some good fortune lately, monsieur. Perhaps you’ve come into some money. Or you made an investment that has paid off.”

The young man frowns. “I suppose you could look at it like that,” he says, and Lucas is about to tell him that he doesn’t need to say anything, that he can just pull another card, but the young man says, “My father died a year ago.”

Ah. So Lucas was right about an inheritance.

“I was left ownership of some properties,” the young man says. “A few tenements. A few theatres. I lowered the rent on them, straight away, which, according to all of my advisors was a terrible decision.” He laughs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “It would be a comfort to know I made the right choice.”

Lucas blinks. He heard about this, about some of the buildings he lives near, in the lower end of Paris, coming into new ownership. He heard about the rent being slashed in half, like magic. It’s one of the reasons Daphné, Manon and Alexia take so many luxurious lunches lately.

It doesn’t seem possible to Lucas, that the man across from him, young and nervous and with such careful hands, is responsible for that. It seems too good to be true, one of those stories they print in the papers to try and convince everyone that the wealthy really do care about the poor, that when they drop their spare change into a dirty child’s hand it’s because they want to end poverty. It seems like…Well, it seems like.

Like he’s a fucking knight in shining armour.

There’s an uncomfortable feeling in Lucas’ chest, something fiery and bright, like the birth of a star. He rubs at his sternum absently, and he doesn’t miss how the young man’s eyes follow the motion, dipping to the place where the shirt gapes open slightly on his collarbone.

Lucas flushes. “Choose two more cards.” He says, more sharply than he means to. “We’ll see how successful that choice will really be.”

It shouldn’t surprise Lucas, what happens next. It shouldn’t surprise someone who has magic, who wields the cards and knows that fate exists, that it is a tangible force at work in the universe. It shouldn’t surprise someone who, that same day, pulled the same card twice in a row.

But the young man turns over two more cards, finding them with the same confidence and speed that he did for the first, and Lucas is so shocked by it, that he thinks he can see that candle near the floor burst into a dark purple.

The second card: A messenger with good news. A bringer of love and fortune. A romantic hero on a white horse.

Then the third: a circle with archaic symbols etched into its surface, each corner of the card occupied by a winged creature with watchful eyes. An unexpected turn of events. Fate being pushed into motion.

Lucas both wants to laugh and cry.

The young is staring at him expectantly, hunched over in his seat with his hands clasped in his lap, eyes wide and earnest. Eyes that look so much like the knight’s when Lucas meets them.

“The, um…” Lucas coughs to break the hoarseness in his voice. “The Knight of Cups.” He points at the card in question. “A messenger bringing good tidings, or a symbol of love. Your…” He pauses, and bites down on his bottom lip, trying to gather his thoughts. “Your true love, as it were. Or if not love then a friend, someone coming to aid you. Someone with your best interests at heart.”

He keeps his eyes fixed on the cards as he speaks. He can feel his face growing warm, like the burning in his chest is travelling up through his bloodstream.

“Now, the, um…the next one is the Wheel of Fortune.” He points to it in turn. “There is a shift happening. A change in your life that you can only go along with. There is no point in fighting it. It’s telling you to let the events of fate unfold, as they are already in motion.” He tilts his head down, eyes scanning the three cards. “But usually it’s a good sign, that when the wheel eventually stops, you will find yourself where you need to be. Altogether, this is a very positive reading. It’s saying that if you stay on the course you’re on, then good things will come to you, monsieur. Very good things.”

Only when he finishes speaking does Lucas glance up, checking the young man’s reaction, and once again he finds himself shocked, because the young man doesn’t look smug, like many people who get a positive reading would be. He doesn’t look excited. He’s crying. Silently and reservedly but there it is, thin tears trickling down his cheeks to his chin.

He catches Lucas’ gaze, and he laughs at himself, something Lucas is realizing is a character trait of his, immediately going for self-depreciation whenever anyone takes notice of him. He wipes away his tears, smiling softly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his eyes moving between Lucas’ face and the cards. His cheeks are a mesmerizing shade of pink. “I…don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright,” Lucas says softly. The cloak of Lucien de la Lune is pooling at his feet, fallen completely away from his body, and it is just Lucas Lallemant sitting there, fighting the urge to cover the young man’s hand with his own. To soother. To comfort. “Many people cry during their readings.”

“I suppose it’s that I haven’t had very much good news lately.” The man’s smile takes on a melancholic shape, his eyes low. “It is…a bit overwhelming, when you’re in the dark, to have someone telling you eventually you will find light.”

Lucas doesn’t know what darkness a man like the one across from him could experience. Born wealthy, coming into an inheritance, strangely beloved by his tenants, gifted with a beauty that makes Lucas’ breath catch. What darkness could such a person face?

The tenderness that was blooming in Lucas’ heart is battling with bitter argument, with the desire to bite out, Have you ever slept on the street, monsieur? Stolen scraps for your meals? Have you ever had to sell everything you own, then be faced with selling yourself?

But the bare face he’s wearing must say some of that for him, as the young man frowns, his brow furrowing.

“I am sorry,” he says again, rubbing a hand through his hair, mussing the neat strands. “You must have no wish to hear the worries of businessmen.”

“I hear them every day,” Lucas says. “It’s my job.”

The young man shakes his head. “It’s your job to tell people what they hope for, is it not? To give reassurance.”

Lucas leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I don’t give anything,” he says, a touch tartly. “The cards are chosen by you. I only interpret them.”

“Well.” The young man runs a finger across the Wheel of Fortune card, tracing the edges of the image. “I think you are magic.”

The word makes Lucas balk for a moment, his fingers clenching at the sleeves of his shirt, but the man doesn’t look accusatory when he says it, doesn’t look like he means it any way other than innocent, the way a child might when they see a snowfall on Christmas.

Magic.

“Well,” Lucas says, propping his elbows on the table, mimicking the man’s tone. “I think you are a romantic.”

The man grins. “Is that a bad thing to be?”

Lucas tilts his head from side to side, humming. “It is not a practical thing to be.”

“But it’s necessary, don’t you think?” The man asks, his voice so soft it floats across the table like feathers. “To have love and beauty and romance in times like these? To have sweet things to live for?”

Lucas’ voice comes out as steel. “Many people can’t afford to live for sweet things. They live only to survive.”

The man is quiet at that, chastised, considering Lucas with those bright eyes. Lucas doesn’t shy away from his gaze. He lets his words hang between them, lets them resonate with this lovely, sheltered person, with his money and prophesied success.

“You’re right.” The man huffs a breath and leans back. “It is a naïve outlook, I know. One based only in privilege.” He squints down at the table. “And in ignorance. In not knowing enough about the world. But that is something about myself I’m trying to change.”

“The desire for change is good,” Lucas says. “But it’s the embracing of its reality that is important.” He picks up the three cards on the table and returns them to the deck, shuffling the fan together in his hands. He’s frustrated by how intrigued he is by this man, how his pretty words are piercing so deeply into Lucas’ head. He can’t remember the last time he wanted to get to know someone so badly, to uncover all of their secrets, to sink beneath their chest and see their heart for himself, to taste the heavy beating of it.

His hand slips, and a few cards spill onto the floor.

Lucas curses under his breath, and the man dives down, retrieving the cards from the floor. He brushes each one off carefully, stacking them back into a neat pile to hand to Lucas.

When Lucas takes them, his fingers brush against the man’s. Only for a moment, the briefest touch of skin against skin, but it’s enough to make Lucas’ skin flare up, the place they touched burning as brightly as that place deep in his chest. Lucas snatches his hand away, holding the cards close to himself like they can protect him from the dizzying sensation of those warm, gentle fingers pressed against his own.

Lucas is about to open his mouth to order the man to leave, because there’s only so much he can take of this enthralling, endearing young man who may or may not have been foretold as a knight in shining armour to Lucas, a literal romantic hero sweeping into his midnight-blue room with bight eyes and the outlook of a poet. It should be hilarious, this storybook person who has come to life, so completely different from everything Lucas is, but more than anything, it’s overwhelming. It’s exhausting to be in the same room as him.

“Can I ask you something?” The young man is standing at the side of the table, his fingers spread wide on the top of it.

Lucas narrows his eyes. “I suppose.“

“Lucien de la Lune. That isn’t your real name.”

Lucas snorts, setting the deck down again. “Of course it isn’t.”

“Will you tell me your real name?”

It’s not the first time someone has asked Lucas this, so he has his standard answer ready: a flat, apathetic, “No.”

The man nods like he was expecting this. He presses one hand against his chest, over the burgundy tie knotted there. “I’ll tell you mine.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask for yours, did I?”

“No,” he says on laugh. “You didn’t, but I would like you to know it, if that’s alright.”

Lucas shrugs instead of protesting. He never asks for client’s names, ever. Because it makes them feel secure and he really doesn’t care, but he doesn’t tell this young man, not to tell him, because there’s a corner of his mind where he thinks he really wouldn’t mind knowing.

“It’s Eliott. Eliott Demaury.”

He says it nervously, as nervous as he was when he first entered the room, and Lucas bites back on a smile as he stands from his chair.

“Well, Monsieur Demaury,” he says pleasantly, “thank you for coming today. I hope your fortune was to your liking.” Standing so close to him, within the confines of his room, Lucas becomes at once aware of how much taller Demaury is than him. Lucas has to tilt his head back slightly to meet his eyes.

“It certainly was.” Demaury replies, just as courteously. “Thank you, Monsieur de la Lune.” He draws the name out with a smile, and Lucas shoots him a withering glance as he fetches his belongings from the rack by the entrance.

Lucas watches as Demaury slips into his fine coat, clasping his hat between his hands and looking all the part of a gentleman—the sort of man Lucas would expect to see at the opera, or dining at Foyot. He does not look like the sort of man who would cry from hearing there is good news in his future.

Demaury lingers by the entrance to Lucas’ room, scuffing one polished shoe against the floor and fiddling with his hat, and Lucas finds he doesn’t mind. He’s not sure if he wants him to leave either. He thinks he might want him to stay around, to discover if he really could be the knight in the cards. If there’s some part of him that could be meant for Lucas.

But there’s the sound of laughter at the end of the hall accompanying heavy footsteps, and Demaury startles, turning towards Lucas to make a clumsy bow, placing his hat back ono his head.

“Thank you,” he says. “Again. I…well, I hope to see you again. Sometime.”

“You could always return for another reading.” Lucas says, following Demaury outside of the room. He stops in the doorway, holding the curtain aside and clenching the thick velvet in his hand to centre himself, to make his voice even. “Perhaps your future will change.”

Demaury smiles, head tilting down towards the floor. He sticks his hands in his pockets, a boyish gesture at odds with his gentlemanly exterior. “I really hope it doesn’t change, actually. But…I suppose it is good to check, isn’t it?”

Lucas bites back a grin. “Yes, it is.”

“Alright.” Eliott takes a step backwards, turning on the spot. “Then I will, um…yes. Alright. Yes. Have a…pleasant day, Lucien.”

It comes out before Lucas even thinks of it, the desire to hear his own name in that honeyed voice overpowering the practical, rational side of his brain like an oceanic wave.

“Lucas,” he says quietly. Demaury whirls back towards him, mouth open in surprise. “You may call me Lucas.”

“Lucas,” Demaury says, and his mouth holds the letters are carefully and reverently as he held the cards, as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch such things.

Lucas is holding the curtain so tightly now he thinks there may be a real possibility he will rip it down. The burning in his chest has spread into his entire body, humming with something that feels a bit like magic, but also feels entirely separate from it.

“Have a pleasant day, Lucas.” Demaury whispers, and he’s smiling so sweetly at Lucas, his eyes crinkling, that Lucas lets one out in return. Just one small smile, only for one moment.

“Have a pleasant day, Monsieur Demaury.” He replies, and he watches as Demaury turns away, taking a few steps down the hallway before turning back towards Lucas, huffing a laugh when his eyes land on him and turning once again, towards the entrance of the theatre, and he disappears from sight, his footsteps swallowed up by the sounds of laughter and excited voices as people come and go within the theatre, searching for entertainment or searching for their future or searching for the very thing they did not know they would find.

Lucas exhales and steps back into his room. It feels different in there after Demaury, like the room itself is holding memory of his shape, of his presence. Lucas goes to the corner table and knocks back the rest of his tea, the remaining whiskey a welcome burn in his throat. He takes a large bite from a biscuit and chews slowly, thoughtfully, paces a circle around the room like he’s walking in a dream.

He stops in front of the round table, where the deck of cards sits like a northern star, pulling him forwards, leading him somewhere he cannot see.

He pops the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and picks the deck up, shutting his eyes and he shuffles, letting the energy of the cards guide every movement, every brush and slide of paper against paper. It’s a whirlwind of sensation behind his eyes, sounds and colours and feeling, but then there’s ah, there’s something, and Lucas plucks out a card, dropping it down onto the table.

He opens his eyes.

Not the Knight of Cups. Not what he was, possibly, expecting.

But the very thing he should have been expecting.

A circle with archaic symbols etched into its surface, each corner of the card occupied by a winged creature with watchful eyes. An unexpected turn of events. Fate being pushed into motion.

The Wheel of Fortune.

A laugh bursts out of Lucas, one that’s long and lingers and is full of wonder rather than spite, tapering off to giggles that shake his shoulders.

He sighs, running a finger along the card the same way Demaury did, as though touching the same edges of the wheel will feel like touching Demaury’s hand again.

“I see you’ve given up on subtlety altogether,” Lucas says. He says it to the cards, to the universe, to the magic in his bones and the great magnet that tugs the chains of fate along the surface of the Earth. He says it to all of them at once.

He lets out another laugh, at the impossibility of it all, at the wheel staring back at him so intently from the table, promising changes Lucas himself could never have predicted.

We are in motion.

#you're so sweet anon ily 💛💛💛💛#i loved working on this prompt so thank you for sending it in!!!#my research for the fic consisted of a solid hour of looking up paintings from la belle epqoue #which was amazing #but that being said if anyone catches any historical inaccuracies (there will likley be some let's be real) i'm happy to make edits!!#tarot prompts #prompt fill #fic tag #elu fic #skam fr fanfic #skam fr #skam france

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