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Lazy Day

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Every day could be considered a typical day, and that was what bothered you the most about living in a Time Loop. You knew your duties, carried them out, and that was that; the closest things you had to a ‘surprise’ were the children, who constantly chose different games and activities (since they had comparatively few chores), but even they had their limitations.

Alma, for one, was completely at ease. She loved the repetition, the predictability, the security of her home and it was for her sake that you never complained—not to her, at least. Some of the older children, Emma especially, knew that you were as restless as they were, and so often searched you out for company. They seemed to confide everything in you—worries, fears, nightmares and dreams—so you never expected them to keep a secret from you:

It was your birthday, but even such holidays have their traditions, from which Alma very rarely veered. You expected to wake up just in time for brunch and spent much of the afternoon entertaining the younger children, who thought that they were keeping you distracted while Emma, Olive, and Enoch helped their ymbryne bake goodies to serve that night at dinner. Then the normal Horace vision/movie would be replaced with a sort of party, where the children all took cake and punch in the living room and listened to your favorite records, and you would retire finally (after Reset, of course) to receive Alma’s present.

It was predictable, yes, but it was still a break from your normal routine, and you absolutely loved it.

That morning, however, you woke up half-an-hour later than usual to the scent of bacon, biscuits, and gravy—a favorite meal of yours from America that Alma had observed you make once every couple of years, when homesickness sunk in. At first, you had thought that you’d overslept and that the smell was wafting up the stairs from the kitchen, but you soon realized that it was right beside you: a tray had been set off your side of the bed, just within reach.

“Good morning,” Alma whispered. She stood in the doorway, a prideful grin tugging at the corners of her lips; there was nothing so beautiful in all the world as your Alma when she smiled. “Happy birthday, love.”

“My songbird,” you rasped, sitting up to rest against the headboard, “you always do spoil me.”

Alma traipsed across the room and sat on the edge of the mattress by your hip; breakfast was far from your mind as she leaned down, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss and wrapping one hand around the back of your neck.

“Miss Buntings offered to take care of the children,” she whispered against your lips. “You and I have the day to ourselves.

“Until dinner,” she added, slightly louder, as if coming out of a trance. “The children still want to be a part of your birthday party, of course.”

“Of course,” you giggled. “So, what should we do first?”

Alma’s blue-green eyes bore into your own, drinking in the eagerness therein.

 

The children came by the room once while you were eating breakfast; they each peered in, or crawled onto the bed, to wish you a happy birthday and then disappeared down the stairs, all under the watchful eye of Miss Bunting, an ymbryne who normally worked closely with Miss Avocet. She had decided that it would be best (for your privacy) to take the children to the beach and had so far done a marvelous job getting them to listen to her instructions.

You had never met the woman before, but Alma seemed to be torn between admiration and anxiety.

“They’ll be fine, my love,” you sang. “She’s one of the few people you can trust with them, remember? You’ve said that several times…”

She waited until they had all definitely left the house to change into her nightgown and slipped into bed beside you, laying one arm across your stomach. Her head came to rest on your shoulder.

“Have you eaten?” you asked, placing a kiss to her forehead.

“A few bites, yes.”

“Oh, Alma,” you scolded playfully, one eyebrow raised, “you know that won’t do.”

With your left hand, you picked up a spoonful of biscuit, dipped it into the gravy, and carried it carefully over your lap to hold it before Alma. She watched you a moment with a silly grin.

“Go on,” you said, bringing it closer to her lips. “Don’t you usually insist one needs a full, healthy breakfast?”

She leaned forward and took the spoonful between her lips, pulling slowly away—her eyes scanning the subtle changes in your expression as she did so—and, rather than laying back to rest where she’d been, began to giggle furiously.

“What?” you laughed as she curled up against your chest, frame still shaking with mirth.

“You found—” but that much of the omission only made her laugh harder. She was adorable—smile wide, cheeks tinted red, nose scrunched, happy tears swimming at the edges of her eyes, and the cutest little puffs and snorts escaping when she ran out of air. When she spoke next, her voice was breathy and high-pitched, as if holding back another fit of giggles. “You found that arousing, didn’t you?”

“What?” you repeated, letting one more chuckle escape. “What’s wrong with that?”

Alma let out one deep hum, then composed herself enough to sit up straight. She reached forward to grab the plate off of your tray. By now, most was already gone; there was a single strip of bacon submerged partially in gravy and a half-eaten biscuit.

“It wasn’t exactly sexy,” she said, stealing the spoon from your hand, “was it?”

“Don’t sound so sure.”

She took another bite and you watched just as attentively as before.

“You’re doing it again,” she teased, one hand covering her mouth.

“Of course.” You waited for her to swallow before leaning forward for a kiss, then whispered against her lips, “You’re so beautiful.”

And so breakfast took a lot longer to finish than normal. Your corny compliment had led to more corny compliments, which led to more eating, which led to giggles, which led to conversations about what is and is not sexy, and so on and so forth. It took nearly half-an-hour to clean off the plate, after which time Alma was thoroughly pleased with herself and blushing all over.

“Oh, shoot, I forgot to spill gravy on you,” you joked.

“Hmm.” She examined her nightgown. “What, so you would have an excuse to take this off of me?”

You were having a hard time concentrating on what she had just said, being distracted as you were by the way she was moving her shoulders and keeping her hair back to emphasize her…um…

Then her hips shifted and the fabric began to climb, drawing your attention to her white thighs. She lifted her dress so slowly, you were enraptured and amazed by every new thing she revealed, as if you hadn’t seen it countless times before: the beautiful curve of her hips, the soft plain of her stomach—you couldn’t help yourself, but reached out to drag your fingertips gently up her stomach and over the slight juts of her ribs, pausing just below her breast, where the fabric had stopped moving.

You only now noticed that you’d actually been touching her, and she was looking down at you with her lips slightly parted, eyes dark. The hand that was holding her gown up curled tighter around the hem; her exhales faltered, growing deeper beneath your fingers.

“Do you want to take this off me?” she murmured in her low, intoxicating susurrus. “Or shall I?”

Your gaze flicked quickly between her eyes and the tops of her breasts, which were rising and falling prominently with each heavy breath. You both were sitting up on the pillows against the headboard with only maybe an inch between you; if you turned onto your side, you would be able to kiss her neck, shoulder, and chest without any strain…and you did so, latching onto the place where her neck met her shoulder.

“(Y/N.),” she said, “you need to…you need to stop. You’ll leave a mark.”

Rather than ease up on that spot, however, you simply switched to using your teeth, nipping and kissing and smoothing it over with your tongue when it began to turn pink. The skirt of her nightgown suddenly fell back down her stomach, over your hand and forearm, and you realized that the hand she had used to hike the dress up was now holding on to your shoulder. As her grip tightened, you began to ghost your kisses up her neck. Alma threw her head back to give you better reach of her throat, which you took advantage of, biting softly before trailing back down toward her collarbone. You tried to run your fingers over her breasts beneath her gown, but the fabric there was somewhat tight.

Alma moved as if to sit up, but you were impatient; rather than wait for her to remove the gown, you brushed your thumb over the fabric, easily finding her nipple, and began to run your nail over the hardening peak as you continued your assault on her chest. One nip to her collarbone, another to the soft flesh of her cleavage, and the final came as a surprise—at least, considering how she started, raising her back off the bed and letting out a stifled high-pitched moan—as you clamped down on her nipple, despite the gown. She had barely repaired her breathing when you did it again, only this time you didn’t release her, but rolled the peak between your teeth until she was involuntarily doing to same to her bottom lip.

Alma tried then to reach between you—whether to touch your core or her own, you weren’t sure, but you wouldn’t let that happen, not while you had her so close already. You pinned her hand above her head and began to grind down into her, never letting up on her breasts until she balled her fists into the sheets, nearly tearing holes through to the mattress with her talons.

“(Y/N),” she whined.

She was growing slick, but you couldn’t distinguish it from your own arousal; you bit down once more on her nipple, teasing it out, and held her hips down with your free hand. It slipped easily between her damp curls. You dragged your middle finger through the patch of hair and over her clit once, twice, then thrust it inside of her without warning.

And just like that, her walls began to clench around your finger and her back lifted off the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she panted, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to finish so quickly, I…”

You sat back on your haunches, still stratling her hips, and brought your finger, wet with her cum, up to your lips.

“Don’t apologize,” you said before sucking it clean. “You still taste amazing.”

You leaned down to give her one last peck on the cheek—her chest and stomach were still erratic as her breathing, and her body was tense, coming down from its short-lived high—then made your way to the door. With the mess she’d already made, you thought you might need to grab a towel, or else an extra set of sheets.

“Are you going to let me—”

“No, not yet,” you teased, stepping into the hallway. “We have all day.”