#(not that that helps me with fic where I can go for whatever fuckin word count I need without even thinking about it)

[essektheylyss]

the only thing I keep notes on when writing is stuff that's already been signaled and needs to come back somehow, and I try to keep those notes as condensed as possible because if they're too lengthy or I have too many items I'll start missing things, but that gets very funny when I jot down something like

[undercoverpena]

sunrise

francisco morales x santiago garcia

GIF credit to @perotovar

summary: after mixed messages, pope asks frankie if he'll watch the sunrise with him.

wordcount: 1.1k warnings: none. jo doing jo things with words. just two boys, mixed messages and a bit of hope. an: happy pride. this fic is dedicated to the lovely, wonderful @perotovar who not only is a great friend, but also has never made me feel like i'm not part of pride. it's been a long time since I've written m/m, but erin, your kind words (and gif) filled me with joy. i hope this fills you with joy too.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz—

He doesn’t need to look, to smack his hand around the bedside table, Frankie knows where his phone is.

Retrieving it, pressing it to his ear—old sleep crusting in his eyes—Frankie lets out a soft groan, the weight of lingering thoughts still pushing heavily against his mind. With a reluctant sigh, he mumbles a tender hello, his voice heavy, gruff.

“Hey,” Pope says.

It elongates, stretches out like a fragile thread suspended between them—as though another word should have followed but isn’t spoken.

“You awake?”

“Am now.”

He doesn’t miss the chuckle that’s embedded into the breath. Nor, how it brushes down and through the phone. A sensation bubbling across his skin, his body remembering how it feels to have it against him.

“You’ve not been replying—in the group chat.”

He rubs his face, the motion all a hopeless attempt to awaken his mind, wishing the act would spur on words. Something. Anything to bridge the aching void between them.

It doesn’t.

It just adds to the other things churning inside him, layering over doubts and questions—the ones that linger unanswered, even when they are alone, haunting the spaces between their moments together.

Sliding the phone back against his cheek, he sighs. “Yeah, sorry. Just… wasn’t checking things.”

“Yeah, thought so.”

He hums, and then releases a heavy breath. Needing to fill the silence before it begins. Not wanting to find out if today it’s comfortable or the opposite.

“You busy?”

“At 3 in the morning?”

Pope laughs—and Frankie hates how much he likes the sound. Despises it, almost. Loathes it, like he detests how he feels.

“Didn’t know if you wanted to watch the sunrise with me.”

“I’m a whole flight from you, Pope.”

“Don’t have to be in the same location to watch the sun come up, Fish.”

“We fuckin’ do if it comes up at different times, cabrón.”

There’s a pause, then a chuckle. One that begins with Pope and then ends with him. It fills the air, the space, the area between them that they pretend not to notice or ask about whenever they come home.

Because home isn’t out there, where they’re adorned in layers that barrier against artillery and threats; home isn’t where they help the other free from it all in the comfort of a base room or a tent in the middle of nowhere. Home is real. It’s chosen paint on the walls and picked out bedding; it’s photographs filled with only the best and souvenirs that remind of good times.

And, right now, the only evidence of Pope here is the memories—

That first kiss. How fuelled it had been, how he’d done it purely to stop the tide of ifs and buts that Pope had been flinging, angrily darting in the hope to hit the bullseye and wound him further than his foolishness had.

And it’s not that Frankie wishes to hang up, it isn’t that he hopes to shove things further into his soul. He’s had his crisis—had it when he’d had Pope pressed against his spine, breath fanning out over his neck, making the hair curled from their earlier activities twitch and tickle.

But, he’s at least come to terms with the fact this isn’t a home thing. A thing which doesn’t exist when he steps on the plane to go back to a life where people call him Francisco. He’s made his peace with it, accepted it—as much as a person can.

He’s done the work to rationalise and reason. So, whatever this phone call is, it feels counterproductive. It feels like sinking, falling through those steps and nets he’s built until he’s drenched in the will-they-won’t-they he’s clambered far away from. The hopes seep into his skin, worming into his brain, threatening to paint shadows on the back of his eyelids at what the two of them could be—

“What are we doing, Pope?”

There’s an exhale. It’s likely a sigh, but it’s hard to assess without the facial expression. The way he wears his feelings in his body language.

“I‘m not sure.”

Frankie expects that, somehow. Yet it still stings, hurts—ripples out like a lashing he’s braced for. Rolling onto his side, he grinds his jaw. Staring at the gap in the curtains, the one that’ll allow light to bleed through in a few more hours, nostrils flaring as he shakes his head.

“I can’t watch the sunrise with you.”

“‘Cause of the time difference?”

Rolling his eyes, he blows out a harsh breath. “No. Because if we do, I’ll confess something that’ll make it hard for you to do that compartmentalising shit that you do about the fact you and I fuck.”

The silence that follows is painful, excruciating. It’s devoid and barren, dull and full of nothing. There’s no background noise to drown it out, the night too quiet, the hour too dormant—to the point it almost makes Frankie feel guilty for disturbing it.

“What if I told you I’m at the motel on 22nd—”

Frankie sits up. Bolt upright. The suddenness of it forces the sheet to fall from his neck to pool at his waist, the air cool flurrying over warm skin, heat blooming in his cheeks.

“—the one you talked about—”

His heart hammers. Pounds.

“—the one you go to when home is a bit too… home.”

“Pope…”

“Fish.”

Swinging his legs from under the sheets, elbow resting on the place above his knee, hand wiping down his face, awake, blood pounding in his ears.

“Por favor no bromees.”

Sighing, blowing it right into his ear. It’s far more soothing, rooting, than it has been before.

“Wanna watch the sunrise with me, Fish?”

Swallowing, fear threatens to poison the joy that is trying to fill his chest. His hand clamps around his knee for leverage, for strength. Squeezing, likely making his skin paler—it returning to colour when he releases as he tries to get his brain to calculate the percentage of how much of a good idea this is.

But then he hears his name. It whispered, with more of an infliction, a question to it.

And so he takes a breath. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’ll… get dressed now.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

A silence unfurls, one nicer, more bearable than any of the others before—

“Well hurry then, Fish.”

And then, as Frankie suspected, Pope ends the call.

tagging: @morallyinept (for your collection)

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

hi, idk if you write this kind of thing but would you mind writing something with either carmy berzatto or frank castle and a recovering addict! gf?

she relapses and he's angry but he loves her so he's gentle. he doesn't know what to do.

i’m not doing so well atm and i’m really struggling to stay clean, your writing and just fics in general really help take me out of my own head.

There's Always Tomorrow.

Frank knows you better than you know yourself. It's a blessing and a curse.

Author's Note - hi sweet anon. i'm sorry to hear you're not doing so well at the moment. i lost a good friend of mine to addiction, and i know how hard it can be. just know that you're never alone - there's always someone you can talk to. you're doing amazing, and I'm wishing you all the best. you've got this.

i got this request and knew i had to write it, as it's something very close to my heart. i've tried to handle it as sensitively as possible, without going into too much explicit detail. i've included some resources at the bottom of this post such as websites and hotlines if you feel like you need some support. so much love to anyone who's struggling. i see you, and i admire you. you're always stronger than you think x

Pairing - Frank Castle x Recovering Addict Female Reader

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - addiction. mentions of relapse. talk of sobriety and being clean. cursing. please do not read if this will be triggering to you in any way.

Word Count - 1.7k

Masterlist. Requests.

Frank knows something is wrong the minute he walks through the door.

Usually, he yells honey, I'm home! and is greeted by you jumping into his arms, covering his face in kisses.

Today, you're nowhere to be found.

He's storming through your house, yelling your name at the top of his lungs. A thousand scenarios are running through his head, all of them horrifically tragic. He's terrified.

He gets to the closed bathroom door and yells your name again.

"Sweetheart, you in there?"

You don't reply, but he hears you sniffle.

"Shit, baby, are you cryin'? Open the door. Whatever it is, I'll fix it, okay?"

"You can't," you sob. "Not this time."

Frank has never heard you this upset, and he's starting to panic.

"Open the door, honey. Please. Just open the door and we'll work somethin' out."

"You don't want me to," you cry. "You're going to hate me."

"Hate you? I could never hate you. I love you, you know that. Open the door. Please."

You sniffle again, but make no attempt to move.

"Alright. I'm about to break it down. Move back, so I can kick it in."

"Don't you dare," you threaten. "This door was expensive."

"Then open it."

You're not sure if it's his words, or the way he sounds exhausted, but you decide to give him some respite. You stand up and turn the lock, before slumping back down into your spot on the floor.

Frank takes a good look at you, and his heart shatters.

Your cheeks are tracked with mascara stained tears. You're wearing nothing but a tank top and some underwear. Your hair looks like you've been running your fingers through it repeatedly. Your lips are bitten and raw. You look tired.

"Baby," he whispers. "What happened? Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you lie.

"You're not fine. You're clearly not fuckin' fine. We don't lie to each other, do we?"

When you don't answer, he grabs your chin to look at him where he's standing.

"Do we?"

"No," you mutter, shaking your head. "We don't lie to each other."

"That's right," he says, moving to kneel in front of you. "Now please, honey. What happened?"

Silence. More sniffles.

"If I tell you, you're going to hate me. You're going to leave me and you're going to hate me."

"I don't think there's anythin' in the world that could make me hate you," he reassures.

Frank looks at you intently, proving you have his full attention. He cups your cheek gently, and waits for you to tell him the truth. Eventually, you speak.

"I relapsed," you whisper.

Frank's whole body goes rigid, and he freezes. He's still looking at you, but it's different now.

"Frank," you say gently. "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

Your blood runs cold. He sounds... distant. Detached. He sounds angry.

"Please don't hate me. I told you you'd hate me. God, I knew this would happen."

There are fresh, warm tears streaming down your face, dripping onto your shirt. Frank still remains stoic, removing his hand from your cheek.

"I don't hate you," he says eventually. "But I need you to give me a minute."

With that, he rises to his feet and leaves. You're left on the bathroom floor, sobbing and alone.

 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵　 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵ 　 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵ 　 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵ 

Frank sits on the edge of your bed, trying his best to take deep breaths.

Your addiction isn't a secret. You've talked about it time and time again, telling Frank all of the details that you swore to yourself you'd never tell anyone. You met him, and felt instantly safe. He's the perfect confidant - he listens, he understands. He's compassionate, he's gentle, he's empathetic. You've opened up again and again, and Frank has never judged you once. It's one of the reasons you fell so hard for him.

You've been clean since you met him. A naive part of him hoped that he'd never have to see you otherwise. He knows that sobriety is a journey, he knows that it isn't linear. But he hasn't been through it. There's only so much he really understands. He tries, though. God, he tries.

He's sitting in your shared bedroom, wondering why he left you in the bathroom by yourself. Is it because he can't bear to see you upset? Is it because he can't handle it like he thought he could?

He realises, suddenly, that it's because he simply doesn't know what to do. He's never been in this situation before, and he doesn't know which course of action to take. Does he sit and cry with you? Does he yell at you to never do it again? Does he tell you he still loves you, no matter what? He decides, unsure, to try a mix of all three.

Frank strides back into the bathroom and sees you still in the spot he left you. You're still crying, and it lodges a lump in his throat. He fights back his own tears, and sits down next to you, pulling you into his arms.

"Hey, hey. You're okay. We're okay. It's all okay."

"It's not okay, Frank," you sob. "I'm so mad."

"At me? I'm sorry, honey. I shouldn't have stormed out like that. I just panicked and -"

"No, no. At myself."

Frank soothingly strokes your hair, rocking you gently. You relax into his hold, tears subsiding slightly.

"I've worked so hard on being clean. It's a choice, every single day. Why did I choose wrong today? I've ruined everything. I've fucked up all of my hard work, all of my progress."

"You know," he begins. "There's no end goal here. It's a constant journey. And on any journey, there's gonna be ups and downs."

You try to protest, but he cuts you off.

"One bad day doesn't determine the rest of the week. Or the rest of the month. Or the year. Okay?"

You nod your head, and he kisses your temple.

"There's always tomorrow, baby. There's always tomorrow. We can start again. Today doesn't undo everything. It just changes your course a little."

"Frank Castle. A poet. Who knew?" you tease. He laughs, and the vibrations buzz through you both.

"Only for you, honey."

You both sit on the floor for what feels like hours, content to just hold each other. Frank is wondering what caused the events of the day, what made you feel like you had no other option, where you even got a hold of everything. But he doesn't ask. He knows you'll talk about it tomorrow. Instead, he wraps his arms around you tighter, and tries to match his racing heart to the beat of yours.

"Promise me that if you feel like this again, you'll tell me. I don't care where I am, or what I'm doin'. We're in this together."

"I promise," you whisper.

"There's always tomorrow, honey," he murmurs into your hair.

"There's always tomorrow," you echo.

He's right. There's always tomorrow.

Al-Anon / Ala-Teen Hotline - 800-356-9996

SAMHSA Hotline - 1-800-662-4357

DrugFree Hotline - 855-378-4373

Alcoholics Anonymous (UK) - +44-800-9177-650

DAN 24/7 (England&Wales) - +44-808-8082-234

Narcotics Anonymous (UK) - +44-300-999-1212

MIND Website (lots of useful UK resources here)

SAMHSA Website (USA)

these are just a select few. there are hundreds, if not thousands, of websites, hotlines and places to turn for support if you're struggling. asking for help might be the hardest thing you'll ever do. but it's so worth it. promise x

[elsweetheart]

can u make a little drabble about fem reader x ellie in which the reader is inexperienced and they heavily make out for the first time i need this 😩

i can … i can do tht ….. this is a prequel to this fic i wrote :)

barnyard beauty — slow burn prequel

🎀 ellie + reader freshly in relationship together, a little smutty but not too much, ellie being cocky AGAIN

you were giggling so much it was starting to feel a little pathetic. ellie just drew that kind of reaction out of you every time, even though she was finally all yours you couldn’t help but feel like you were still harbouring a demure school girl crush on her. she was always flirty with you, but now even in a relationship she would still act like she was trying to win you over. she’d open doors for you, kiss your knuckles when she’d greet you, go out of her way to hunt for gifts you’d like. you were being totally wooed, and you didn’t feel like she was going to be stopping anytime soon.

“els stop you’re making my tummy hurt.” you laughed, clutching your side as the two of you sat on the floor of the barn. it was night time, and everyone was at movie night — so the two of you had snuck in to chill and hang out away from all the noise. the two of you had been in a relationship for three weeks now, so the pair of you were even more joint at the hip than usual.

“what? no, okay — it’s a serious question. say i turned into a horse right now. right this second— okay—” she cut her hypothetical question off by joining in with your laughter, hand grabbing yours when you thoughtlessly swatted at her. “what would you do? like i just become a horse. you blink and i’m just standing there as a horse. realistically what would you do?” she chuckles, urging you to answer through your breathless chortles.

“why would you ask that? in what world is that possible?” you clutch your stomach.

“just— fuckin’— hypothetically, okay?” ellie was always asking the silliest hypothetical questions, and you always put it down to her hilariously inquisitive personality. truthfully, she asked them because she knew it always made you laugh and god she loved your laugh — she also found that your answers were strangely insightful.

“i don’t know — i guess, i’d have to tell joel i mean — he’d be wondering where you went. and then i suppose i’d tell jesse and dina, ‘cos i think jesse especially would get a kick out of it.” you chuckled, staring off pensively across the barn at the other horses lined up minding their business. she stared at your side profile, her laugh dying down into a soft smile as she watched you contemplate. “aaand, yeah. i guess i’d just have to adapt. couldn’t date you anymore, cos that would be weird but… i’d take care of you… and ride you.” you shrugged innocently, breaking ellie out of her loving gaze to snicker at the last part.

you turn your head to look at her, her face closer than you remember it being. “what?” you smile in anticipation for whatever hilarious comment ellie was about to make. she was smirking, clearly proud of whatever it was about to come out her mouth.

“oh you’re gonna ride me?” she teased, poking your waist. you wasn’t quite sure what that would entail but you knew it was sexually charged, forgetting that sometimes words have a double entendre attached. you felt your face get hot, scrunching your nose.

“whats wrong with that?” you ask innocently, hoping she’d maybe explain what it meant. you didn’t quite know why you wanted to know so badly, a warm molten feeling dripping down into your stomach at the prospect of being sexual with ellie. she stretched her arm around you with a laugh, smoothing her hand over the back of your head kindly.

“nothing. you’re cute.” her eyes were on your lips now. you smiled, setting aside your curiosity as the thought of kissing her now clouded your brain. as if she could read your thoughts, ellie leant forward, pressing a kiss to your lips, hand sliding around to cup your jaw. it was a simple act, but it was the small acts of dominance that always got you. you allowed her to deepen the kiss, beginning to explore your mouth with her tongue as you shared breath. with your limited experience, something about it just felt so erotic and you sighed against her mouth — body alight with pleasure.

you couldn’t tell if it were you or her that quickened the pace, the kiss getting more and more desperate like you couldn’t get enough of eachother. she recalls that you were so sweet in the moment, kissing her just how she liked— having taught you how to kiss after all. one hand came down to stroke your hip with her thumb, the small act making you whimper ever so quietly into her mouth.

you didn’t quite know what you wanted, but you knew you wanted more. everything about you felt dialled up to ten suddenly. the air was too hot, your nipples beneath your shirt were too sensitive everytime her hand would ‘accidentally’ brush against them, your core felt tight and achey. you were sensitive to touch everywhere, and you became aware of how itchy and uncomfortable the hay you were sat on was against the backs of your thighs and ass. why had you decided to wear a skirt again?

ellie, who’s hand was now stroking the soft supple skin of your thigh, sensed your discomfort with the hay from your shuffling. the two of you were meant to be sat on her jacket that she’d laid down to share but with your fidgeting it must have been pulled slightly from beneath you. almost frantically, to fix the problem ellie pull you by your thigh trying to move you closer to sit on her jacket, all whilst shuffling backwards herself to make space for you. at the sudden movement, and ellie not quite realising her strength she tugged you and she toppled back onto a lower hay bale, you landing directly on top of her with an ‘oof!’

the two of you looked at eachother for a moment, ellie on her back with you laying directly on top of her— one leg cocked up, your skirt totally flipped up, exposing you from the back, before you burst into a fit of giggles.

“what just happened?” you clutched her gleefully.

“i don’t even know.” she chuckled, again the laughs dying out when she pulled you back in to kiss her again. her hands were on your waist now, not making any kind of move to push you off her body. you could barely ignore the feeling of her jean clad thigh pressed between your legs and you trembled against her, wonder how it would feel if she moved it. ellie’s hand slid up the back of your bare thigh towards your ass, just encouraging you to move your hips when—

“you girls in here or— oh.” maria’s voice sounded from the barn door, probably getting a view directly up your skirt as you laid on a handsy ellie. you fumbled, rolling off her clumsily with a gasp, face feeling so hot you could cook an egg on it. ellie sat up after you, unsurprisingly very little sign of embarrassment on her face, stifling a laugh at the awkward situation. the two of you looked disheveled, straws of hay sticking out your hair.

“uh—” maria coughed awkwardly, averting her eyes and she wiped her hands on her jeans. “ellie, joels looking for you. said’e wanted to go over something regarding the supply hunt. he’s round the corner.” she recited, sending you a polite nod before heading out the barn. ellie’s smirk revisit her face once more as she turned to look at you, your hands covering your hot face.

“m’gonna die. she totally just saw that. and my skirt was practically bunched up around my waist.” you whined, taking your hands off your face to stare up at ellie as she laughed, standing up and dusting herself down.

“can’t imagine anyone complaining about that view.” she teased, holding her hand out for you to grab. you took it and she pulled you up, stumbling into her slightly at her strength (and perhaps just your own weakness.) making her slightly raise an eyebrow. “are you… okay?” the smile was not only evident in her face but in her voice too, as if she was holding back a laugh.

“yeah! m’fine. just… a shame it got cut short.” you looked away from her. she eyed you, stepping closer to you when you stepped back to give her space. your wide eyes flickered up to hers, thinking she might kiss you again. instead, she reached up, pulling a straw of hay out of your hair, before reaching down without breaking eye contact and untucking your skirt that was tucked into your waistband, humiliatingly so without your knowledge. “there ya go. good as new.” she stepped back, holding out her hand for you to take. she knew what she was doing. “lets go.”

you took her hand dumbly, your body undergoing a million overwhelming emotions a second as you let her lead you out the barn.

[sixosix]

A fic where bakuhoe goes all ape shit because izuku flirts with reader pwease 🥺🥺🥺

a/n i got u. tho katsuki is pretty hard to write hope i did it well

warnings gn!reader, unnecessary amount of cursing (curtesy of bakugou), established relationship, wc 1k

katsuki prides himself on being observant.

he’s gonna be a fucking hero; he would be a shitty one if he was oblivious to what’s going on around him. it’s why he’s proud to call himself aware of things that most people miss.

unfortunately, this includes shitty fucking deku having the hots for you.

“that was amazing, l/n-san! todoroki-kun didn’t even realize what was going on until you caught him!” deku has been gushing about your victory since you came back, and you’re overwhelmed by the sheer brightness radiating off the boy.

you duck your head. “ha, you think so? i didn’t expect it to work, honestly…”

deku has the fucking nerve—the fucking nerve, that jackass—to take your hands and interweave it with his, showing off how earnest he is with his words. “it worked perfectly, your strategy could work against heroes with quirks as powerful as todoroki-kun’s!”

a vein pops on katsuki’s temple.

he grits his teeth, steam coming off his ears. “i’m gonna fucking kill the nerd,” he proclaims, spoken like a man on a bloody mission.

raise your white flags, everyone, because bakugou katsuki, the great explosion murder god dynamight, is gonna blow up this shitty town to smithereens and leave only y/n standing.

kaminari sweat-drops, slammed on the face with his friend’s unadulterated fury. he just can’t handle katsuki’s pheromones. “you aren’t even sparring with him, dude. what are you talking about?”

the grin that katsuki flashes is what blossoms nightmares for everyone within the vicinity. “fuckin’ watch me.”

deku can do whatever he wants, but if it involves you? well, katsuki won’t be able to help but step in.

somehow, katsuki ends up sparring against deku, running high on anger and also to prove that he is better than this nerd. unsurprisingly, katsuki won.

(he should’ve known it wouldn’t end there.)

“oi, bakugou, did you just come back?”

katsuki grunts in agreement, shouldering past kirishima who never wavers and continues to trail after him. the blond scans the area, ruby eyes piercing the poor souls who make eye contact with him.

“shitty hair, where’s y/n?” he asks, immediately in a pissy mood because you told him you’d be at the common room after he’s done hitting the gym.

“um.” kirishima hesitates. katsuki narrows his eyes at him and kirishima chokes on a nervous laugh.

“what the fuck is it,” katsuki demands. he’s not panicking—he’s not.

kaminari, with his mouth full of food, starts speaking, “i saw y/n go with midoriya to his room!” kaminari is missing the warning wide-eyed looks sero and mina are throwing him. “they’ve been there for a while now. wonder what they’re doing…”

katsuki stares. the atmosphere thickens as everyone falls silent. “ha?”

“denki,” mina hisses.

kirishima, ever the savior, reaches out to hold his arm, but katsuki evades before he can even touch him. “wait, wait, bakubro, i’m sure they’re not really doing anything—”

“shut the fuck up!” he barks, stomping away from the common room to make his way to shitty nerd’s room.

now, katsuki doesn’t usually consider himself the murderous type. he’s all die, die, die but it’s just blatant hostility, it’s not like he goes around killing classmates. you’re probably not into that.

deku, however? deku who had the nerve to invite you to his room while katsuki’s out? well, he better start one for all to get away as soon as possible because once katsuki reaches his goddamn door things are going to happen and it is not going to be fucking pretty, and fuck what anyone thinks—

katsuki slams the door open, brows knitted together furiously. “oi, what the fuck are you two nerds doing—!”

he cuts himself off, blinking at the sight of you and deku sitting next to each other.

deku quirks an eyebrow, looking surprisingly disappointed at the sight of katsuki—and that’s when it’s confirmed. the nerd was looking to get alone time with you! the thought makes him want to bash deku’s head on the wall right now.

“oh, katsuki!” you brighten. katsuki’s chest starts doing some weird things he tries his best to ignore in favor of glaring so hard at the green-haired dipstick. “did you just come back?”

“yeah,” katsuki answers albeit gruffly.

“kacchan, what are you doing in my room?” deku asks slowly.

just the thought of you alone with midoriya motherfucking izuku pisses him off to a deeply personal level.

he snarls at deku. “you fucking…”

you stand up and—thank god—away from deku. “what? wait, what’s going on?”

“shitty nerd!”

deku jumps at the noise, throwing a worried glance at you that you miss in lieu of staring worriedly at katsuki.

that was the last straw.

explosions spark in his palms. “YOU SHITTY FUCKING PISS ON A SHITRAG GET YOUR HANDS OFF BEFORE I EXPLODE YOUR FUCKING FACE INSIDE OUT—”

“kacchan! that doesn’t even make any sense!” deku cries out, moving hastily to push you behind him—but katsuki is faster, and how dare this nerd assume that katsuki would be so reckless as to hurt you!

a slam. footsteps scurrying around.

“HAAAAH!? your face won’t make sense once i’m done with you, fucking asswipe of a dickbag—come here!”

“where are you even getting those words!?”

“guys, stop!” you yell, effectively silencing both their mouths and their quirks that are starting to pop out of their skins. “you’re going to wake up everyone else if you keep going.”

katsuki snarls, tugging you to his chest with an arm around your waist. “get your hands off, deku. if i see you with y/n again—”

you snort, patting katsuki’s cheek. “katsuki, i thought we were keeping it secret?”

“and have shitty nerd flirting with you? fuck. no. this is the fucking line.”

“aw, you were jealous?”

deku squints, glancing between your bewildered face and katsuki’s possessive expression. “what…” he turns red. “w-w-wait, are you two…”

“y/n’s fucking boyfriend,” katsuki sneers, “and husband when we fucking get out of this shithole—got that, nerd? not a chance for you.”

“what!” you whirl in on katsuki, eyes round. “you’re planning to propose to me?”

katsuki stares, one pale eyebrow cocked. “are you gonna fuckin’ reject me or some shit?”

the entirety of UA learned not to make moves on that l/n from 1-A ever again, unless they wanted to face the wrath of bakugou katsuki. (they do not.)

[ivestas]

the lady of crime alley

Summary: Jason had heard rumors of a woman who ruled Crime Alley and all of its underworld connections, so he pursues her for a favor. 

Tags: jason todd x fem!reader, canon typical violence, unedited

Word count: 1.2k

Notes: i’ve been on a red hood comic binge and i always thought his narration was corny in the best way, so i hope i was able to emulate that through this fic hehejejjejehe (also i use ‘tugging at your pigtails’ as a metaphorical descriptor, not an actual physical attribute of reader!) alsoo, please send some batfam requests! 

Jason had heard murmurs of the woman who was the true ruler of Crime Alley and all of its underworld connections. 

At first, he dubbed it a win for feminism, because women too can be major players in crime worlds! 

But then it got annoying real fast, because for some reason, you were real good at hiding your trail; every turn he went, the moment he thought he caught a glimpse of you, you were gone moments later like ash in the wind. 

It took him five of your men and his a few hours of continuous beating to get the vaguest clue of where exactly you resided; he spent the rest of the week nosing his way through that misty trail, his irritation growing by every second he had to march down Gotham’s shittiest streets, and it didn’t help that his red hood hardly had any breathing holes. 

He was trying to keep his cool—he really was!—but the more you seemed to toss at him your half-starved homeless men at him, the more brutal the remnants of them became. 

“God fuckin’—jesus, just tell me where the lady is!” He spat. “I just have some questions, that’s all, why does she keep sending you guys—“

“We’re telling you nuthin’, that woman’s an angel and you ain’t gettin’ yer dirty mitts on ‘er!” The man—a ragged, gaunt-looking guy—heaved, blood pooling out his mouth. "You’ll never see ‘er—!” 

“You just wanna talk?” 

Jason’s head snapped up, hand still wrapped around the man’s throat. 

In the warehouse which he had 'accidentally’ beat everyone half to death, a woman stood at the entrance. Though it was night, the moon was bright enough for Jason to make out some of her features. 

She’s easy on the eyes.

Suddenly, all the pent up irritation that had been writhing under his skin dissipated. 

He’s a sucker for hot women. 

“Hey,” He rose from the man’s body, standing tall. “You must be the ‘true ruler of Crime Alley’ or whatever—it’s a bit of a dumb name, don’t you think?” 

You were silent, face scrunched. 

“Jeez, tough crowd—”

“What do you want, Red Hood?” You sounded mildly annoyed, as if he’s just some pesky kid tugging at your pigtails or something. 

You took a step forward into the warehouse, arms crossed. “Talk. You have my attention now.” 

“Oooo-kay, great! So, I kind of need help with something—a favor, if you will,” he raised his sword. It was busted and dull, practically just a dented piece of iron than an actual blade. “I need a replacement for this—” he grinned. “—And all the information you have about Black Mask and his connections with Joker.” 

“...are you dumb?” 

“What?” 

“Do you actually think I’m some ruler of Crime Alley? You weren’t joking?” You laughed, eyes wide. 

“You’re not?” 

“No! I’m not the fucking ruler of anything! Come on Red Hood, is critical thinking not your strong suit?!” 

“Hey, hey, c’mon lady, go easy on me—“

“I’m just the woman who gives the people here a place to stay! That’s it! Is this the reason you’ve been up my ass?!” You scowled at him. Were you a model, because you even made pissed look delicious. “Beating up a bunch of homeless guys ’cause you thought I was a fuckin’ mob boss or something?—yeah, mob boss of the homeless? Seriously?"

He raised his hands. “Okay, when you word it like that, I feel dumb.” 

“You are dumb—anyway, do me a favor and stop beating up the guys here? Please!?” You hissed, your hands balled into fists. “Because I’m the one that fixes up their wounds and I don’t have the money to keep buying gauze and shit.” 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’ll lay off—though you coulda just have talked to me earlier?” He muttered the last part but you somehow still heard.

“You think I’m gonna go talk to the ‘Red Hood’? The guy that kills on his free time?” 

He sighed dramatically. “Touche—and it’s for a good cause! I only kill people that—“

“Yeah, yeah, don’t list me your commandments to be on your fuckin’ hit list, God you’re annoying.” 

He laughed. “I have a feeling I’ve pissed you off—”

“You beat a bunch of guys I take care of half dead. Pissed is hardly covering it.”

“—and you know what? I don’t like pissing off pretty women—I said it! I don’t like it. So, I humbly apologize.” He swept his leg and arm in unison into a grandiose bow. 

You scoffed, going to one of the unconscious men and pressing your fingers to his pulse. “I only accept apologies in cash.” 

“Oh, okay, that’s much easier,” making his way to you, he tugged off one of his blood-soaked gloves and rummaged his pocket. A couple hundred dollar bills were in there. 

He extended them to you. “These enough to soothe any hiccups?”

You carefully moved the unconscious man to the ground. From the pockets of your giant jacket came a small bag with a bottle of antiseptic, bandages, and a bunch of other shit. 

You then looked at him, brows furrowed. “That’s... a lot of money.”

“Is it?” 

“Yeah? Do you have enough money for yourself?” 

Jason stared at you for a moment before barking out a harsh laugh. That earned him a frown. “You’re worried? About me?” 

“No, I just don’t want you to beat some person up for their money if this is all you have—“

“Baby, I’m rich, I shit gold bars, just take it.” 

You glared at him for a second before snatching the money, shoving it into your pocket before tending to the man. Pushing up his shirt, Jason saw his body was covered in lacerations and bruises. 

Jason whistled. “Damn, didn’t think I was that strong.” 

“Fuck off.” You sprayed some antiseptic. The man groaned. 

Jason sat. He should be going off and looking for more trails of Black Mask, but he didn’t really want to—not right now, anyway. 

Even if you’re not some mob boss or whatever, you were still intriguing, and he’s a curious guy, he can’t help but want to watch you some more. 

However, he was quick to notice how stiff you were under his gaze.

His head tipped to the side. “Hey, do I scare you?” 

You ignored him, running a rag along the guy’s body. Blood stained the white cloth instantly. You lifted the cloth and looked at Jason. 

“This is the worst you could do. Beat someone. Maybe flay them. Then they die.” 

He hummed. 

“So when you say ‘scare’, I assume you mean the idea of you beating me or whatever—killing me, or torturing, your shit.” Your eyes went back to the beaten guy, continuing with the cleaning. “You don’t.”

“If that’s the case, then why’d you avoid me?” 

“Because I had shit to do, that’s why.” You unraveled a gauze. “Not everything’s about you—eugh, I can’t lift him, hey, since you’re just sitting here, help me a little—yeah, just like that, thank you,” you swept the gauze under the man’s back then brought it back up. You repeated that motion. “But yeah, not really scary. Death is just—well, death.”

Jason nodded along. You were weird. 

He liked weird. 

When you were done, Jason put the man back down.

“Well, I gotta go now, duty calls and all.”

“Okay.” You got up, moving to the next guy. 

“Bye?” 

“Just leave.”

AO3

Masterlist

Requests are open

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Absolutely LOVE your Roy Kent fic! Could you do a fic with Roy or Jamie where the reader is really self conscious about their body? Like they are worried they are too big to be with someone that’s a footballer. Thanks!!!

Dress You Up

Roy Kent x Reader

0.8k words

Warnings: Language, feeling self-conscious, flirting and allusions to smutty things

Oh my gosh, how did this get lost in my ask box?? I'm so sorry 😓 I hope it came out good ❤️

You stared at yourself in the mirror, turning this way and that, trying to find any angle that you didn’t hate. When you and Keeley had found this dress at Harrod’s, she’d gushed about how hot you looked in it, how Roy was going to lose his mind. And you’d believed her, deciding that the charity gala was worth the splurge, especially considering the credit card you were using was Roy’s, at his insistence.

But now, even with your hair and makeup done, you felt… ridiculous. Instead of seeing the goddess Keeley had insisted you were in the fitting room, all you could see was every extra kilo, every place where the dress clung to you, and not in the way you’d hoped.

Your mind wandered to the guest list Roy had mentioned during dinner last week. The whole team, of course. Lots of rich old men, ready to open their fat pocketbooks for Rebecca’s fundraiser. And models. Actresses. The kind of women Roy Kent usually went for.

With your brain swimming with images of women whose bodies looked photoshopped, women you’d seen Roy with in magazines before the two of you began seeing each other, you grabbed your mobile, losing every ounce of excitement you’d about this night. In no time at all, a growling voice answered.

“Hey, you almost ready?”

The lump in your throat growing, you closed your eyes. “Actually, I’m not feeling well.” Not a complete lie. “You, er, should go on your own, Roy.”

There was a long pause on his end. “Well, this is fucking awkward then.”

“What is?”

Your doorbell rang. “I’m on your fucking porch,” Roy chuckled. “Can I at least say hello? Haven’t seen you all day. Fuckin’ miss you.”

The tenderness in his voice softened your resolve. “Just a quick moment, alright?” Your heels clicked against the tile of your front hall as you walked to your front door. “Don’t want you to catch whatever I’ve come down with.”

Roy expected to see you in sweats or pyjamas, with your hair in a sloppy bun, face probably tired. What he absolutely was not expecting was you in a beautiful dress that hugged every single one of those curves he loved. His eyes took their sweet time trailing up your figure until they landed on your face.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” he hissed, thick eyebrows raised.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I know, I look-”

“Fucking hot,” he finished for you. “Like, if we don’t get in the car right now, that dress is going to be in the fucking shrubs.” He reached out and took your hand. “How the fuck are you not feeling well and looking like that? You got some flu that makes you sexy as hell?”

Heat flooded every inch of your skin. “You think I look… good?”

Roy’s eyebrows scrunched, as if your question was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Fucking course I do. Might have to leave the gala early so I can come back and make you feel better.” He tugged you close to himself. “Unless you’re coming with me. In which case, I know some dark corners at the venue where we could get into some trouble.”

Unable to help yourself, you brought your hands up to fiddle with the lapels of his suit jacket. “You sure you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with me?”

Another ridiculous question, according to Roy’s facial expression. “Why the fuck would I ever be embarrassed to be seen with you? If anything, I’m scared Jamie Tartt’ll try to steal you from me.”

“I mean…” You shifted awkwardly in Roy’s arms. “There’s lots of models and shit there, right? Gorgeous, skinny women-”

“Women I’m not interested in,” Roy cut you off. “Women I wouldn’t give a second glance to. Especially with you in the fucking room.” He kissed your forehead tenderly. “Won’t be able to keep my eyes off of you. And my fucking hands will be just as dangerous.”

You nudged Roy’s nose with yours, the knots in your tummy starting to unravel. “You sure?”

He let out a soft chuckle before pressing his lips to yours briefly. “Very fucking sure. Now come on, put me out of my fucking misery. Say you’re coming to the ball with me.”

In his eyes you could see so much adoration, love, tenderness, and more than a little lust. It was enough to make you stand up straight and tighten your grip on him.

“You know some dark corners huh?” you teased.

A smile broke out across his bearded face. “Plenty,” he assured you, his hands wandering a bit. “I’d love to show ‘em to you.”

“Fine,” you conceded. “Come in while I grab my purse?”

To your surprise, Roy shook his head. “If I come in there, we are not making it to the gala on time. We’d probably barely make it to your bedroom.”

A wicked smile spread across your face as you tugged his tie, pulling him inside with you. “We can be a bit late, can’t we?”

“If you insist.”

[bakageta]

Next part of the untitled blue beetle fic! Nothing super body horror-y in this one, just build up. Khaji is getting ideas in its little scarab head, tho.

Jaime didn’t start having nightmares until he and his family moved back into their rebuilt home.

The first night, Jaime woke up gasping, tears in his eyes. Khaji burned under his skin. The scarab was frantically processing their surroundings, searching for any reason for its host’s distress. Jaime took huge, bellowing breaths, loud enough that he was worried that he might have woken up his family.

But the house had been rebuilt stronger and sturdier than any landlord would have bothered. No one woke. Jaime calmed on his own. He didn’t want to try going back to sleep.

Scarab still buzzing in his veins, Jaime headed to the kitchen. In law school he'd picked up a habit of making and drinking chamomile tea. The motions and steps were as soothing as the tea itself, and the neighbors had given them baked goods to go along with the dinners. He sat at his spot at the dinner table, nibbling at a cookie while he waited for his tea to cool.

"S'okay, Khaji. It was just a nightmare."

You were frightened.

"Yeah." He reached across his chest with his empty hand to touch the scarab’s leg where it was embedded around his shoulder. The new strap of tendon flexed under his hand. Jaime liked to think it was Khaji reacting to his attempt at reassurance, but he wasn’t entirely sure. It was the intent that mattered, he thought.

This did not happen at the hotel.

"Nothing bad happened at the hotel." Reflexively, Jaime rubbed at the front of his neck. He shuddered and sipped at his tea. It was still too hot

We should return to the hotel.

Jaime laughed softly. "We can't, s'too expensive. And besides, Jenny already got us our house."

Jenny can pay for the hotel, as well.

Khaji was fixated on the hotel. Jaime frowned lightly, running back over their conversation. "The hotel isn't my home, Khaji. What's wrong?"

I do not want you to be afraid, relocating is the least energy–

"It's not an option,"He spoke over Khaji’s last few words. Jaime swallowed, immediately regretting the sharp tone. "It's just, I'm gonna be scared. A lot of bad shit happened, right?"

Correct.

Jaime huffed a quick, quiet laugh. "Exactly, I just need time. It's like– like when you picked me, yeah? I was terrified at first, but then we talked, got to know each other, built trust. So I stopped being scared."

Additional information helps.

"Yeah." He smiled. It felt like they were finally getting somewhere, and–he sipped–his tea was cooled enough to–

"Ohmigod, Jaime!?"

They flinched, violently, at Milagro’s shout, nearly falling out of the chair. Jaime hadn’t heard her coming and Khaji had stopped tracking her as a potential threat after the bunker.

“Milla, what the hell!?” Jaime spun to face his sister after he steadied himself. He was just in time to watch her flick on the lights.

Milagro gave Jaime a moment to squint in the sudden brightness before she shoved her phone, in selfie mode, into his face. “Your eyes are fuckin’ glowing, Jaime!”

On the little screen, Jaime’s eyes glowed luminous orange just like they did in the armor. His eyelids were rimmed in gray-black. He grabbed his sister’s phone– “Hey!” –and held it up to his face. Concentric rings and radial lines traced around and out from back lit irises, they shifted and focused like a camera lens, and as he looked, Jaime saw that there was something like a snake's scale over his eyes.

He blinked a few times, over the scales or lenses or whatever, and they dissolved just like the armor did. Weird.

"Did you not notice?" Milagro asked incredulously.

"Nope." Jaime looked up and down, left and right. Everything seemed fine.

"Weird," she observed, just as sagely as Jaime had thought it. "Anyway, I'm glad you're just talking to Khaji instead of being, like, the world's loneliest burglar or something."

"Crap, did we wake you up?"

"Nah, I just had to pee," Milagro lied, breaking eye contact.

"Suuuure." Jaime ate the last piece of his cookie in one mouthful and did his best not to inhale any crumbs from the too big bite.

“Yeah, what about you? You got the munchies?”

Jaime’s face fell. “Couldn’t sleep. It’s hard being back, y’know?”

“Mm-hm,” Milagro agreed. “Roof?”

“Yeah.”

They spent the next hour and a half on the roof in comfortable quiet before retreating to their respective bedrooms. Khaji was silent the whole time, ticking and processing in the back of Jaime’s head.

[scenetocause]

no one asked for this but i was in the kitchen makin instant ramen and poleaxed by the thought of landoscar puppy play post-melbourne in the style of a fic i thought was gemjam's but now can't find where mark webber gave his then-protegee mitch evans a collar to help with homesickness anyway whatever have some fuckin words

edit: fuck's sake cassian obviously it was a collar and a kiss by zeraparker

mild warning for hopelessly undernegotiated kink

"Don't you ever get homesick?" Oscar could count the number of people he'd less like to be having this conversation with than Lando Norris on one hand and one of them's the bored immigration officer who had to tell him he'd not got his passport stamped right in Doha.

Lando snaps his gum, looking up to the ceiling like he's actually thinking about it. "No? Not really. I was sick of fucking Bali over Christmas, jesus and I don't want to go back to Dubai but like, home is everywhere innit?"

"No." Oscar closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. Obviously Lando doesn't experience this, he could literally drive to his parents' house on half a tank of fuel, straight out of the MTC car park. Straight from Oscar's flat, where for some reason he's letting Lando crash as though him seeing the post-Australia comedown is a good idea.

"Hmm." Hearing Lando think is always disturbing. "Well, what can I do about it?"

Oscar has to open his eyes again in disbelief. 'What do you mean do about it?"

Seeing Lando cocking his head on one side, like a dog, makes something painful sear across Oscar's temples. "You're sad, I want to fix it. Max always-"

"Don't tell me about that." He can't hear about Max Fewtrell right now. The guy haunting the garage all weekend was enough. Oscar doesn't need a reminder he's not Lando's first anything, needs to keep the thoughts about breaking up with his girlfriend so they can properly be a thing to himself.

"Well." Lando is literally sitting on his hands. "Then you have to tell me about it yourself."

Thing is, this is too much. It's not the kind of thing he should share with Lando. Lando who he just got team-ordered for, Lando who he needs to match the tyre management of, Lando who will sit there and smile angelically and get his fucking way on anything they ever diverge on about feedback.

Oscar's clenching his jaw so hard he can almost feel the ache where they took his wisdom teeth, though. Another thing he didn't know he'd really miss this much.

"You can't fucking laugh at me." Why's he said that, for fuck's sake? Lando laughs at everything, would probably do it at a funeral in his weird, stressed-out way when he doesn't know how to socially behave.

"Ok." Lando's eyes are very big and he's looked up from his phone. "I can order TimTams on Uber Eats?"

That's actually quite sweet. But not what Oscar needs right now.

"Just - stay here." Lando's fucking weird, he's probably into some of this shit himself. If not something freakier, lying around his Monaco flat in a gimp mask, suffocating himself or god-knows-what shit.

It doesn't take long to find the box. Oscar's consciously never accumulated too much stuff in this flat, like he might have to move out of it any time. Like everything might have to go in a suitcase because the contract review board said it's over, kiddo, go back down under and pretend you understand your dad's business enough to pay him back.

It's not got very much in. Oscar doesn't like to wear too much, when he's like this. Just a t-shirt and shorts or his boxers. He doesn't think he's ready for Lando to see him shirtless, like this, make his eyes crinkle up in glee at how much of Oscar he can touch.

It'd be better if Lando did it, if someone put it on for him but that's too complicated to ask for, so Oscar does it himself, mostly. Puts the soft shorts on, an old Prema shirt that's a little too tight to wear outdoors but feels comfy, soft, reassuring on his skin.

The ears are easy but the collar. He can't do that, himself. Can't give himself the ball, the well-chewed, if pristinely laundered, beanie toy. Whines, unhappily, about it.

"Osc-" obviously, Lando heard him. The sounds of him chaotically standing up, nearly falling over Oscar's rug and stumbling towards his bedroom door, are already clattering through the flat. "Can I come in?"

He just whines again, an animal thing. Oscar needs permission, like this, doesn't give it.

"Ok you better not be dying because I never finished the first aid-" Lando stops in the doorway. "Oh."

Oscar sinks to the floor, his knees bending beneath him, shoving the box at Lando before he folds down on his knees and elbows, looking up at the guy he's supposed to do anything to beat.

"Good..." Lando moves his mouth around for a moment, licks his lips. "Puppy?"

He doesn't have a tail to wag, although he has thought about one of the plugs, sometimes. Objectively, the bit of Oscar's brain that's still somewhat functioning says wiggling his arse must make him look ridiculous, especially when he paws at the box and whines again.

Lando crouches down, touches the ears. "Do you want to go out?"

Oscar cringes back, shaking his head violently. God, imagine the headlines.

"Ok." Lando does his head-cock thing again, then sticks his hands into the box. "Do you want your collar?"

It's pretty shameful, the way Oscar crawls forward so easily, smushes his face against Lando's knee and maybe he should have asked about this properly but Lando goes easily, scritching behind Oscar's ear. "Oh you're such a good boy, look at you."

Lando fumbles the collar for a second, not getting the buckle right the first time and it's nearly uncomfortable enough Oscar stands up, right back out of it but then it goes and it's snug and tight and good, Lando's hand in his hair.

"Are these your toys?" Lando shifts to kneeling, lets Oscar get his head right in his lap, nuzzling against Lando's stomach through the pouch of his hoodie. He doesn't need to answer that one, it's pretty obvious.

"Well, I don't think Oscar would want you breaking his stuff, so I'm going to leave the ball here." The third person is a jolt, like a nod to camera but it feels right. Oscar is elsewhere, can worry about that later.

"Come on then, good dog." Lando stands up, with the beanie toy in hand. It's a koala, a stupid joke. "Come and play, then."

It's not a comfortable flat to get through on your hands and knees, hard wooden floor jarring him in a way that'll probably bruise a bit, tomorrow. Lando's walking easily, waggling the beanie like he thinks he needs to keep Oscar interested.

Not Oscar. Puppy. It feels good.

Lando pushes the coffee table away, scraping on the floor in a way Oscar's landlord will probably have an opinion about when he comes to pay the deposit back. But puppies don't worry about that kind of thing, so Oscar just crawls over to where Lando's sitting, legs spread and outstretched, on the rug.

"Come on," Lando holds out the beanie, waving it by Oscar's mouth. "You want this, yeah?"

Oscar growls, nips at it. It's not the toy he wants, really, just the -

Ah, perfect. Lando pulls Oscar forward by the toy, right on top of him as he leans back. Oscar can paw him like his, Lando laughing delightedly and twisting away.

It's - he's seen the video, McLaren posted it for some national day or something last year - the same way Lando plays with his family's dog. Silly, rolling around the floor, letting Oscar half-hump him while Lando's shrieking and trying to get out of his grip, only to dive back in, wrestling with Oscar.

The rug scoots across the floor under them and they nearly crash into the telly, Oscar ending up on his back, against the sofa, Lando tickling his tummy but the toy in Oscar's mouth, triumphant.

"Are you submitting? Are you letting me lead the pack?" It's a bit on the nose but yeah, maybe. Oscar kicks out a leg, half-heartedly, to show he isn't always going to be ok with that.

"What a good boy." That, he is always ok with. More than human-Oscar would like to admit.

Lando lies down next to him, face a bit flushed and eyes bright from playing. "Always wanted a dog. You can even come to all the races."

[itwasthereaminuteago]

Thirsty Frank hours? Well, perfect time to send this.

Imagine... you've always been a little insecure (weight, looks, whatever) and have a particularly hard day. Frank senses your distress and want to make you feel better.

And ehm... He does make you feel reeeealy good 😏

Can just imagine him being so soft, tender, talking you through it and just... God, just being wrapped in his arms 🫠❤️

|| Reminder ||

Frank Castle x female reader

Tags/warnings: readers insecurities, soft supportive Frank, fingering, p in v unprotected sex.

A/n: thank you so very much for this ask @munsonownsmyass I've read so many mirror sex fics but I thought fuck it, I wanted to do my own with Frank! I swear this man talking sense into you in that rough and sweet way he has would fix me forever.

~

You're barely in the door, late getting back, having had an absolute shitter of a day and feeling like you just want to curl up in bed and cry about it. Frank’s already home and waiting for you, you don't even need to say anything. He knows you, inside and out. He can tell when the crushing weight of your thoughts is dragging you down and he can help lighten them.

Still, you turn away as his eyes meet yours, darkest brown and always so penetrating, stripping you bare. Sometimes you think you can't face him when you're like this, but then he sidles up next to you, his hand curling around the back of your head and holding you as he plants a light kiss on your forehead and the barriers you're ready to put up crumble.

"Hey, c'mere and tell me what's wrong." His fingers stroke over your hair and you lean against him burying your face into the soft brushed cotton of his hoodie. He smells like home and although it doesn't lift your heavy mood entirely, it helps. Frank wraps you in his arms letting you decompress a little before he'll press you any further. He leans down, laying a peck on your cheek before he guides you to sit down with him on the couch.

"It's just-" you want to tell him but it suddenly all seems stupid as the words are forming in your mouth. Frank is watching you patiently, his gaze soft and open as he lets you take all the time you need.

You sigh and try again. "We were trying on outfits, the girls and I, for Marci's wedding… and the others, they looked so beautiful and effortlessly gorgeous in everything, and I-"

You pull at a fraying thread of your sleeve and huff, angry at yourself as tears begin to well in your eyes.

"Baby, you look gorgeous in everything too."

You sit up, shaking your head. "No I don't. I just look like I'm playing dress up with my mom's clothes or something. I hate the way everything looks on me, I hate how I feel. Like everyone's staring at me because I look so dumb…"

Frank's brow forms into a deep furrow as you berate yourself, he won't stand for that shit.

"Hey, where's all this coming from? You're fuckin' beautiful darlin', I say it all the damn time but you gotta know it's the truth."

He pulls you onto his lap, gently wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb.

"Th-they just all seem so strong and don't give a shit what people think. I can't do that, I don't know how. I've never liked how I look, or felt confident or anything… urgh, and now I'm just whining to you about it like a pathetic idiot! I'm sorry, I shouldn't- I'll go away..."

You go to get up from him but he gently clasps his hand around your wrist.

"If you wanna be alone that's okay I'll let you be, but I've got somethin' I need to show you sweetheart, if you'll let me."

You look at him, confused about what he could want to show you. He's got those big pleading puppydog eyes trained on you but underneath there's something else…

"W-what?"

He stays close to you as he rises, taking your hand in his, leading you to your bedroom and standing you opposite the wardrobe mirror in front of him.

"Oh, Frank, no please…" You cringe, turning away from your reflection but he catches you in his arms, reassuring you as he urges you to face yourself.

"Baby, I need you to see what I see." He strokes the back of his knuckles down the outside of your arm, his other hand around your waist and his head resting lightly in the space between your neck and shoulder. His lips brush a kiss to the bare skin revealed by your loose sweater.

"Look at this woman I got." He begins, and you can see him looking at all of you. Eyes flickering over every inch of you as if you were naked in front of him. "She's a goddess."

You roll your eyes, body sagging in his hold. "No she isn't."

Frank stares you down in the mirror. "You callin' me a liar?" He actually seems slightly hurt as you sigh again, then a dark look of determination crosses his features. You know you're in for it now, whatever it is.

“What I see right here in front of me, is the strongest, most confident woman that I ever laid eyes on. You see that girl taking any shit from me? Baby, all those assholes I take down in the Kitchen, they ain’t got nothin’ on you, I ain’t scared of them, but you… Christ, you’ve got me whipped.”

He holds you around the waist, his big hands warm through your clothes as his lips graze your ear. "You think you don’t look good? I’m tellin’ you, you look goddamn fucking gorgeous to me just the way you are, wearin’ what you’re wearin’.”

His tone drops an octave as he moves his hands down and hooks his fingers under the hem of your sweater, pulling it up over your head. “An’ you look good not wearin’ anything at all too…”

His fingers trail down the bare sides of your ribcage as you bring your arms back down, wrapping them around yourself. You try to shy away as his fingers come up to trace your collarbone and slowly down the cup of your bra, unraveling your arms and placing them down by your sides exposing you as he goes.

“Fuck, look at you sweetheart, I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. I'm thinkin' that my baby girl needs a little reminder..."

You bite on your bottom lip as he drifts his hands to the button of your pants, undoing it and pulling the zip down slow like he’s unwrapping a precious gift. His fingers tease at the waistband of your panties as you feel the hardening shape of his cock pressed up through his jeans against your ass.

"Mm, yeah that's all you." He says, his gruff voice driving straight down to your core as he works your pants off down your legs and helps you step out of them.

"That’s what you do to me… and this ass?" His hands are all over you as he marks your soft flesh with his teeth while he's down there, making you gasp as he kisses and soothes over it and continues placing adoring kisses up over the curve of your ass cheek as he works his way up your spine.

"Frank…"

"You want me to stop?" He asks you quietly, laying another soft kiss as he reaches the base of your neck.

You glance at the two of you in the mirror. This terrifying beast of a man to most is curled around your body, holding you, touching you, intent on showing you how much he adores you. Were you going to let your insecurities get in the way of that?

"No." You commit. Deep down you know that you need this.

He nods and unzips his hoodie, taking both it and his t-shirt off revealing the canvas of scars littering his massive upper body. His own imperfections that you can never see as such. He unhooks your bra, sliding the straps down over your shoulders, following on one side with his mouth letting it drop from your arms to the floor. A sweet warmth builds within at the sensation of his skin against yours. That basic, unshakable thought that Frank is your home.

He feels the softening in you, the corner of his mouth pulling up a little as he runs his hands up the outsides of your thighs, over your hips and stomach. One hand smoothes up your chest to gently cup one of your breasts, while the other moves south, cupping your sex through your underwear. Your eyes half-close as you let him take you over.

"There's my girl." He growls as he slips his hand beneath the thin cotton of your panties, fingertips meeting the slick pooling of your arousal there. He slides his fingers through your folds, spreading the moisture around before taking your ruined underwear off and sitting down on the edge of the bed with his legs spread wide, still facing the mirror. He lifts you onto his lap like you weigh nothing, the muscles in his arms are thick and prominent, and god if that doesn't turn you on even more.

You watch as he parts your legs, placing them on the outside of his own. He drags his fingers along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, up and up to circle around the apex of them, and you're unable to draw your eyes away from the glistening of your own exposed cunt as he touches you there. Your breathing picks up, becoming shallow while he simultaneously runs a finger and thumb over your hardening nipples, playing with and gently pinching at them. A smile spreads on his gorgeous lips as a small moan leaves your throat, your body arching, your leg muscles twitching and the throbbing pulse behind your clit ever growing with the slow pass of his talented fingers.

"That's it beautiful," He praises, his stubble scratching along the side of your face as you let your head fall back against his shoulder. He dips his middle finger into your soaking entrance, reveling in the sweet sounds you make as he pushes it slow, in and out of your pussy.

Your own hand covers his on your breast, urging him to squeeze and grope. He's rock hard underneath you now and you're getting so wet that you're soaking into the crotch of his jeans, but even so, he's intent on concentrating solely on your pleasure.

He takes his fingers away and you look up, bereft, only to see him bring them up to his mouth to suck your juices from them. You've almost forgotten how you got here.

"Taste so good baby, you know I can't ever get enough of you." He pushes two fingers inside you this time, encouraging your loud moans along with his gentle kisses up the side of your neck.

"You seein' what I'm seein' now?" he drawls, looking at your reflection. “My strong, powerful, gorgeous lady makin’ me weak for her?”

He’s a fucking liar, you think, your mouth starting to stretch into a satisfied smile. Frank Castle would give you the world if he could, you don’t make him do anything he doesn't want to. That thought gives you momentary pause, he wants you. He has always wanted you, right from the beginning.

"Fuck Frank, you always, -uhh, know exactly what to say… mmm!" You whimper and moan as he fucks you so slowly and lovingly with his fingers. He kisses and mouths at that spot just below your ear as he curls them, searching for that place inside you that will shatter you into a thousand pieces.

"It's just the truth, baby."

He's watching you in the mirror the whole time. Your eyes meet his and you reach a hand back to grasp him behind his neck, your fingertips scratching at the fuzz of short hair there while the fingers of your other hand grip and dig into the muscles of his thick thigh, nails probably bruising his skin through the denim.

His other hand leaves the plush flesh of your breast to massage the pearl of your clit and you move counter to his ministrations, bucking your hips in time with the steady rhythm he sets.

"Attagirl, take what you need, princess." The low timbre of his voice feels like another caress and has your eyes almost fluttering shut as you let him worship you. You see the way he looks at you in the mirror, enraptured by your body writhing in his arms, those dark eyes drinking in every ounce of your pleasure.

"More, Frank," it's not a request. His breath matches yours as he works to bring you to a climax. You're beautiful, stunning, my fuckin' wildest dream in all his hushed, gasped words of praise spoken against your heated skin. Your legs shake when he adds a third finger, slick, wet and noisy as he pumps them firmly. Both your lips and legs part wider as you can feel the tangled knot deep within you about to blissfully unravel. Your clit feels so sensitive and the way his finger glides and flicks over it is maddening, it's right on the edge of wanting to push him away, but Frank won't stop for anything.

"Oh! Frank, god- oh fuck-"

"Yeah that's it baby. Please darlin', let me see you." Frank Castle doesn't plead for anyone other than you.

It hits you then, coming in his lap with absolute and pure pleasure bursting through your core and spreading out in pulses through the rest of your shuddering, sweat-sheened body. Frank's mouth roves over your neck and the side of your face until you turn to meet it with your own, tongues sliding against each other as you reach your climax. He doesn't stop, only slowing down to let you ride out the thick satisfying waves that follow.

You could lie back in his arms like this for the rest of the night but you're desperate to thank him. Of course he protests, says he doesn't need taking care of but when you get up and turn around, unbuckle that belt, ease him out of his pants and take him inside you he's the one at your mercy.

You wrap your arms around his neck and shoulders, face to face now, every little sign of his deep love for you written there so plainly. The dark black of his expanded pupils as they lock on yours, the slight curl of his lip as he grunts, swears almost every curse he knows as you ride him. It's barely half a dozen frantic thrusts of your hips until he's spilling inside you with an unguarded moan, his fingers pressing into the flesh around your hips and your foreheads pressed together as you both struggle to catch your breath.

He falls back on the bed and you go along with him. All of your hangups are forgotten as you lie together, basking in the afterglow with his arms around you.

He kisses you on the top of your head. It's such a simple gesture but it makes your heart swell.

"You need any more reminding of just how amazin' you are? Just gotta give me a few minutes and I'll do it all goddamn night."

You smile wide, softly shaking your head. "You did a pretty good job of that Frank, but the moment I need you I'll be sure to let you know."

"That's right. I'm always here for you baby. You just tell me and I'll do whatever I can to help, alright?"

You nod and your lips brush his shoulder in a kiss. "Thank you, I mean it. You're so good to me."

He squeezes you tight. "How about we go get cleaned up and I'll order us some pizza for dinner. That sound good?"

.

.

Frank tags (as always, let me know if you want added/removed): @divinearchangel @saintmurd0ck @castlesnchurches @mindidjarin @hellskitchenswhore @pedrito-friskito @sweetieswiftie @shedaresthedevil @freshabogados @father4giveme @stress--relief @e-dubbc11 @whistle1whistle @tea-and-wine @emiemiemiii @imherefordeanandbones @realfernmayo @munsonownsmyass @marvelswh0re @frankcastlescumslut @chellestrash @chvoswxtch @messymissy @evilbubu @lucy-sky @yanna-banana @anna-hawk

[howaboutcastiel]

Hello, I love your fics. I wondered what you think about the moon boys' reaction to their cis girlfriend, whose style oscillates between hyper femme and super masc? Like, one day she's super cute in floral dresses, and the next day she's in a full-ass suit looking handsome as heck?

Thenku

I’m finally churning through my asks as a means of procrastination. (Side note: I WAS just knee-deep in my work, but I saw a spider on my desk so all bets are off now.)

So listen…

Jake:

Loves his princesa, we know this. You wear a dress, he swoons. Lipstick? He could pass out from the sight.

He’s gonna absolutely sneak his hands up your dress/skirt no matter where he is.

Jake loves powerful women, whatever way they choose to display their power. If you walk out of the bathroom one day dressed in a suit and tie, his first words are gonna be “step on me.”

His NEXT words are gonna be “you look so fucking sexy, princesa.” And then he’s trying way too hard to get into those dress pants before you’ve even gone where you needed to go.

He likes to buy you dresses and lingerie and girly cutesy stuff, but you also find him looking at wine-colored suit jackets one day when he’s out with you.

When you sit with your legs parted? Leaned back, not a care in the world and taking up as much space as you can? You’re practically inviting him in.

He comes to sit on your lap.

Jake is crazy for you no matter how you dress for him, but if you’re dressing fem, he’s gonna try to eat you alive. If you’re dressing masc, he wants YOU to eat HIM alive.

Steven:

Could never choose a favorite way that you dress. He’s head-over-heels whether you’re dressed in a three piece suit or in a crop top and skirt.

He really tries to match his energy to yours. It’s a more fem day for you? He proposes going out to get your nails done together. Yes, Steven will get a manicure with you.

Honestly? He can’t help but get hard every time he sees you in a suit. Especially if you’re wearing heels with it, double points if the heels make you taller than him (or meet him at eye level.)

He’s downright intimidated by you. He’s captivated, he can’t keep his hands off of you. He turns whiny and flustered and desperate and good luck going anywhere dressed like that without the night ending in him worshipping you.

Steven has a bit more dominant energy when you dress feminine. He’s still a simp, no question about that 😂, but he takes initiative and falls back on the flowers and chocolates and candle-lit dinners.

If he’s giddy enough or drunk enough he’ll end up carrying you bridal style by the end of the night, laughing as you protest and then swoon at his surprising strength.

Marc (listen, this one’s controversial):

Feels like he’s supposed to like you more when you dress all ladylike, and don’t get him wrong, he absolutely loves it.

When you dress masc, though? He’s absolutely feral and bad at hiding it. He doesn’t get intimidated like his alter does, but he does get extremely flustered.

Sometimes he feels the need to match or even challenge your masculinity. He can’t help it, it’s like you’re teasing him by being so strong and powerful and sexy and sexy and HOT

He always loses. Sorry Marc. By the end of the night he’s on his fuckin knees for you. Every time.

When you dress fem, he likes to imagine the two of you are in simpler times, like a soon-to-be nuclear family. It brings him peace, it makes him feel successful. He’s earned the family he always wanted.

He gets all chivalrous and gentlemanly and borderline misogynistic about it, but he can’t help it. You’re his girl and you deserve the world and he’s going to give it to you.

Listen, I KNOW these are abstract and they’re controversial and indecisive and YOU KNOW??? THATS FINE WITH ME. These boys are going feral over a hot lady in a suit, we all know it.

[deputy-buck]

Well now you gotta let us know your thoughts on Hawk/Tim puppyplay

!!! love you anon, so much !!! here's Tim's lamb + some other items and photos

Is it a way for Hawk to take more control? yeah, a bit. But is it more so about Tim letting go and being more comfortable with himself? Abso-fuckin-lutely.

I project a little onto Tim, and I HC him being very unsure and over-conscious of his movements, like his physical bodily movements, he's over-aware of anyone's eyes on him to the point he thinks "Am I walking normal? what do I do with my hands? is this a weird way to stand?" It's super fun- I've settled on "Skip" being Tim's pup name :3

Also I'd like to say a super special THANK YOU to @lispenard-street for beta-reading this fic for me!!! Literally every piece of input you had was gold and the absolute correct thing to do, not to mention all the super kind words you had for me even though the draft was in shambles when you first saw it lmfao- So thank you, Gem💚

-

Fetch

Hawk was consumed in drafting a small speech for a function Senator Smith had organized —something about acknowledging McCarthy's threat to the State Department but encouraging diplomacy— when Tim showed up on his doorstep looking like a kicked puppy. His boy promised that he would be quiet and that all he needed was to be somewhere safe while he felt this way. With a beat of hesitance, Hawk let him in, slightly worried no work would get done. Hawk really has no clue how telling a bunch of grown men and women to essentially stand down will do any good for the department, but he'd rather chop off his own hand than go against Senator Smith. 

Tim’s head feels light and full of syrup-damp cotton. He’s quite familiar with this feeling, having been experiencing it for some years; the swirling, strangling, suffocating need to serve and submit. But it’s all different now, knowing that he has someone he can relinquish himself to. Knowing he can let his mind float away and still be safe regardless of whatever may happen around him.

His tongue is wet and heavy behind his teeth, forcing him to swallow the excess spit before it drips past his stress-chewed lips. A warm buzz tingles across every inch of his skin and radiates through his insides; the feeling settles somewhere in his hips and weakens his knees, joints threatening to buckle beneath his weight. The urge to sink to the floor right on Hawk’s doorstep nearly wins but he has just enough sense left in him to know that it would get the door shut in his face.

Instead, he takes a couple wobbly steps across the threshold and into the foyer before giving in to the downward pull and sinking to his knees on the hearth rug that poses as a welcome mat. Tim struggles with bumbling, pawing hands to strip himself of his clothes, only managing to shake out of his coat and claw at the already loose knot of his tie before he lets his hands drop to his lap in defeat. Head swimming, lungs unable to draw in enough air, he looks up to the man standing in front of him, asking —begging— for help with watery eyes, throat resistant to form any sound other than a pitiful whine. 

Hawk smiles and gently peels away the layers of Tim’s human facade: tweed, cotton, tortoiseshell, and gold all in turn. Replacing it with leather and brass, unbinding his pup from responsibility and expectation, letting him be raw and sensitive here where Hawk can protect him—can be the soothing balm to all his scrapes and burns caused by the world.

With a finger hooked in the D-ring of Tim’s collar, Hawk leads his pup into the living room. A little bit of fussing over Tim’s blanket, a brief pitstop at his desk to fetch Tim’s little white lamb, and a soft yet firm command of “Down. Settle, Skip,” later; Hawk redirects his attention back to his speech —leaving his little pup to play at his feet—  intent on making good progress tonight. So he's got a pencil in his hand and three sheets of paper —two already full of his scrawling, thankfully— on an old book in his lap. He's not sitting at his desk for this —his back hurts too damn much— but instead is reclining on the low couch on the opposite wall. 

                                                          ===

Tim nudges his little white lamb into Hawk's lap, propping his chin on the older man's robe-covered knee, huffing and whining when his handler doesn't immediately look at him. The sweet noise catches Hawk's attention immediately, quickly switching his focus to Tim's pouting lips and glimmering eyes instead of the stark white pages.

Those big doe eyes shine with a playfulness that has Hawk's heart seized with warmth and affection for the young man. 

He’s just a boy, Hawk marvels.

Tim had been quietly playing by himself on his rust orange tartan blanket at his handler's socked feet, manipulating the soft toy with his hands and rubbing his cheek against the fluff of its fur, nipping at the tiny ears and tail. But that gets boring after a while, and Hawk hasn’t so much as reached down to pet him in the last twenty minutes. 

A break might do Hawk some good— his eyes are starting to sting anyway.

"Wanna play, huh?" Hawk sets the pencil and makeshift writing pad aside, picking up the small plush and shaking it in front of Tim's face. A laugh bubbles up from his chest as Tim presses his chest forward against Hawk's shin and snaps at the toy, teeth clacking together when a soft, felt hoof gets close to his nose. Maybe he'll catch it one day but today isn't that day.

"Get it, boy." With one last flick of the toy in Tim's face, Hawk tosses the cotton-stuffed lamb across the living room and into the kitchen hall; he had moved the chair that usually sits in the center of the room over, giving his pup room to play while he worked. Hawk is thinking of making this furniture configuration permanent, always allowing Tim to slip down to the floor and be 'Skip' with nothing in his way when his boy’s mind starts to shift and slide to one more canid.

This is a fairly new addition to their play, fetch. It still feels odd to crawl on the floor in nothing but his briefs and collar; bright sconces of the kitchen hall leaving him nowhere to hide. Tim feels a bit exposed, as though his most vulnerable parts are bared for Hawk to scrutinize from his comfortable perch. The skin of his face, chest, and back flush a rosy shade of pink knowing Hawk is watching him.

Hawk rakes his eyes down Tim's body, a ball of heat beginning to wind and coil low in his belly. With a slight readjustment of his robe and briefs, Hawk makes sure to conceal his growing erection, knowing that's not what his puppy needs right now.

Tim clambers his way across the living room, palms and knees softly thumping on the hardwood floor as he chases his lamb. The nickel tag clipped to his collar jingles with each plodding step. He's not going to humiliate himself by trying to trot after it —he knows he'll fall flat on his face— but he's learned that Hawk wants him to crawl instead of get up and walk. Dogs don't walk upright, Skip. Down, boy. 

Once Tim reaches his beloved lamb, he dips down to grab it between blunt teeth. Jaws clamped down on the soft fabric, Tim shakes it side to side like a terrier with a rat or a Beagle with a rabbit: mauling it before bringing it back to his owner for a reward. His hair falls into his eyes as he does so, obscuring his glasses-less vision even more when he turns his attention to Hawk, panting softly, searching for that warm smile he's always trying to draw out of his handler. The one that lets Tim know he's doing good.

He gets it, a sharp show of teeth, the highest value reward Hawk could ever give.

"Bring it here, Skip. Come on." Hawk encourages, patting the top of his thigh to beckon his pup back to him. He loves when his boy turns into his pup, the thorns of defiance and questioning stripped away to sweet, silent submission. Hawk wouldn't change Tim's inquisitive mind and crashing emotions for anything, but it's nice not having to be on his toes, waiting to be thrown off-kilter by a question he hasn't allowed himself to think about. 

Tim ducks his head as he crawls back to Hawk, still a bit too aware of the position his body is in. Hawk had said he likes the way Tim's shoulders flex and strain as he lumbers across the floor on all fours. The memory of Hawk growling those words in his ear while the older man's hands squeezed and kneaded the muscle in Tim's arms prompts Tim to pause once his hands hit the scratchy circular rug. He slides them forward to stretch out in front of himself, chest nearly brushing the floor, fingers clawing at the rug, intentionally tensing his shoulders to make the muscles ripple and cord beneath his skin. Arching his back like a dog who just woke up. His collar tightens around his throat as he does so, biting into his skin, leaving the faintest mark for later.

Satisfied with the shaky sigh and chuckle Hawk lets out, Tim straightens back up to finally bring the toy back to his handler, a little more confidence in his stride. His tag jingles a little louder now. Depositing the lamb in Hawk's open palm, Tim sits back on his haunches, ready to chase and retrieve the toy again, willing to bare himself for as long as Hawk will grant.

"Good boy, Skip." Hawk praises, free hand ruffling through Tim's hair, pausing to gently scratch behind his pup's ear the way Tim loves. "Always such a good puppy for me." 

-

Again thank you so SO much for beta-reading this for me, Gem, you're the best!!

[sketchy-rosewitch]

Can you do Vincent Sinclair with a bass guitarist s/o?

Lucky Man: Vincent Sinclair x bassist!reader

Warnings: reader wears black eyeliner and lipstick as clown makeup (makeup is gender neutral but still), reader also smokes

A/N: okay I know it says s/o but I kinda wanted to do a little fic where they first met. So uh, yeah :3

Masterlist

The bar is hot, music is loud, and people are already head banging when Vincent and Bo walk in. Vincent and Bo stopped going to these in their late 20’s. Why they were there tonight, only God knew.

Vincent felt himself though as soon as he followed Bo to the bar and the two sat down a little distance away to watch one of the 7 bands play tonight.

They watch as college kids thrash about the mosh pit, often times punching the shit out of each other and kicking.

That was honestly why he stopped going. Vincent felt too old to do all of that and the music definitely fucked up his ear drums. Bo stopped a year or two after him, getting a few kills in before that. Bo still listened to all of the music but Vincent changed to classical, felt easier on his mind and helped him focus. He’s sure the same could’ve been said about Bo’s music taste.

The band cleans up, 80’s music plays during the break as another band sets up. His eye is set on the most attractive bassist in the world, they wear platform boots and chunky jewelry, skinny jeans and a tank top that showed off every part of their torso.

Your makeup was just as sexy, it ran down your face like you’d been crying while the lipstick looked like clown lips.

You set yourself up and waited idly to start playing, swinging your bass around as you swayed.

You move your pick to the bass and start playing. The lead singer of your band screaming into the mic, Vincent wasn’t even paying attention to the words, only you. You head bang roughly and Vincent nodded along at a less aggressive pace.

Five songs later and your band was cleaning up. He watched as you made your way off of the stage, packing up your bass and heading out the back door, he quickly follows you, lucky that Bo isn’t bitching at him to stay where he is.

You’re leaning against the wall when he gets out there, a cigarette in hand and your bass gone.

He walks up to you wearily and you can’t help but smile. He looks over you, waving politely.

You introduce yourself and hold out your hand, he doesn’t hesitate to take it.

“Vincent.”

His voice sounds like it’s been grated by sandpaper one too many times, you don’t mind it a bit.

“I gotta ask, cause I hate talking to dudes younger than me. How old are you?” You put the cigarette back up to your lip and take a drag, moving your lips as to not blow smoke into his face.

“32.” He replies, you click your tongue and smile.

“Thank god, sick of younger people comin’ up to me and tryin’ to chat like I’m fuckin’ them. I can tell from your vibes you seem like a nice guy Vince.” You slide down the wall and sit with your boots making your feet fall to the side. He sits on the concrete too, just across from you. “I don’t do none of that fuckin’ shit. Most I’ll do is a high five. I promise you that.”

Your tone sounds exhausted, sick of life, but at the same time not so much. You wipe your face, sweaty is disgusting the clown makeup smears.

“I like your mask, you just wear that for fun? Or do you have some sick scar you’re hidin’?”

Vincent shifts in his spot. “Scar.”

You smirk. “Hot.”

The long haired man tilts his head at you. You shrug and laugh a little. “Scars are cool, they’re sexy and hot. I ain’t ever met a man tryin’ to hide that shit. I hope you weren’t shamed into hidin’ it. If you were you should just take it off here or whatever since we welcome freaks and shit.”

Something comes over Vincent and he takes the mask off, your smile grows bigger and you light another cigarette. “See? Sexy as hell, and you don’t have an eye? You’re badass. I’ll tell you that. You’ve barely even talked in the last… 10 minutes we’ve been in each other’s presence, yet to me you’re the coolest bitch out there.”

Vincent smiles and lets out a laugh, it’s too good to be true. You’re too good to be true.

You two spend the next two hours chatting, he talks about his art, going to these shows when he was younger, and Bo and Lester. You talk about how long you’ve been in your band, all of the shows you’ve done, you sneaking into shows when you were younger, that you live close by,and the little hobbies you do on the side. It’s 12 AM by the time Bo finds you and Vincent behind the bar.

Vincent had his mask still off and a cigarette in his mouth. The shocked look on Bo’s face made Vincent almost put his mask back on, both of you were quick to stop him.

“Shit man, took me over a year to finally get you to stop wearin’ that shit around the house and them how fucking long?” He gestures to the mask and then you. “You gotta be a real lucky son of a bitch.” Bo smirks. Vincent blows smoke from his mouth and gets up grabbing his mask. He helps you up with his other hand.

“Guess I am.” You laugh. You feel around for the unused napkin in your pocket. “Either of you have a pen or pencil?” You raise a brow. Bo’s honestly never seen Vincent react so fast, feeling around he pulls out an art pencil, you write down your number on the napkin against the wall then hand it to the longer haired twin. “I’ll be gone for the next two weeks, but text me and call me. When I get back we’re hanging out okay?” You explain. Vincent nods. You kiss his cheek. And wave at the two of them as you head out to your car.

“Ho Lee Shit! Look at you Vincent! You got a date in two weeks! Haha look at you! Look at you!” Bo was practically jumping up and down, so unlike him but it felt good. Vincent blushes and scoffs.

“Shut up.”

Bo wraps an arm around his twin and the two head through the bar and two Bi’s truck to head back home.

Now all Vincent had to do was get a phone and figure out how it worked.

[sunsetsixx]

lace & silk

a/n: this is a beyond random post for me here at sunsetsixx hq but as a journalism major & previous owner of a multifandom writing blog i guess i was bound to return to my roots at some point ! this isnt me becoming a writing blog, instead just a one-off fic of an idea thats been floating around in my brain for the last 2 weeks that came to fruition in a google doc at 2am. i dont know if theres even an audience for this besides me & maybe like 3 other people in my notifs so enjoy if you wanna & pls dont judge my out of practice writing too much <3

pairing: current!vince neil x fem!reader

word count: 2315

warnings: smutty dialogue, light (?) smut, mentions of tommy & brittany getting it on lmfao, a highly unrealistic take on the behind the scenes of the stadium tour that was necessary for the plot

“Can you fuckin’ believe we’re already halfway through this tour?” Brittany asked, shaking her head as the two of us walked back to where the buses were parked. “I swear to God we just hopped on that plane to Atlanta like yesterday.”

“Seriously.” I nodded in agreement. “Time has flown.” 

“It’s been a crazy ride. Like so fun.” 

“If I’m being honest though, it’s really not as chaotic as I thought it would be.”

“Really? What do you mean?” She asked.

“I don’t know…I guess it’s just different actually living the modern day reality. We’ve heard and read all these insane stories of them in the 80s but obviously life just isn’t like that anymore.” I let out a short laugh. “No real backstage shenanigans…it’s funny to see how much they’ve mellowed out over the years.”

“Girl you’re lucky you don’t have to deal with shenanigans. My husband thinks it’s funny to light shit on fire with hairspray every five seconds. There’s literally never a dull moment in that dressing room.” 

“I don’t know if I’m jealous or not.” I said laughing. “We keep it pretty chill in ours. Mainly just me helping with his outfit and hair. Lots of Fiji water and listening to Sammy Hagar’s solo stuff as ‘pump up’ music.” I explained as Brittany laughed this time. 

By this point in the conversation, we had made it to tonight’s stadium’s back parking lot where our temporary homes were located. All of the buses were set up in a line with the lights on, as if ready to drive off at any minute. But from the looks of Brittany’s face, and the absence of our men, we weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

“Hold up.” She said, a look of disbelief gracing her features. 

“What?” I asked, laughing in confusion. 

“You’re telling me that you and Vince Neil haven’t fucked in your dressing room this entire time?” 

My mind began to rewind as many shows back as it could remember, but nothing of the sort stood out. I shook my head at her. “No. Just in the hotels and a couple times on the bus…” I trailed off as my gaze wandered over to the vehicle in question, all kinds of memories from the first week flooding back when Vince so romantically suggested “breaking in the new place” with multiple rounds on multiple surfaces. 

“(y/n)! What are you even doing? You’re a tour wife man, you gotta act like it!” She joked, lightly hitting my arm with her bag. 

“I don’t know! I guess it just always gets too busy back there, especially with all the meet and greets and photoshoots and filming…I never wanted to tire him out before the show or whatever. I haven’t even thought about it too much.”

“The rushing around is what makes it so good though. Tommy & I were like rabbits back in St. Louis. I don’t know what was in that water but shit got crazy.” 

I nodded, thinking about everything my best friend was saying. “You might be right, Britt. Truly what am I doing if not the lead singer in the sleaziest band to walk this earth backstage? It’s a disgrace to their reputation, honestly.” I said, shaking my head. 

“There you go!” She laughed. “Just because they’re getting older doesn’t mean we are too. We gotta keep them on their toes babe.” 

“You always do make a good point Ms. Furlan-Lee.” I replied, and the two of us broke out into laughter. We stood outside scrolling through our phones and judging each other’s Instagram feeds for a few more minutes before we were finally joined by the men of the hour. 

“Goodnight guys! See you on the next!” Nikki’s slightly raspy post-show voice called out. He was walking up with Courtney and a sleeping Ruby in tow on the way to their bus as well. 

“See you dude!” An unmistakable voice yelled back, followed by the appearance of the lankiest guy of the bunch, still somehow with a single drumstick in hand. 

Finally I caught a glimpse of my specific man of the hour, who had traded in the bright red glitter and leathers of his stage costume for a pair of camo shorts and a black tank top. His signature chain hung around his neck and for some reason he was also still adorning sunglasses at 1:30 in the morning. 

“There you are.” I said smiling as he walked up. 

“Hey lovey.” He said, wrapping me in a hug and pressing a short kiss to the top of my head. 

“You tired?” I asked, still in his arms. 

“Yeah I could sleep. Fuckin’ awesome show though. I still can’t believe how many people are actually showing up.” 

I scoffed at his words. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. This is literally the tour of the century. People are gonna be showing up for you guys forever.” 

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Hopefully.” 

He gave my back a quick rub before motioning for us to get on our bus so we could start off to the next city. As we got ready for bed, my conversation with Brittany played over and over in my head, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. 

I just said it too– this is the tour of the fucking century. I need to start treating it like that for myself and my man. Tomorrow is a new day full of new experiences and new ideas and new desires. A million possible ways I could go about what I wanted to do swirled around in my brain, but as I settled under the covers of our shared bed in the back room, a lightbulb moment was had. 

~

The next night began like every other after we arrived at the latest stadium and got everything settled. Crüe was closing the show tonight, which meant we all had more time to hang backstage. We were currently in an in-between period between Poison and Def Leppard, meaning there was about two hours until Crüe’s set. Vince was mostly ready to go, and was over in someone else’s room with the rest of the guys in the band hanging out and doing whatever other pre-show rituals they all partake in these days. 

I was in his dressing room, putting last night’s ideas into action. I was nervous for a million different reasons; nervous he’d shun me off if there wasn’t enough time, nervous he’d think I was trying to act like some groupie on the Girls Girls Girls tour, nervous the idea my brain had conjured up was overstepping or I’d get in trouble with their stylist somehow. Lots of nerves. I just hoped Brittany’s advice was right to take for Vince and me. 

After connecting my phone to the speaker and turning some music up decently loud, I began the action steps of my plan. I grabbed my tote bag and wandered into the bathroom. I took off the ripped blue jeans and tank top I had been sporting all day and opted for something more…(well technically, less) appropriate. I had dug out one of my red teddies from my luggage on the bus, a lacey number I knew was one of Vince’s favorites, and slipped it on in place of my clothes. I touched up my makeup that had begun to flake off over the course of the day, and ran a brush through my hair. 

Once satisfied, I walked back out into the now much more noticeably cold air of the dressing room for the main operation. 

There on a silver rack hung Vinnie’s most prized possession this tour– a floor length, silk piece of art hand painted with Japanese symbols in reds, golds, and royal blue covering the back. I ran my hands down the oversized sleeves as it hung there, looking like something that should’ve been in the MOMA rather than trekking around dingy baseball stadium hallways being diligently followed by a short woman with a portable steamer. 

It had been almost a month of The Stadium Tour and I hadn’t dared to touch it, especially not after seeing how pissed off Vince got when someone (still a mystery who) stole his original show pants from backstage. Tonight was different though. I needed it to help me with the fantasy I had dreamed up after a middle-of-the-night conversation in a parking lot in Cleveland with my best friend. 

I took a deep breath before carefully taking it off the hanger and placing it on me. My smaller frame was of course drowning in it, since the length and size was custom made for Vince. I tiptoed over to the full length mirror hanging on the wall, careful not to drag too much of it on the floor. 

My eyes went wide as I took in the sight of myself. Bright red lace hugging my hips and chest perfectly, (the bodysuit had been a gift from Vince last Christmas, something that actually was custom made for my body’s measurements), with the iconic Wild Side performance look draped over my shoulders. I felt expensive– high class even, and now understood why Vince was always on such a high between the opening song and Shout at the Devil. This piece was enough to make anyone’s ego go through the roof. 

I tied the kimono up in the front to conceal what lay underneath and took a deep breath before walking back over to sit on one of the couches. My back was facing the door, so the surprise wouldn’t be ruined when he came back in, which after seeing the clock turn to 6:39pm, realized should be almost any minute now. 

I smoothed my hair over a few more times with my hand and picked at some stray nail polish that had chipped off onto my cuticles. My mind wandered to the endless amount of reactions he could have at the sight of me until they weren’t just fantasies anymore, but the real thing. 

It took everything in me not to jump off the couch like some sort of rabid animal in anticipation when I heard the doorknob turn and the heavy door creak open. 

“Hey baby, have you see my kim–” 

The sentence died in his throat as I rose from the couch in the very article of clothing he was asking about not a second before. I smiled innocently up at him as his wide eyes looked me up and down. 

I walked toward him, making a show of my bare legs peeking through the soft fabric with every stride forward. He bit his bottom lip when I placed my hands in his. 

“This what you were looking for?” I offered, officially setting the backstage plan into motion. 

“Oh yeah…” He trailed off, letting go of one of my hands so he could twirl me around. “Look at you baby doll.” 

“I got you a present.” I said softly, after a moment. His eyebrows raised when I didn’t continue. Finally I walked backward a couple steps and held my arms out so the kimono’s tie was on display. “You have to unwrap it.” 

He practically pounced on me the second the words exited my mouth. He pulled the silk fabric gently and the loose knot fell, allowing a glimpse of what was underneath to show through.

“You fuckin’ tease.” He said in a low voice, still smiling like a kid in a candy store. The plan was working. 

His hand graced my shoulder as he pushed one arm of the robe off so it draped down my back. “You want something tonight, huh sugar?” He asked, pressing a short kiss to the underside of my jaw. My eyes fluttered closed at the touches, almost completely abandoning the act then and there. I did my best to stay strong. 

“Don’t you have a show in an hour?” I teased, taking a small step back. 

His face dropped. “Don’t you start. Those fuckers can wait.” 

Before I knew it, I was being lifted up and carried towards the couch. He laid me down so my head was on the armrest as he hovered over me. I ran my hands up his tattooed arms as his lips pressed down onto mine. 

He ran his hands over the red lace that clung to my skin and massaged my soft flesh underneath. The couch was beyond uncomfortable, but I found I didn’t care at all when Vince was touching me like this. 

As we made out, his right hand snaked around my back to undo the thin fabric and pull it down my body. I started to slide the kimono off my shoulders to give him more access as well. 

“No.” He said and put his hand on my arm. “Leave it on. My girl wants to play dirty tonight, right?”

I bit my lip and took a deep breath through my nose as I nodded in response.

“That’s what I thought. You want me to fuck you in this then wear it onstage in front of 40,000 people…is that it?” He whispered.

Any and all facade of confidence and calmness I previously had completely melted away at his words. Just the thought of him putting it back on later after these less than wholesome activities to go sing in front of a stadium full of unsuspecting fans had me shuddering in anticipation. He started kissing down my jaw and neck again until he reached my heaving chest. 

“God I love these tits.” He spoke softly. “Especially when they’re filling out this outfit.” He trailed his hand over the kimono once again, down my curves until he reached the part of me dripping with need. 

“You’re lucky I got an extra one of these baby…because you’re gonna be the fucking death of me.”

[mayo-advance]

Well if it’s a Peter Maximoff request you want then how about one of him with a reader who is notoriously bad at card games and always loses, so one day she just goes to Peter and is like: I need your help to hustle these guys. And then through the excitement and intimacy of being partners in a (pettily small and low stakes) con they grow to become partners for real.

Luck of the Draw

Peter Maximoff x Reader Blurb

A/N: I know its been a month im so sorry bae schoolwork has had me in a chokehold. Anyways I didn’t have time to write the full fic but heres a blurb that I may or may not finish someday. I hope you like what I did manage to write.

~500 Words

————————

Just give it up, I’m not ever going to be any good at this”

You had just lost your fifteenth game of Go Fish… After losing about twelve games of Crazy Eights… And ten games of Poker. It was time to admit it, you fuckin’ sucked at card games. Even if you had good strategy, you never got good cards.

“I told you Pete, I can’t win at card games. Not even the baby ones. How the hell do you expect me to win against people who do this all the time?”

Peter looked across the table at you while shuffling with his super speed. “You asked for my help sweets.”

“Why can’t you just use your speed to swap out my cards? Aren’t you a kleptomaniac or whatever?” You knew that he was but-

“First I need to know you can at least appear to be winning.” Peter started dealing a new hand. “Here, lets try BlackJack, since thats what you’ll actually be playing.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. He’s never been a stickler for the rules, so why start now?

He shuffled them one more time and smiled cheekily back at you as he dealt you your cards. 

“Ace low or high?” He asks.

You shrug, “high.”

Peter smiles and places a card in front of you. A King. 10 points. “See? You might not be out of luck yet.”

You stare down at the card, briefly glancing up at him. “Watch my other card be a two.”

Peter pulls a second card from the deck, looking at it where you can’t see it. He smiles a cheshire grin, and places the card down.

An Ace. 21 points. A BlackJack.

Fucking finally. 

“You did that on purpose speedy.”

Peter shrugged, playing innocent, “maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

“And whats your hand?”

Peter turns over two twos. 

You let out an exasperated sigh, trying not to smile. “Damn it Pete. The one game I win and its because you cheated.”

Peter put his hands up defensively. “How did I cheat???” A smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “The cards have spoken, and it looks here like you have officially won.” He taps your cards.

“Wow, yeah, one win is really how I’m gonna get the information I need.” You were smiling now.

Peter gave you a wide grin, “Well, I suppose since you’ve beaten me so terribly, I could help you hustle these guys.”

[cyberrat]

82nd Batch Of Fics: 2nd Fill

Hanzo/Cassidy – hurt/comfort; rape tw – Cole finally gets to *sleep*.

---

Cassidy’s words hang in the slowly cooling desert night air between them.

Hanzo feels a chill running down his spine the more he thinks about it and the longer he looks at the big Alpha sitting on the edge of his bed.

Finally, he shakes himself out of it and brushes down on the front of his shirt as he makes his way back toward the window where he had put his glass on the sill in his haste to pull his gun on the intruder.

“What are you saying, Cassidy,” he says silky. “Have you lost every last ounce of self-respect?”

“Ain’t like you haven’t taken a taste already,” Cole reminds him, voice low and hollow sounding, but when Hanzo turns around there’s that same easy going grin on his face.

That morning back in Japan had been spooking around his head for a while. Thinking about waking up next to the big, warm body. Able to just take him again while Cassidy had still been deeply out to the world.

It had felt good back then. More than good. It had made him feel powerful and on top of the world, being able to take an Alpha of Cassidy’s caliber just like that.

Now, though… he can’t help but feel ashamed. How often does Cassidy wake up to some Alpha roughly making use of his body?

“You’re pathetic,” Hanzo hears himself say bitterly.

Cole’s smile widens as he slips out of his shirt and throws it haphazardly onto the ground. “Ain’t arguin’ with ya there, sweetheart. Come here, will ya? Got myself nice ‘n washed up just for you. Or do ya just wanna stand there and keep tellin’ me what a fuckin’ waste of space I am? I like degradation, don’t get me fuckin’ wrong, but-”

Hanzo pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut against the headache pushing more insistently against the inside of his skull.

“Shut the fuck up, Cassidy… and get on the damn bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hanzo bites the tip of his tongue, forcing that low, appreciative groan that wants to rise from his chest, back down. He can’t help it. That absolutely primal part of his brain that gets off on an Alpha like Cassidy submitting to him. Is it a sign of how pathetic and young he is? Probably.

But he can’t fucking help it.

He throws his drink back, puts the glass onto the window sill again and turns around to find that Cassidy has kicked his jeans and boots off. He’s looking good, stretched out on Hanzo’s bed. Ready to be taken. Even though his cock is not hard yet.

Cole watches him with those tired eyes as Hanzo moves in, unbuttoning his shirt a little and slipping out of his shoes.

He crawls onto the bed and Cassidy makes room for him eagerly, his face looking nice and relaxed again. He watches as Hanzo situates himself so he is sitting with his back braced against the rickety headboard of the rickety bed.

“That works,” he drawls, pulling himself closer and putting his head on Hanzo’s thigh like a big, shaggy dog. “I can suck your dick for ya, babydoll,” he croons, voice so deep and lovely, and so close to his eager cock. He could go right now. Even after watching Cassidy get… what… raped? Even after seeing how dog tired he was. He could go. He could get hard for this hairy, fat Alpha to fuck him until he begs him for respite.

Hanzo stares at Cassidy’s mouth. It looks so sensual; broad and easy to form the lewdest little demands.

It had felt really fucking good on his lips.

Hanzo swallows thickly and finally looks away.

“Yes, sure,” he replies. It sounds a bit bored, though he is anything but.

Cassidy seems to take that as a challenge since he starts to get to work immediately; but once the silence falls over the room and Hanzo just lets him do whatever the fuck he thinks he needs to be doing, Cole crashes quickly. It’s unsurprising after the way he looked. The way he had sounded.

He’s barely popped open the button of Hanzo’s jeans before his movements come to a halt. Hanzo can feel the weight on his thigh increasing as the old Alpha starts to relax, his body dragging him under.

A heartbeat later, he starts to snore softly.

Hanzo looks down. Now that Cassidy is out for the count, he does not really know what to do with himself. He feels awkward sitting there with a whore draped across his lap; especially an Alpha whore.

But that look on Cassidy’s face as he got fucked by that young upstart just… doesn’t want to leave him. Hanzo glances down a few times until he curses softly under his breath and finally lets himself just look.

His hand moves across Cole’s head without touching a strand of his unkempt hair, trying to decide where to touch him or whether to touch him at all. What would happen if he touched and Cassidy woke up?

From what he understood he is not new to being used during his sleep…

He’s just a fucking whore.

It’s that rather uncharitable thought that finally gets Hanzo to grasp a strand of Cassidy’s hair. He rubs it lightly between two fingers, feeling the rather coarse texture before moving it away from the other’s face and tucking it behind his ear.

Cassidy does not move a muscle. There are dark circles beneath his eyes. His face is lax. So Hanzo keeps going, fingers carding through the other Alpha’s hair, trying to somewhat tame it and brushing it behind his ear until Hanzo can better see what he is working with.

His beard is as unkempt as the rest of his appearance, though Hanzo distinctly remembers him having looked like a million bucks when they met up in Japan. They must have taken care to keep him nice and clean looking back then.

He brushes his fingers against the rough beard and then pauses as he sees a bruise starting to appear just beneath the hinge of his jaw. He takes a better look and yes: there’s a dark blue-and-green bruise circling Cassidy’s neck, too thin and precise to have been made with hands. It looks like someone had tried to hang him not too long ago.

Or maybe it had been part of a restraint to keep the muscular Alpha down as they fucked him. A cold shudder runs down Hanzo’s spine. He takes his hands off of Cassidy and instead grabs his phone. He could at least spend his time well and work a bit while his date for the night was out for the count.

Maybe it would keep him from thinking too much about this whole situation.

It annoys him. That he has to think about Cassidy past how much he disgusted him and how much he wanted to fuck him over and over again until they were both sticky and satiated.

Hanzo pulls a grim face, staring at the screen of his phone.