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n0rmal-cat · 2 months ago

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Yandere Farmer x Thief reader- simple instructions

[yeah sorry for whatever is happening, let me know if there’s any trouble]

You wake up with a groan, dreading the morning light that floods your senses like a harsh reminder of your dreary existence—cold, dark, and uninviting. You’d gladly slip back into sleep, surrendering to the comforting embrace of oblivion. But as you turn over, expecting the familiar hardness of an abandoned building’s floor beneath you, you instead find yourself nestled on a soft pillow. Where are you?

You glance around the room, and the sunlight streaming through the window suggests it’s probably mid-day. "How did I end up here? Did I sleep with someone?" you wondered.

Rising from the bed, you stretch your limbs, stepping out of the bed feeling a softness beneath your feet. "Wow, carpeted floors, fancy... oh, and pyjamas damn." Just then, the door creaks open, must be the lucky-.

"Didn't I tell you to get up before seven?" His voice sends a shiver down your spine. "You!? I thought you were... it wasn't a dream?!" you yell in surprise. "I wouldn't call you stealing from me a dream, but I assure you, I'm entirely real." He removes his hat, revealing beads of sweat trickling down his face and a slight sunburn marking his arms—no, stop that!

"So what time is it, then? If you wanted me up, why didn't you just wake me?" you ask. "Half past eleven. Now tell me, if I woke you up, would you have learned?" His accent is thick as he steps closer, his presence closing in. "A dog needs to be trained, doesn't it?" He stops right in front of you, an imposing figure. "Now, back on the bed." Heat floods your cheeks, turning your face as red as a ripe tomato. "W-what?"

"What, you don't understand simple instructions?" He towers over you, commanding. Without a word, you find yourself sitting back on the bed, heat coursing through you. He kneels before you, grasping your ankle with one hand and sliding the soft fabric of your pyjama pant leg up while rummaging through his pocket with the other. You bite your lip you hadn’t anticipated things taking this turn, but if you’re honest with yourself, you aren’t complaining. You release a shaky breath and close your eyes in anticipation.

A soft click resonates in the silence, and you snap your eyes open, realization dawning as you look down. "What is..." You gaze at your foot, wide-eyed. "Did you put an ankle monitor on me?!" Staring up at him in disbelief, he dusts off his hands with a satisfied smirk.

"How else am I supposed to ensure you don’t run away before you repay your debt?" You’re left speechless, taking in the situation, words failing you. "I'll be downstairs. Get ready and come down quickly because you're already on thin ice, pest." With that, he strides out of the room, leaving you in stunned silence. You lift your foot, inspecting the monitor strapped to your ankle. Etched in golden lettering is the name "August."

"I don’t know if I should feel turned on or pissed off... I guess I’ll get dressed." You make your way to the closet, which is a chaotic jumble of clothes none in the same size or style, and most appear to be barely even cleaned. After some debating , you settle on a simple shirt paired with overalls, the only outfit that seems relatively clean.

After getting ready, you make your way downstairs, trying your hardest not to make a sound. Even though he already knows you’re in the house, it’s a habit you picked up over the years of breaking into people’s homes. As you reach the kitchen, the man you now suspect is ‘August’ is busy cooking something unidentifiable.

The air is thick with an odour that hits you like a freight train—reminiscent of rotten meat. You quickly cover your nose, suppressing a gag. "Do you normally make this much noise when you try to sneak up on someone?" he comments without turning around. "Well, it’s hard when whatever you’re cooking smells like shit..." He hums to himself, his demeanour unperturbed. "Should I gag you as well? You seem to run your mouth a lot. Your food is already on the table."

And so it was, a perfect picture of pancakes, bacon and eggs, but again with the smell of...whatever that was in your nose you couldn't bring yourself to eat anything.

"So what are you cooking then?" you move to try to see what was on the pan but he blocks you with his shoulder.

"my lunch, now eat" his tone firm.

"ah I don't think I can eat right now-" you started to protest, but he spun around, gripping both your shoulders "I had leniency on you in the morning, I made you a full plate for you, lord knows you haven't eaten in a while"

"you don't know that"

"I've watched you on my cameras steal my excitement and sell it off just to get a meal, I quite literally see my logo in the pawn shop every weekend I go back to buy my own stuff, did you not question why you kept taking the same plow every time?"

He seated you forcefully at the table, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions, it felt nice to be here, I mean he was right, the last decent meal you had was well...

"ok fine ill eat the damn food, can you at least tame your 'lunch' to a different room?"

"I already ate" he crossed his arms, a bit of sauce dripped down his chin, you narrowed your eyes at him as you cut into your pancakes.

“So, what am I supposed to do to repay this debt?” you asked, chewing.

“You’ll be working for me, just as I said—feeding the animals, helping me carry food to the stalls,” he replied, leaning forward.

“You don’t really look like you need much help with that,” you mumbled through a mouthful of food.

He leaned over on the table with his hand "And I definitely don't, but I told you I would train you wouldn't I?"

"I guess..."

he took your chin with his rough hands "When you're done come out to the back, but I want that plate to be clean" You feel a knot in your stomach as you nod.

“Good job,” he praised, "I'm glad you can understand simple instructions" Your face travelled with his hand as he walked out through the back door.

You swallowed hard, the remnants of your meal suddenly feeling heavy in your throat. “Holy shit…”

[Please be patient with me I had a rough day, the art is 70% done I’m just not in the right mood.]

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eowynstwin · 6 months ago

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Ghoap x reader. Autistic reader. Christmas angst. Allusions to Ghost’s backstory. Salacious use of ribbon. Soap being inappropriate. NSFW.

Soap fidgets on the train the whole way over to the light show. You don’t notice, of course, your earplugs are in, but Ghost, hypervigilant for the season, cocks an eyebrow.

“Itches like mad,” Soap grouses. He tugs at the collar of his sweater, a ghastly thing in fuzzy green, red, and gold, with LED bulbs embroidered down the front.

Ghost scowls at him. Soap purses his lips, not chastened. You sit between them, oblivious, fingering the zipper of your purse.

There’s enough cheer on the train to make up for their collective lack. More than one person wears a dumb Santa hat, and at least every other has on something colorful and festive. It seems like everyone feels some sort of Christmas spirit but Ghost, and it makes his hackles tense up.

Your hand slips into his then, smooth like silk settling over his palm. He looks at you; your gaze is fixed steadily ahead, unfocused. He’s not sure whether you reached for him to find comfort or offer it, but he closes his fingers around yours anyway.

He looks over—Soap has your other hand. Reaching to find, then. He squeezes.

The three of you wait until the very last moment to disembark when you arrive, letting the crowd out first. Ghost’s choice. The absolute last thing he wants is to lose either you or Soap in the stream of people flowing from the train—Soap will get distracted, and you hate it when strangers crowd you. This is going to be a trial as it is.

Ghost has to admit—once they reach the grounds, the displays are something to see. Together, you walk through a tunnel of lights leading you to the beginning of the walk, rings of warm white gently shining overhead, and Ghost, despite himself, can’t help but admire how it makes both of his partners look like they’re glowing.

Then Soap tugs at his sweater again, and Ghost bites down a growl.

“Oh, hot chocolate,” you say at the end of the tunnel, looking over at a cart laden with a few big steel samovars. “I’m going to get some, either of you want any?”

“Cider,” Ghost says, softening the curtness of his tone with the tenner he hands you. “If they’ve got any.”

“Coffee for me, hen, if you don’t mind,” Soap adds with a smile. You nod, and scurry toward the drinks.

Soap eyes him. Ghost knows what he sees—his back has been ramrod straight since the bloody month started. He holds his shoulders the same way he might if he had his rifle across his chest. His jaw has been hard as a cinder block any time the market clerk tossed “happy holidays” at him when he did his best to get away as fast as he could.

“Don’t,” Ghost says.

Soap says nothing.

This is not their first Christmas together, but it is their first with you. The sergeant already knows how Ghost feels about the holiday; you do not, and Ghost wants to keep it that way for a little while longer.

Divining your feelings about anything takes a little longer than it might with anyone else, but he’s pretty sure you’re excited, in your way. Soap, for whom pine trees and glitter and the smell of snow in the air seem to activate a sleeper agent in his brain that orgasms at the mere sight of tinsel, already has a Wellington resting in their shared fridge, and artfully wrapped presents crammed under their pre-lit tree. The two of you together have flooded the flat with lights, candy-cane frippery, crocheted snowflake doilies, and ski-lodge scented candles.

Ghost, for his part, has scrolled various travel websites to figure out if assassinating Santa Claus is something actually feasible. Maybe if he defeats the final boss of Christmas he can actually sleep through the night at least once this month.

It isn’t that he hates it, exactly. It’s just that Christmas, to him, began as a hazy game of roulette, wondering if the wild animal of his father would appear to ruin the exchange of charity-shop gifts wrapped in reused paper, and then solidified as an image reflected in pools of spreading blood.

The last happy Christmas, he had to burn down. That’s no reason that he has to ruin it for everyone else, though.

You return with three paper cups held awkwardly in your two hands, and Ghost and Soap relieve you of your burden. Your cup has a peppermint stick jutting up out of it, and you use it to stir your steaming drink periodically as the three of you proceed.

The path leads through an army of glowing snowmen in mismatched sizes, life-size gingerbread houses, past multicolor balls tossed across the top of a frozen pond. Trees banded with so many strings they look like branches of lightning reaching up from the earth. Electric snowflakes dangling above your heads from netting stretched between lampposts.

Ghost keeps clenching and unclenching his fist. His cider goes rapidly cold in his other hand, untouched. He probably can’t get his money back for it, but he’s agitated enough to start a fight and try.

Meanwhile—it’s obvious, you’re enjoying yourself immensely. You don’t say much as you flit between installations, running a hand over the glowing bulbs, tilting your head this way and that like a curious little bird. You take your phone out more than once to open your camera, and Ghost knows you’re saving pictures to put together a slideshow later on.

More than once, you look back at him and Soap, and grin wide at some novelty or another. Ghost manages to nod his head at you—go on, little birdie, keep having fun.

“Jesus,” Soap mutters, trying to scratch at a spot on his back for the third time.

“Fuck’s sake, Soap, just take the fucking thing off,” Ghost snaps.

“Canna,” Soap says.

“Why the fuck not?”

Soap’s mouth slants sideways. He looks around for spectators, and, finding none within eyeshot, lifts the bottom of the sweater.

Bright, shiny, very red ribbon runs in two lines along the naked cut of his obliques—down past the waistband of his trousers.

Ghost tosses the cider out of his cup and grips Soap by the back of the neck, throws, “OY! Duckie! Bathroom!” at you, and drags his boyfriend to the nearby public loo.

It’s empty, thank god, so Ghost wastes no time yanking the closure of Soap’s trousers open. The ribbon continues downward, downward, the V narrowing and narrowing until—

It converges in a (somewhat lopsided) bow tied right around the base of Soap’s dick.

“Soap, what the fuck,” Ghost says.

The sergeant backs up, and pulls the sweater fully off. It reveals a latticework of satiny red crisscrossing his chiseled torso: lines of ribbon accenting the curves of his pectorals, his toned abdomen, highlighting the small indent of his trim waist.

Soap’s cheeks flush pink.

“Goes further down,” he mutters, not meeting Ghost’s eye.

“What the fuck,” Ghost repeats.

“Was gonna do a big reveal when we got home,” Soap says. “Start stripping when we got the door closed. That rubbish.”

Ghost, incredulously, snorts, and Soap smiles at him.

“First time you’ve laughed this month,” he says quietly. “S’ why I did it.”

Ghost steps up to him and takes Soap’s chin between thumb and forefinger. “You fucking idiot,” he says, and kisses him.

The bathroom door opens, letting in a gust of wind, and Ghost and Soap jump back from each other momentarily, before relaxing when your voice reaches them.

“There better not be a handjob happening in here without me—oh,” you say, stopping short.

Shoving the waist of his pants down further, Soap turns around to show off to you the full extent of what he’s done. It gives Ghost a good look at the pretty intersections happening overtop of the muscles of Soap’s back, and the dip of the ribbon down between the two perfect globes of Soap’s arse.

You blink several times. “There isn’t a lock on this door, Soap. If I get down to suck you off, someone is going to come in.”

Impossibly, Ghost snorts again, and then laughs for real, a full-belly guffaw that comes out a little more harsh than it should. But you grin at him, and the line of Soap’s shoulders, which Ghost suddenly realizes has been as tense as his this whole time, relaxes.

He pecks the bare swell of Soap’s bicep, and then the crown of your head as he passes you by.

“I’ll hold it closed, duckie,” he says. “Do whatever you want.”

He only leaves the door once when he hears you shriek suddenly with laughter—to find that Soap has decorated his cock with a peppermint-loop of red lipstick, all the way to the tip.

“Fucking idiot,” Ghost repeats, and cancels his trip to the North Pole then and there.

#ghoap x reader #ghoap x you #ghost x soap #ghost x reader #soap x reader #soap x ghost #ghostsoap #mwritesghoap #madi writes #unedited be gentle #merry Christmas etc

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tinas1469 · 2 months ago

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etalkctv: Dreams are coming true on the Met Gala red carpet! 🤍

Zendaya had a fangirl moment while posing for photos at the Met Gala when she turned around to find the entire carpet consumed by THE Diana Ross’s train. This is the first time Ross has attended the Met Gala in over 20 years. Always the multi-hyphenate, Miss Ross designed her own outfit for the occasion.

What makes this sighting even better is that Zendaya appeared to be paying tribute to Diana Ross’s look in the 1975 film ‘Mahogany’ with her all-white Louis Vuitton silk suit and hat (of course, accessorizing with her diamond engagement ring from Tom Holland).

Zendaya’s suit itself could be paying homage to actress and actress Bianca Jagger who wore an all-white suit to the Kenneth Jay Lane party the year before ‘Mahogany’ in 1974.

What do you think?

(📷: Getty, Variety) #MetGala #MetGala2025 #Zendaya #DianaRoss

#Zendaya #Diana Ross #Tom Holland #Met Gala #Met Gala 2025

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1shirt2shirtredshirtdeadshirt · 2 years ago

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Sexism in TOS: Worst Offender, or Progressive in Retrospect in Comparison?

I see a lot of folks claim that TOS was the most sexist of the Star Trek shows by a landslide -- and while I agree that it definitely suffered from the sexism of the times, I also have other perspectives to share to give some food for thought.

I am of course not insinuating that TOS isn't sexist -- it is, but I have to ask folks to consider the breadth and depth of Berman's sexism in his run and ask yourself: Was Gene Roddenberry genuinely more sexist in his storytelling and delivery than Rick Berman?

I'm not telling you to feel one way or the other, but all I ask is that you hear me out and consider some perspectives and make your own balanced assessments. Nobody is obligated to share my opinion, but it means a lot just to have folks hear it and see their thoughts on the subject. So here is what I was originally responding to:

Someone's response to this photo:

"Devil's advocate. This was a part of the popular form of cardio during the production time of TNG. Yes, it was heavily sexualised by men, but so is literally every other way women work out. Men have been caught taking pictures of women while trying to do dead lifts, running on tracks and working on sled machines. They post them online to share too. The fact is, there is no way a woman can be shown working out without it going there. And yeah,t hat includes the combat forms of workout they do in Star Trek. Just look at how Dax dresses when she spars with Worf. Yes, they're dating, but still, same goes when 7 does and any other female.

Aerobics routines like this were made dirty and cringy. This was what women wore then by and large. This is how the workout was done. We make it cringy."

My response to them:

"I respect your take, but I disagree on a few fronts.

The miniskirt was chosen by the TOS female cast, not the male cast, specifically requested by Grace LW and affirmed by Nichelle and Majel who would go on to vehemently defend the miniskirt over the years as comfortable and embraced by them.

Grace said it was comfortable and seen as a symbol of female sexual empowerment during the 60s and thought it would be a progressive garment (and turns out that it was, as it was later adapted and worn by male crew as a skant on TNG) -- FYI those were designed by a gay man and Gene approved them.

This was also supposed to be Spock's TMP outfit:

Literally lingerie.

We saw both Uhura (who saves Kirk in from Marlena Mirror Mirror) and Yeoman Landon (the first to initiate combat with a classic Kirk-esque kick to help the Captain being attacked in The Apple) carry out their combat training in their Starfleet uniforms without ever being made to change into any ridiculous workout gear.

In fact, I'd argue Jim Kirk was sexualized even more than the ladies of the week on the show and I saw his naked body more than anyone else's on a fairly regular basis. He wore red yoga tights while topless in Charlie X while the women wore full length gymnastic suits that covered their entire body. If anything, it went out of its way to avoid sexualizing women practicing fitness in those scenes and instead focused on Kirk.

Gene confessed that he asked to have Shatner filmed in suggestive/provocative ways to "give something to the ladies", so he -- as he said -- liked to "film him walking away" or have him conveniently busting out of his shirts in just about every episode as it were, because Shatner apparently had great assets. LOL

Gene made an effort to at least sexualize both if he was going to sexualize one, and he carried that attitude forward in wanting the m/m and f/f scenes in the background on Risa for TNG. He also insisted that the men and women wear skimpy outfits on THAT TNG planet. You know the one. LOL I mean the dudes even had on less than the women:

Gene also gave permission to K/S shippers to have their conventions back in the 70s when he was asked for permission. Gene and Nimoy felt with all the skimpy outfits they had the ladies wear, why not let the ladies and gay men have their fun, too? It's how we ended up with moments like this:

Yes, those are two people dressed up as Kirk and Spock's penises doing interpretive dance. Gene didn't give two damns. LOL

In my eyes, that was a very progressive take on Gene's part for the 60s. It was actually PARAMOUNT STUDIOS who had the big problem with K/S stories and vehemently tried to shut them down. Gene literally hired slash authors on his payroll and even had several slash stories/writers published in his official Star Trek books (The New Voyages & The New Voyages II).

I feel I saw Uhura and women in TOS engaged in more physical combat/altercations defending themselves that Troi or Bev were shown holding their own.

In fact, Kirk used to get furious when someone would "dress up" his female crew members without their consent (Trelane episode, Shore Leave episode) because like his male crew members, he wanted them to be treated professionally and to also have his male crew act professionally.

Berman brought some of his own personal biases into Star Trek that in some ways regressed it. While TOS had blatant sexism and was called on it time and again, that show was made in the 60s -- a solid 21 years before TNG. We as a modern audience understood why some of it was cringe/sexist due to the time period -- look at any other media coming out in the 60s and Star Trek was miles ahead of what other shows were doing.

Compare that to Berman who was churning sexist stuff out when women like Starbuck and Scully were simultaneously on screen on other programs airing, and we had already had Sigourney Weaver and other strong women in Holywood playing respectful roles.

In my eyes, there was no need of the sexism seen in TNG but especially VOY and ENT. There was no excuse for it when other shows were writing women far better and a number of those weren't even set in the future like Trek was, making it age even faster due to having those dated perspectives frequently highlighted.

In the Center Seat documentary as well as "The Fifty Year Mission" book you will find cast members, writers and other studio alumni who attest to this. Some discussions from "The Fifty Year Mission":

"First, Berman was supposed to have been a real sleaze ball . . . According to Terry Farrel, he would go on constantly about how her breasts weren't big enough, how she should do something about it, and how his secretary was a good example to follow as she had huge breasts. She even had to have fittings to get larger bras, and that was all done at his behest.

Later Berman and Braga developed a name for Jeri Ryan's character prior Seven of Nine. They originally called the character "perineum" which if you look it up it is the area between the anus and the scrotum. Later they floated the name "6 of 9". I mean, what does it tell you about where these two were coming from in the development of this character if they had names like that put forward in all seriousness for her?"

Gene Roddenberry also had some of his own more progressive ideas for TNG cut or watered down by Berman. Roddenberry agreed TNG should have homosexual relationships and representation at a con in the 80s and insisted on it in a meeting with his writers -- something Berman later would not honor. Gene wanted the AIDS episode, showing m/m and f/f in the Riza scenes -- these were some of Roddenberry's requests to include in TNG that Berman later stonewalled.

Berman's era was sadly dated by his own misogynist bias, IMO, to the point that it can somewhat hurt the shows he worked on through his cringe egoism and blatant disrespect toward his female cast.

There is a reason why Gene could keep female actresses working with him and Berman had a revolving door of women that he couldn't seem to keep working for him -- he was abhorrent to women, on and off set. Gene wasn't perfect at all, he had a lot of issues himself -- but Berman was a whole other level. Just look at what he did to poor Jolene Blalock, Marina Sirtis and his toxic commenting on her body weight which exacerbated her struggles with eating disorders, or how he treated and talked to Terry Farrell.

Anyway, just some food for thought. I'm not saying anyone is wrong regarding a take like that, but there are a variety of ways to look at this. Gene Roddenberry isn't a saint by any means, but it definitely bothers me how folks will tote the Berman era as if it were the lesser of two evils or the more progressive depiction of women when I felt there were far more concerning portrayals of women in his era with far less justification.

(P.S: I don't event want to go near the sheer amount of "creepy old dude/villain preys on innocent/naïve/scared young woman or little girl" stories there were in Berman's era, either. But that's a whole other can of worms I can write about in a part 2.)

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halfpsychic · 15 days ago

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body heat (john carter x gn!reader)

summary: A ‘housewarming party’ gone wrong. Carter sleeps over the night your apartment’s heating breaks.

thank you anon for letting me choose a prompt from this list…

wc: 3.1k

content: no warnings. friends to lovers(ish), sharing a bed, mostly fluff

The chill in the air doesn’t register in your mind for a while. January, the middle of winter, is always frigid. There wasn’t any reason to bat an eyelash at a shiver up your spine or needing to pull on an extra sweater. The heat will kick in soon, you think. Another shiver. Your fingertips are ice cubes when you reach up to rub your tired eyes. The heat won’t be much longer. Any minute. The blanket that lives on the back of the couch is finally pulled into your lap.

It’s a month late, but in the beginning of February, Carter shows up at your door with a glittery gift box and a paper takeout bag from a place down the street. “Happy housewarming.”

His gesture makes you laugh. It’s silly, showing up weeks after you move in under the guise of a housewarming ‘party’, but it’s sweet. Moving into your first apartment alone was a big deal for you, even if you didn’t let it show. It was Carter you went to with newspaper ads for advice, mulling over a cheap studio or a one-bed one-bath that would take an hour on the train to get to the hospital. You spent months waiting for the right one to fall into your lap. He started to think you were being indecisive on purpose, not wanting to go through the hassle of moving out of your old apartment on a day off when you’d rather be sitting in front of the TV. But a miracle happened in the classified section of the Chicago Tribune one morning in December.

Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a view of Lake Michigan, partially furnished, and after a few calls to the number listed in the paper, you discover the floors were recently redone and he can fit you in for a tour the next day, if you’re free. Carter watched you buzz in through the ER doors, headed straight for him behind the admit desk. “Please?” You ask before getting into what it actually is you want. “Can you cover for me tomorrow at noon? Just for an hour? Please?”

You bounce up and down on your heels, hands pressed together in prayer as you beg him for a favour.

“Got a date?” He asks with a teasing smile. He fidgets with the pen in his hand.

“Better. A tour of that apartment I want.”

Carter exhales, pretending it’s an exhale of happiness for you instead of relief.

“Yeah, I can cover you. But don’t spend all day there.”

“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time for that once I move in.”

Things got hectic after you moved. With the schedule from hell restricting your time, boxes sat unpacked for days, then weeks, as you slowly made your way through everything. Books on the shelf. Mugs in the cupboard. Sheets in the closet. Clothes in the drawers. Slowly making it yours.

That apartment was everything you could dream of and more. Until the heat starts acting up. At first, it wasn’t a big deal. The heat would take too long to kick in, leaving your fingers and toes numb; then it would stop and kick back in, stop, and kick back in.

And, of course, the heating decides to shit the bed when Carter comes over. What a nice way to welcome him to the place you’ve been raving about for weeks.

You wipe your wet hands on your shirt when Carter appears at the door. The smell of the dish soap follows you across the apartment, and the excited (nervous?) rush that pounds in your ears distracts you from the chill that lingers in the air. Your fingers are still red from the hot water running over each dirty dish.

“Didn’t I say no gifts?” You grumble with a smile that you can’t bite back. It’s a sweet gesture, really. Almost makes the place finally feel entirely yours.

He steps in, pulling off his hat and his gloves first. His gift gets placed on the coffee table for now, and his coat, which does such a good job at keeping Carter warm, is hung up on a hook by the door. His cheeks are still flushed from the cold. You wonder how long he was outside.

The takeout bag he hands you is miraculously hot, somehow surviving the freezing temperatures outdoors.

“You should open your gift first,” Carter says. He reaches into the bag to help serve the food.

“Isn’t it cake and then gifts?” You raise an eyebrow with a faint smile. Carter, always eager to please.

“Just open it,” he pushes the box into your hands.

Reluctantly, while Carter finishes emptying the bag with his eyes still glued to you, you open the box.

“A first-aid kit?” You grin at him. The red bag you pulled out is hefty.

“It comes with everything,” he explains, “bandages, antiseptic wipes, a tourniquet, scissors, tweezers, gloves… you never know when you’ll need it.”

The First-Aid kit looks too big to fit on a shelf in the bathroom cupboard. It’ll probably have to live in the hall closet, if you can fit it in with the heaps of sheets and blankets, or in the kitchen, which would be easier access, and the most likely location for an accident to actually occur, on the account of kitchen knives and boiling hot pans, of course.

It’s the perfect gift from Carter. Practical, not something you’ll look at once and toss in the garbage or something that will hide away in your closet for years. God forbid anyone hurts themselves in your apartment, but if they do, they’ll have not just a doctor to the rescue but enough medical supplies to help, too.

“Thank you, it’s perfect,” you tell him, your hands trailing over the material of the kit. For once, the smile you bear isn’t sarcastic or the prelude to a teasing joke. It’s real; raw as your knees after falling off of your bike, tender as a bruise on an apple. Something you can’t fake, something Carter won’t see right through.

“There’s something else,” he adds, so you look in the box, and behold, a VHS tape was underneath. “I rented something for us to watch.”

‘Speed!” You announce while holding it up. Keanu Reeves’ face on the cover glows under the lightbulb overhead. Carter puts the empty takeout bag on the counter.

By now, your fingers have returned to normal temperature after being drenched in scalding water. No longer feeling the warmth from that, you still don’t notice the temperature in the kitchen dropping slowly but surely. Carter doesn’t, either, too occupied with his still-hot food and the movie you’re going to watch later.

As he shovels the food into his mouth (he really needs to eat better at work), he finally takes a look around your apartment. He’s glad the afternoon he covered for you wasn’t a waste. You deserve something nice. You deserve exactly what you want, and more. He didn’t tell you that, not exactly, but he hopes the message comes across with his gifts. More than anything, he’s happy to see your place, finally. The hardwood flooring isn’t scratched to shit like his is. It’s clean, smooth. The apartment came with a few furnished items; the kitchen table, the couch, the bed in the main bedroom, and a shelf in the corner of the living room. The rest was yours, even the VHS player was the same one you had in college, when he spent many nights watching movies with you into the early hours of the next day. When he passed the video rental store, he was brought back to those nights; wandering the aisles until one of you found something the other would agree to watch, picking up a pizza or going to a corner store before making your way back to your place. Back when you had time to spend together outside of work.

“Meet any of your neighbors yet?” Carter asks with a mouthful of food.

You shake your head. “Not really. I talked to this one lady, though, she was really nice. Lives on a different floor.”

“Do not tell them you’re a doctor,” he warns you in a faux-serious tone. “They will hound you every chance they get about their medical problems.”

“Didn’t we become doctors to help people?” You tease. “Or does that only apply when we’re getting paid?”

“It’s a slippery slope,” he smiles faintly. “You answer one question and suddenly they’re knocking at your door at eight in the morning on your day off, asking why their stomach has been sore for a week or if their scab is infected.”

“Still sounds like helping people,” you grin. “You’re so grumpy.”

Carter rolls up a napkin and throws it at you, sporting a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m grumpy because my neighbors are annoying.”

“Maybe that’s just your building. Maybe my neighbors are nicer and more respectful of my time.”

He rolls his eyes. “Have it your way, then, but don’t come crying to me when you can’t walk to your door without hearing a million questions.”

Carter’s plate has been scraped clean but he denies seconds, insisting you keep the leftovers, and brings the tape into the living room to load it up already. He fiddles with the machine while you put the dirty plates in the sink. A sudden chill takes over your body, and for the first time all evening, the apartment building’s heating system is at the front of your mind. Carter hasn’t said anything yet, probably hasn’t noticed the subtle drop in temperature, and you hope it stays that way. The heat will kick in any minute, you tell yourself. Mid-movie, maybe.

Thankfully, due to previous heating related incidents, you already have a thick blanket waiting on the couch. Sitting at opposite ends of the couch, you pull the blanket into your lap, curling up underneath it. Carter’s eyes are glued to the TV screen already. Despite the uneasy knot forming in your stomach, caused by the thought of bringing up the temperature inside, you turn to him.

“Want a blanket?” You ask, hoping he thought of it as merely a kind gesture instead of a necessary one. His head turns to your voice, glancing over your covered body.

“Yeah, sure,” he answers, turning his attention back to the TV. Baring the cold, your blanket is tossed off for a moment while you dash to the hall closet in search of a decent blanket. Another thick, fuzzy blanket, although smaller in size, sits at the back of the bottom shelf.

Carter’s eyes follow you as you walk back into the room. “Here, this one’s bigger,” you push the blanket you were using before towards him, and unravel the new one onto yourself.

Carter takes it, “Thanks,” he smiles quickly, and brings a portion of it onto his legs.

The two of you settle into the movie, just like old times. It brings a sort of peace you haven’t felt in a while. There aren’t any expectations, not that there are many when you’re with Carter, but there are often expectations in your environment, which is often the hospital. Work doesn’t allow for a two hour stretch of silence. Work, despite the revolving patients and your coworkers permeating every inch of the ER, is incredibly lonely. But tonight, just for a few hours, Carter reminds you that he’s there.

Almost two hours later, the credits roll and the heat still hasn’t kicked in. You glance over at Carter, noticing his legs curled up under his blanket, embarrassment washing over you as reality kicks in. The apartment you were so proud to show him, in reality, is a piece of shit. Well, this one tiny amenity is a piece of shit, and has been all month. You didn’t think the entire thing would turn off and fail to turn back on. All month, it always turned back on. Warm air always from the vents eventually. But not tonight, when you have a guest.

“I think the heat went out,” you speak into the silence.

Carter turns to you, his voice quiet, not wanting to complain. “Yeah, it’s pretty cold in here.”

“I’m sorry,” you wince, wanting to sink into the couch and disappear. “The heat’s been acting up since I moved in, I thought it was just, I dunno, old? Going to be fixed?”

Carter laughs. He laughs. It strikes fear in your heart for a second.

“And of course it breaks when I’m here,” he smiles. “It’s like I cursed it or something.”

“I cursed myself by not conducting enough research,” you reply, your tone easing at his ability to joke about the situation. Maybe the night isn’t ruined.

“No, it’s a nice place. All apartments have something wrong. At least it’s not some sort of bug infestation.”

His reassurance is the bandage you needed. “Oh, God, don’t jinx me,” a weak smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You shudder, either from the cold or from the idea of too many bugs crawling around.

“You probably want to go home, right?” You ask in a quiet voice. You don’t want him to leave, not at all. But it would be rude to insist he stays when he could go home to a regularly tempered apartment. One where he won’t have to wear two or three layers to bed, under two or three blankets.

He shakes his head and looks at you with offence. “No, I’m sleeping over. Just like we used to.”

“If you die in your sleep from hypothermia, you can’t blame me.”

“None of us are dying,” Carter smiles. “We’ll share the bed for, y’know, body heat. To lower the chances of death by hypothermia.”

Sharing the bed with Carter shouldn’t be a big deal. It was, big enough to fit two people without being squished together, and you have a long history of sharing beds with Carter. Not lately, though. Not since falling head-over-heels for him. That little crush on him years ago, unfortunately, didn’t fade out like you’d hoped. It got worse, spending day after day with him, college, med school, and now work. Carter doesn’t seem fazed by the idea. He’s the one who suggested it.

“Yeah,” you reply, a beat too late. “Yeah, we’ll share.”

In your bed, Carter shivers under the pile of blankets you pulled from the hall closet. From experience, you know it takes a while for the blankets to do their job. Worse, the sheets under you are chilled, too, making the task of warming up that much more difficult. Even the pillowcases are cool to the touch, something welcome on a hot, summer night, but dreaded in the winter. For a moment, you think you’ll never get warm. That’s how it always starts. You’re too cold to ever warm up, no amount of hoodies or extra blankets will do the trick. Patience has gone out the window.

Carter senses your frustration. You squirm in the bed, curling up, straightening out just to curl back up again, chasing any heat you can find. “Come here,” Carter whispers. Your body stills. “We should share body heat, right?”

Yeah, you think. That’s logical. Let’s cozy up together all night. That definitely won’t make me crazier.

Ignoring the nervous bile rising in your throat, you shift closer to him, closer to the only source of heat in this apartment. He’s facing you, arms curled tight around his chest, trying hard to bite back teeth chattering. “Sorry about this again,” you grimace. This wasn’t how you envisioned the night going.

Carter shakes his head. “It’s okay, really. We’ll laugh about this in a few weeks.”

“I should’ve bought a little space heater weeks ago when I first noticed this,” you mumble.

“Those things catch fire,” Carter argues, and you know he’s right.

“I guess a cold apartment is better than a burnt down apartment.”

He chuckles. “Exactly.”

His face is so close, his warm, brown eyes bore into yours. It’s too dark in the room to see details, but the freckles that spread across his nose and his cheeks are vivid in your mind. You already have his face memorized. God forbid you ever have to describe his appearance to a police sketch artist, it’d be the most accurate, detailed portrait that artist will ever do.

“I missed this,” you admit to him. “I miss when we didn’t have work up our ass.”

“Yeah,” he sighs quietly. He hates how little time he has for the things that brought him so much joy before. But you both knew what you were getting into with medical school and clinical rotations and internship. Still, a little piece inside you just didn’t believe it would happen to you. You and Carter would be the exceptions, surely. You’d still have time for movie nights and late dinners and walking trails by the river. Adulthood became lonely. Your closest friend was no longer all that close, suddenly, he was inadvertently kept at arm’s length.

Tonight, for a few hours, you get to pretend things never changed.

“You should come closer,” he whispers. The distance between you is already so little, you can’t move any closer without brushing against him. Still, you listen to him, and shift the last few inches into his touch. You melt into the warmth of him. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just the simple heat from his body warming up your own that makes you feel so dizzy. He holds you against his broad chest, and you’re so sick of being cold that the butterflies in your stomach don’t make you nauseous, rather, it’s a thrilled flutter, warmth in your belly, it’s comfortable.

“The heat better turn on by the morning,” you murmur against him. His arms squeeze around you.

Carter’s heart skips a beat. He can’t say he’s not entirely upset that this happened, not when he’s holding you so close and so tight, like he’s thought about for months.

“Thanks for staying,” you whisper. Carter smiles into the dark.

“A little bit of cold doesn’t scare me,” he whispers back. “And I don’t want you cold and all alone.”

His kindness burns through you. Thank God your face is pressed against his chest right now.

“Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve you.”

His arms squeeze around you. “You’re just you.”

Maybe you’re both uncomfortable, trembling from the frigid air outside of your heap of blankets, and maybe the building manager is an asshole for not having the clear, persistent heating issue fixed yet, but Carter, with an uneasy ache in his guts, is content to be in this moment with you. He lets his eyes close, almost forgetting about the problem that exists outside of your bed.

masterlist ko-fi

a/n: immediately had a vision for this and i love the idea because my apartment is always FREEZING im always wearing 2 layers and a blanket but i like it much better than sweating through all of my clothes from the heat. if only i had a beautiful doctor to sleep beside…

#john carter x reader #john carter #er #er x reader #john truman carter iii

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highskyit · 14 days ago

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bleufu1 · 1 month ago

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FRESH SWEETENER

“You came. Ain’t expect you ta’ actually show up.”

“Well ya’ asked didn’t you?”

mini taglist — @kxllanxtdoor @marley1773 @motheroffae @yourcoralansene @coldeforprez @twistedsistas-stuff @heyyimmisunderstood @spatterpus @bendoverboo18 @pinkpantheris

SYNOPSIS: The boys continue to set up for tonight’s joint — Sugar get an’ unexpected invite.

The plan was to start preparing for the party tonight. It was saturday, an’ everyone was off — so it’s gon’ be packed. Smoke made some plans with everybody, tellin em’ what they jobs was gon’ be when the party started. He told Stack he in charge of keeping the party going, Annie was on food, Slim on music an’ Sammie singing whenever the chance presents itself. No if and’s or buts.

“What if i gotta piss? What then huh?” Stacks tone laced in play.

“I’ll make you piss yo’ pants you keep on’ playin’.” Smoke backhands Stack.

Stack rubs the back of his neck laughing still. Walkin’ over to Bo Chow, discussing how they gon’ renovate the juke joint for tonight. At first the plan was to change where the food was gon’ be and make room for coats and what-not. But Annie had other ideas since the food section was closer to the windows which means better ventilation. This meant they had to find somewhere else to put the coats.

Bo chow decided to help with getting some racks for the coats and maybe more stuff for food. Grace had somebody for the coat racks. Stack had to find more musicians for the joint, said they needed sum’n bigger than what they had. Smoke ain’t agree at first but seein’ how everybody nodded they head, he was outta the option.

Slim was too busy makin’ sure the alcohol coming in was up to date and good enough for the joint. Being the drinker he was of course he’d know. Slim said sum’n bout needing more glasses for more people. Sum’n told Smoke it won’t bout’ no other people.

Sammie got told he had to sing at the juke. not other options.

Ain’t like he was complaining either. Sammie loved singin’. Was the one thing that made him, him. They told him he needed to sing at least once every night. Don’t matter what it was long as he was singin’ it. While Smoke handled the actual business, Stack took Sammie out near the train to find more low ground musicians. Worked for finding slim so same should work now.

Stack and Sammie walked around. They found a violinist, bass player an’ someone for saxophone. Stack said they was on a role. Wanted to test they luck an’ see if they could find another singer. Had to be someone round’ here with a voice as strong as Sammie’s.

They turned a corner.

Then another.

Sammie spotted her first. In red high heels an’ a white dress. Stack yelled out to her, catching her attention.

“Well well, nice to see ya’ again.”

Sugar turned to the sound. When she seen em’ a smile creeped up on her face. Her eyes bounced from Stack to Sammie, an’ they stayed there. Shit — if someone told her that his fine ass was here, she would’ve wore a better dress.

“Hello to you too, Stack — an’ you too Preacher Boy.”

Sammie tipped his hat to her. Stack made conversation with Sugar. Try’n to convince her to sing at the joint. Told her she’d get free food and drinks for helping — and he’d pay her too. While the two negotiated, Sammie day dreamed. He zoned out on her face. She sure looked older, last time he’d seen her she looked younger than her age.

Her eyes still captivating, smile still shined like diamonds. He wanted to think of how much her body changed, but that’d only lead to his mind going places it ain’t need ta’ be.

Sammie came out of it, listening to Stacks proposal. Seemed like Sugar wasn’t havin’ none.

“C’mon — You’ll have fun for once girl.”

Sugar looked him up an’ down. He gazed shifted to Sammie, holdin’ his eyes in hers again. It’s almost as if she wanted to see if he wanted her there rather than Stack inviting her for profit. By the way he was staring back — she knew her answer. Sugar eventually came round’ an’ agreed to show up tonight. Stack let out a hoot an’ walked off to the crowd forming down the street.

Sugar an’ Sammie stood, comfortable silence followed. Ain’t none of em’ had to talk, their mutual presence was enough.

Till sammie opened his yapper.

“So ya’ actually comin’ — or you jus’ said yes outta’ pressure?”

“Ain’t nobody pressuring me baby, believe that.”

“By the way you was starin’ thought I was the culprit.”

“Oh — ain’t ya’ cute.”

With that Sugar walked off, not without givin’ Sammie a small squeeze on his shoulder. She made her way down the opposite side of the street where her sisters shop was. Sammie watched as she walked off — damn.

Stacks footsteps were heard, and so was his voice before ya’ could even see em’.

“Where her fast tail ass go so quick?”

“Down to er’ sisters. Best we leave her be.”

Stack sucked his teeth an’ tugged Sammie along. They had to go help set up for tonight anyways an’ Stack already found everyone he needed. Him an’ Sammie hopped in the car an’ drive off.

Sammie wondered if Sugar would actually show up, she had a keen tendency to say one thing an’ go back on it if she really ain’t wanna do it — at least that’s how he remembered it.

Pulling up to the joint Sammie an’ Stack hop out, Sammie rolls up his sleeves an’ Stack walks in just ready to annoy Smoke with his nonsense. It was gin’ be a long couple hours.

The juke was hot. People dancin’ an’ singin’ along to the tunes. The musicians Stack found was playin’ the hearts out. Cornbread an’ another fella was watching the door — keepin’ the weirdos out, Cornbread stopped his duty a couple times to harass folks for money he gave em’.

It was a sight to see. The men in the back playing cards — one of em’ almost jumped over the table cause he lost his round an’ his money. Some of the ladies decided to pitch in with the food, Helpin’ Annie at the bar an’ what not. Some couples was on the dance floor, slow dancin’ to the music while others stood in the corner.

One of the best sights Sammie seen.

Sammie leaned on one of the wooden pillars in the place. Watching the scene unfolding in front of him. Smoke told em’ he ain’t have to sing tonight since they had brought enough music with em’ for the day. Next saturday though, he told em.’ Not like Sammie was complaining, smooth night without anything to do for once.

Something told Sammie to look beside him.

He did. An’ there she was.

He dress was long but draped down low in the back. She had on short heels, simple pearl necklace an’ earrings but damn it made her look good. Sammie smirked to himself as she walked in. Some people whispered, some heads turned. But she wont focused on them.

She was looking for him.

At him, actually.

Sugar made her way over to Sammie, opening her arms to invite him into a hug. Sammie took it, squeezing her tight an’ swaying side to side. He ain’t wanna let go — but sadly she did.

Sammie took a minute to take all of her in. She really is the most beautiful thing he’s seen.

“Ya’ really came — ain’t expect you to actually show.”

“Well ya’ asked did you?”

“Don’t member’ that.”

“You did with ya’ eyes.”

They stood staring at each other. Not in awkwardness or embarrassment. Just peace, as if nobody else was there but them.

“Well i’m glad you showed, hope ya’ have a good time.”

Just as Sugar was gon’ respond she got called over by Annie. Both of em’ turned the head, Sugar gave Sammie a sorry smile as she walked over to Annie to talk. Sammie turned back an’ seen Slim shaking his head at him. Sammie shoved him slightly but that only made Slim cackle out more.

Hopefully he get the chance to talk to her again. Pretty sure she singin’ tonight too. Sammie took a deep breath before walkin’ off. He walked towards Smoke an’ Stack, just tryna’ be nosey.

Apparently stack fucked up some man’s order at the bar, being funny when ain’t shit to laugh about.

Man, it’s gon’ be a long night.

——————————————————————————

🫶 — MB YALL IK TS TOOK ME FOREVER, swea i ain’t forget bout yall. Anyways hope yall like it MWAHHH 😼

#miles caton #preacher boy x reader #sammie moore #sammie moore x reader #sinners #sinners 2025 #ryan coogler #sinners fanfiction #sinners imagine #sinners x reader #smoke and stack

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wakandamama · 2 months ago

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Y'all... I ain't even watch the movie yet🫣 but I got a lil sumthing on the Google Doc ready to go lol. This is just a teaser taste of what imma cook up this weekend

Canary in the Coal Mine

Stack x Black Reader

Your daddy saw and appreciated your talents for talking early in life. Ever since you were a teenager, like a bird, you would go around the Chicago streets, pickin’ up gossip, dropping bread crumb of instigation, and making friends with the exclusive or infamous.

It was through your gift of gab that your daddy was able to land a deal with the Italians for being one of their very few black suppliers of good Southern hooch that made tight competition with Irish moonshiners and basement wine-o’s within the city.

“You’re my black Canary, Y/N.” One of the older Godfathers had said to you after you fed him a line about some new feds poking around the eastern side of his territory.

If folks need information, they go to you. If folks have information to give, you appraise the price of it and relay the message to the proper people for an even steeper fee. If someone needs protection or needs to be threatened, folks know you could arrange it. And especially if someone needed a rent party planned or a small loan to stretch them to the next month, you were the ideal person to contact.

So, of course, when a devilishly dark tall and handsome Black man swept off the train with a crimson hat and Delta twang, a shoe shiner let you know right away for the price of a quarter and a hot meal.

“He’s got on soldier shoes. The ones the need the real deep polish and a brushin’, and a shinin’ to get em done. He smelt like tobacco but he ain’t smoke when I shined ‘im. Just asks about places rentin’ and where to getta real drink. He was off the Arkansas train.” the little boy relayed as you poured him another glass of lemonade and another helping of red beans and rice.

“I see, and did you point him to my building or across the street?”

“Told ‘em across the street and shook him a flyer about the party on Saturady. Told em’ all about how cool your parties are.”

“Good job, bud. Can’t wait to meet him, ” You said as you dropped a quarter into his vest pocket one more question still rested on your tounge.

“And what was his name?”

“Called himself Stacks, Miss. Canary.”

You hummed, took a deep drink from your own glass as you pondered the name.

“Mr. Stack…wonder where he got that from.”

#sinners #sinners 2025 #smoke and stack #Stack #black girl reader #black fanfiction #ryan coogler #micheal b jordan #black culture #black movies

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sacrificiallane · 15 days ago

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angst ﹙ party4u ❞ Percy Jackson

request ! ❛ some Percy angst!! ❜ / cw ! no comfort

August 18th, a very important date you have memorized. And if your mind ever were to fail you ... one look at your calendar was enough to see it thickly circled in red, with several hearts surrounding the very important day. Your boyfriends special day, in fact, his Birthday !

Different shades of blue balloons filled out the space of his cabin, and there even was a cake ! 'Happy Birthday' written out in a messy handwriting with blue icing, and with candles too, of course. On his bed, his present, neatly wrapped in blue and with a pretty bow on top. You've really tried your best to prepare something sweet and personal for your favorite boy and yet .... yet you were left waiting.

You sighed and took one more look at the clock ― he was late. And what made it even worse is that Percy was very well aware that you were waiting for him inside his cabin. You had told him this morning at breakfast ( after wishing him a Happy Birthday with several soft kisses to his slightly blushing face ) that you'd be waiting for him at his cabin. He promised to come as soon as training the newbies was over. And he'd seemed eager, too ! Like he couldn't wait to spent time with his favorite person on his special day.

Yea, right.

More hours passed, and you watched sadly as the last candle burned down. Then, the door to the Poseidon cabin finally opened.

"Hey ..." The blue party hat, colorful confetti sticking to his dark hair, icing sticking to the corner of his mouth ... Oh. The evidence was clear and the slight heartbreak immediate, because someone else must've thrown him a party as well. And you weren't invited. Ouch.

Oh, and that guilty expression that crossed his pretty face when he noticed the cake, the balloons, the already burned candles and ... You. The wrapping paper of his present was now a little crinkled from your anxious hands, and the frosting on the cake now only spelled something like 'hoppv brthdav' .

Not that he appreciated your efforts any less.

"You... Hey..." Percy swiftly let the party hat fall away as he made his way over to you on his bed. He gently pried the present from your shaking hands. You were upset, and with good reason ! But even more so, you felt... hurt. "Okay, please don't- please don't cry ..." He knew it was unfair to ask this of you now, but he really couldn't handle it if he brought you to tears. He already felt like such an asshole ...

A sniffle of yours was enough to make him feel even worse. Oh Gods.

"Could've just said that you wanted to- to celebrate with somebody else ," your hand fell away from his and Percy winced, because this was hurting him just as much. A surprise party was what he'd stumbled into on his way to the cabin. And a loud 'Happy Birthday Percy' from ... half of the camp had been enough to deter his mind from doing what he promised he would right after training. It's why he was so late...

Oh what a terrible boyfriend he was. Only hours after being roped into a party he didn't even plan to be at did he notice that you were the only one absent.

"No that's not..." but that would only sound like more lies, wouldn't it ? Like a dumb excuse. But Percy was so bad at fixing things. "Look we can still have some cake, yeah ?" He was stammering for words, reaching for things, literally just anything to not make you more upset.

"I can still open my present, and we can cuddle and ..." but your teary eyes only made him stop again. His words were clearly not helping in fixing things...

"You forgot about me ..." you stated, but Percy desperately shook his head. He did not try and reach for your hands again, and instead just fiddled with his shirt. He was growing nervous now, what if... what if this was it. The young demigod would not be able to forgive himself if he were to lose you over something so dumb.

"Thats- thats not ..." "But... you did ..."

The boy winced softly at your words, his sea green eyes now filling with tears as well, mirroring a weeping storm at sea. You watched as he took a deep breath, trying to calm down, "I- I know... i... shit, i did, but ..."

The son of Poseidon visibly deflated. Hearing that you felt like that after being stood up by him, and after your efforts to make it a special day with just the two of you. "But please don't say that ..." He didn't mean to, of course. He never means to hurt you !

But you were tired, and his birthday was already over as the clock hit sometime after midnight.

You only handed him his present, "Happy Birthday, Perce ..." and the boy was left alone.

𓂃 🖊 more .

#percy jackson 𓂃 written by lane #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson angst #percy jackson x reader angst #percy jackson blurb #percy jackson angst blurb #percy jackson x reader blurb #percy jackson x you #percy jackson x you angst #percy jackson x you blurb

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siddyyyyyyyy · 10 months ago

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Red Knight in Shining Armour

Red Hood x Reader

wc: 1.3 K; part two summary: You ask Red Hood for help from a creep and he does so warnings: cat calling a/n: Something possessed me and I had to write this small drabble. Might consider writing more parts to it, dunno

Finally, you‘ve finished your shift in that overly warm bakery. After taking care of mostly elderly customers, baking fresh goods, and taking care of some more rather demanding customers, you could make your way home. The fresh february air hits you as you step before closing the small bakery, making your way to the busstop. Gotham is not known for warm or sunny weather, especially during the shortest month of the year. This is why you wrap your scarf tighter around you, making sure you won‘t catch a cold with the freezing wind that flies right against you. You eventually reach your desired destination, satisfied the bus is already standing there, possibly waiting for you.

As soon as you reach it, he cheekily drives away and leaves you waiting for the next bus… in two hours.

Now, of course you wouldn‘t wait two freezing hours around eleven PM in Gotham. It‘s probably safer and way faster to just walk the half an hour to your apartment. With that logic, you start trotting home, feeling a little moody now. What kind of bus driver just drives away even when a person clearly walks towards it? Muttering incoherent insults at the bus driver, you make sure to keep yourself warm enough at the same time. Your coat is doing a mostly good job at keeping you from trembling, so does your thick scarf. But you wish you brought your warm hat with you.

You tense at hearing heavy steps behind you. Sure, Gotham is definitely not the safest city, but you never had to actively protect yourself from any dangers because you always had the bus! That goddamn bus is driving you nuts, to the point you don‘t notice the strange man approaching you closer. He‘s about a few feet away from you now, finally raising his voice.

»Hey, princess! Are you lost?«

You finally glance behind your shoulder, not having expected for him to actually be a little closer to you now. Oh, he is taller than you. And has his hands in his pockets. This doesn‘t look good at all.

You quickly turn your head forward again, quickening your steps to get home faster and escape this creepy goon. He doesn‘t relent though and follows you, his hood over his head in a really suspicious way. You turn into a dark alley, cursing yourself internally for needing to go in there in order to get home faster. The alley is dark but also pretty long, as if a neverending hallway. Finally, the alleyway has an opening, walking a little faster again to escape the creep, but you also have to be careful not to slip on some ice.

A flash of red is appearing in the cornor of your eye, instinctively looking over to your side. Without further hesitancy, you hurry to the infamous vigilante and glance behind your shoulder briefly again.

»Red Hood! Please, there‘s someone following me, please pretend to be my boyfriend! Please!«

You plead desperately and stay by his side, your heart racing more from the paranoia of being followed and also from being so close to the real Red Hood, asking for help.

The vigilante doesn‘t flinch from his spot, studying you briefly before looking to the direction you just came from. The scary creep appears now too, eyes trained on you under his hood and possibly not even scared of the Crime Lord standing right beside you.

Without thinking, Red Hood wraps his arm around your shoulder and straightens his posture. The goon finally glances at him before his eyes fall back on you.

»C‘mon, sweetie, aren‘t you gonna spend time with me?« You shake your head urgently and press yourself more into Red‘s side, the hard material of his armour flush against your own soft coat.

»Does she know you?« The man beside you almost snarls, his voice a little distorted from his red helmet. An almost mocking scoff escapes the creep in front of you, staying there with some distance.

»Does it matter?«

A shudder runs down your spine at the words, making Red Hood squeeze your shoulder lightly with his hand.

He guides you to stand more behind him, glaring at the man under his helmet, feeling the strong urge to just beat him up into pieces. Still, he acts without any physical violence, not wanting to scare you even more.

»Listen here, you son of a bitch. Either, you go back the way you came here, or you won‘t recognise your face the next morning. If you‘ll wake up.«

He threatens, which makes the other man take a small step back. He seems to consider something, glancing to you as you still stand behind the vigilante. After what seems like a few minutes of tense silence, the weirdo walks away from you both.

You exhaled relievedly, stepping closer to Red Hood again.

»Thank you so much! You just probably saved my life from him, I don‘t know how to pay you back.«

He looks to you again, his expression unreadable due to his helmet. But he does shake his head and holds one of his hands up lightly.

»No need to, lady. I‘m always here for help, don‘t worry.«

Red feels lightly weird calming down a random person, but he feels like he needs to. After all, he just pried a man – a really creepy bastard – from you. And it feels wrong to ask for something in return for it. He never does that sort of stuff.

»Well, still… You know what? You can visit my bakery, I‘ll give you a treat. On the house, of course!«

He feels surprised at your request, thinking over your suggestion for a moment.

»I‘ll see what I can do.« He pauses before saying goodbye, glancing around the area briefly.

»Do you need a ride home? It‘s not safe around midnight.«

Now it‘s your turn to be surprised, mulling over the suggestion. It‘s only twenty minutes until you‘re back home safely, but you also don‘t want to be a further bother to him. Eventually, you decide to be truthful.

»I was just planning on walking the last twenty minutes home. I don‘t want to bother you any longer...«

Another sudden wind goes past you, which makes you wrap your scarf tighter around your neck again, the action not going unnoticed by him. Finally, despite his own pride, he suggests taking you home with his bike. You feel star-struck, never having thought someone like him – no, Red Hood would give you a ride home. After saving you, too.

Not able to miss such an opportunity, you agree, and he helps you put on his extra helmet for the quick ride. Luckily, he knows this area of the city well, just needing the name of your address, and he knows which route he needs to take.

»Hold on tight, yeah?« At this point, he muted his comms, as well as the others, not wanting for them to hear you both and the other way around. He starts driving you back to your apartment complex, feeling a small thrill as you sit behind him and have your arms wrapped around his torso. Every time he makes a turn, you hold on even tighter to him, not used to riding a motorcycle at all.

Eventually, after some minutes of driving, you arrive, and he helps you get off the bike. You take off the extra helmet he gave you, ruffling your hair to let it look less messy from the helmet. He watches, taking the helmet from you, and eventually leaves on his bike, but not without memorising your street and face. Just in case.

Finally, you made it home, having a big story to tell your best friend tomorrow morning at work.

»You‘ve got a girlfriend now, Jaybird?«

Dick‘s smug voice chimes into his earpiece once he turns the comms on again.

»None of your business, Dickhead.« Jason grumbles back, earning a brief scolding from Bruce to use their callsigns again.

←MASTERLIST

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