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da-rulah · 4 months

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The Mayor's Daughter - Mary Goore x f!Reader [Part 6]

Summary: It was only a matter of time before you asked to see Mary's band, but he can't help the rising anxiety that you might just hate what he does… Still, he concedes, and you head to their show with him. If you thought Mary was hot before, oh boy… Now he's irresistible.

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Word Count: 12.3k

Warnings: Teasing, sexual tension, cum play, sexual harassment, unwanted physical contact, use of a homophobic slur, violence, oral sex (m receiving), throat fucking, masturbation (f), cum swallowing, cum play

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3 | MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

A/N: Well, look who's back... Mary's here. 😈 Thank you to all those who've waited to patiently for this next chapter. I hope you won't be disappointed... As always, thank you to me besties @her-satanic-wiles and @angellayercake for their encouragement and beta reading services - I adore you both.

AND, this one's dedicated to @kissingghouls, who had a birthday during the week and tested a little snippet of this chapter out for me 👀 I hope you love the rest of it 💕

You could have lay there all night. Truthfully, you couldn’t think of anywhere else in the world you’d rather be right now besides buried in blankets and pillows in Mary’s arms, looking out at the moon rippling across the water of the lake. The radio still played from the cab of his van, and you were content to listen to Mary singing along to his favourite songs under his breath.

You could feel him vibrating beneath you as he sang, your back pressed to his chest and laying against him between his legs. Every so often, he’d press a kiss to the side of your head, or readjust the way his hands lay across your stomach with his fingers intertwined with yours. You were just so comfortable, never having felt so safe and wanted before.

“Do you sing in your band, too?” you asked him, fiddling with the rings on his fingers absentmindedly.

“Hm? Oh, uh... Yeah I guess I do.” You turned your head to look at him, suspicion creasing your brow.

“You guess?”

“Well, it’s kinda more... growling? Some screaming. Bit of singing,” he shrugged, a little sheepish.

“Aw, and here’s me thinking I was the only one you growled for,” you teased, which earned you a laugh.

“Well you’re the only one who can drag it outta me like that,” he flirted, bouncing his eyebrows and planting a lingering kiss to the top of your cheek.

You got comfortable again, settling into his chest and wrapping his arms tighter around you. A few moments of blissful quiet passed as you thought about him on stage; what would he sound like? Look like? Was he good? You wanted to know.

“I wanna see you play,” you said earnestly. “when are you playing next?”

Mary clammed up a little behind you, suddenly wracked with insecurity and anxiety at the thought of you coming to one of his gigs. It’d feel pretty shitty if you didn’t like his music, and he was very aware that it wasn’t for everyone. While you never complained at the heavier stations on his van radio, you also didn’t strike him as the type to enjoy death metal. You were merely being polite, he was sure of it...

But then, this was him stereotyping again. Consciously now, he could see it and call himself out before the words left his mouth.

“Uh... We actually have one on Saturday.” You noticed the nervousness in his tone, the hesitation. You understood why; it must be a little scary to show someone you care about the passion that drives you as fiercely as music drove Mary.

“I don’t have to come if that’s too soon, I get it,” you tried to reassure him, turning around and smiling sweetly at him. But even that was enough to quell some of his anxiety, just your consideration.

“You know what?” he sat upright then, angling you a little better while the blankets wrapped around you fell to your waist, exposing you both to the colder night air. “I want you there. Even if you hate us, be nice to see a pretty face out there for me.”

You rolled your eyes at him playfully, “You just want a groupie, huh?”

“Hmm, maybe,” he hummed, grinning cheekily and leaning into you to press his lips to yours. You giggled against his lips, letting him curl around you as you melted into each other. It felt so easy to you now, so unbelievably natural. You had to ask yourself why you had taken so long to get here. You could have had this all long, if the pair of you weren’t so stuck in those stereotypical little bubbles of yours.

But you were here now, and that’s what mattered. Not without its future flaws, you were sure, but it was a start.

Mary finished off the last song of practise without issue. By now, the band knew every song inside and out, so band practise was only ever a formality, or an excuse to get together and jam. But Davey always called one just before a show, in case there were any issues to iron out and to put together a running order for the setlist. He had a unit where they practised often, all their stage equipment stored in there save for their guitars.

“So where you been, Goore? Dropped off the face of the earth lately. Last time I saw you was days ago at the garage...” Forrest smirked with an accusation brewing behind his eyes – Mary could tell. He continued winding up the cable in his hands to avoid his eye contact, shaking his head with a smile he could barely hide no matter how hard he tried. That’s what thinking of you did to him.

“Ah y’know, about,” he avoided.

“Bullshit, you got a call and bolted. I remember.”

Mary’s arms slumped by his sides in exasperation, the curled up cable flapping against his thigh.

“Yeah, and before that last time we saw you was the bicentennial... Fuck’s up with you?” Jed was interested now, shoving his drumsticks into his beat up old backpack that had seen better days. Even Davey who was slotting his bass into its case very carefully – that thing was his baby, often reminding everyone it cost more than their rents combined – was suddenly very interested in where the elusive Mary Goore had been the last couple of weeks.

“You can’t even hide the smile. It’s a girl, ain’t it?” he chimed in, teasing him like a kid in a playground. “You gone soft?”

“Nah just had a lot of guitars to work on at the shop lately,” Mary shrugged, tucking the cable away into his own guitar case.

“Your pants are scorching right now, Mare...” Jed grinned, hopping up to sit on an amp stack.

Mary finally stood up straight and sighed, looking around at the guys who all had expectant looks on their faces. He knew he’d have to tell them eventually – they were only going to meet you in a few days anyway. He can’t hide you forever, especially when he’d been so sensitive about being hidden himself in your world... He was many things, but a hypocrite he was not.

“Alright, fine... Yeah, there’s a girl.” The nerves were evident in his voice, quieter and a little stuttery. Of course, the guys all jumped down his throat with “ooh”s and “wheeey”s, Jed even shoving his shoulder in a weird masculine display of celebration.

“Been holed up somewhere with some broad, ey?” he waggled his eyebrows at him. “Come on then, who is she?”

Mary was clamming up, having no idea how they were going to react to this. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shuffled on his feet. Forrest noticed his change, and squinted at him as he observed.

This wasn’t like him. Forrest was the most mature of the guys, had known Mary the longest – since they were kids – and he was very aware there were multiple versions of him. The front he showed the world, and the sensitive and broken guy underneath. Seeing him get nervous about a girl though... that had never happened before.

“You wouldn’t really know her, she’s not really... from our circle...” Mary dodged the truth as long as he could, but it was inevitable.

“Yeah no shit, between us we’ve exhausted our “circle”,” Davey laughed, making air quotes with his fingers. Mary winced at the thought of his promiscuous reputation; not a past he was all that proud of...

“You remember back at the bar, a few weeks ago...?” he started, and Jed jumped in immediately.

“That girl you stormed right past? You went back?” He leaned forward where he sat on the amp, excited to hear the gory details he definitely was not getting.

“No-”

“No fucking way,” Davey jumped in, recalling the night in question. “You’re still fucking her majesty?”

“She’s not-” Mary tried to get a word in, but Davey and Jed were having too much fun with this, interrupting him.

“The Mayor’s daughter? Fuckin’ hell, Mare,” he laughed with uncontained glee at the prospect. “I know she’s a hot piece of ass, but seriously? Girls like her ain’t into guys like us.”

Mary’s fists clenched at his sides. It was becoming clear the stereotypes were not contained to just you and him, but you’d both grown up in a world perpetuated by them. Forrest watched the scene unfold quietly, observing Mary’s reactions that were so out of pocket for him.

“Well she did fuck him in a public bathroom that night, Jed,” Davey joined Jed’s delight. “Daddy’s girl’s got a kinky side.”

“Shut the fuck up, Davey,” Forrest interjected on Mary’s behalf. Everyone’s heads whipped toward him, including Mary’s. “Fucking neanderthals, man...” The smiles from their faces were wiped clean, their proverbial tails hanging between their legs.

Forrest walked to stand beside Mary, folding his arms across his chest. “This could be a dangerous game to play, Mare. If her dad finds out...”

“He already kicked her out. For... other reasons...” Mary didn’t want to divulge too much of your shit to them, that wasn’t his place. He feared he’d already said too much when he saw the looks of shock and confusion on their faces. “She’s been staying with me the last few days.”

“Move pretty quick, don’t you?” laughed Jed, who was thrown a look of caution by Forrest and immediately shut up again with a mumbled, “sorry”.

“So you like her then, huh?” Forrest enquired with a smug smile. Mary nodded, biting his thumb nail. “She coming to the show?”

Jed snickered at the thought, effectively saying “yeah, as if she’d be into our music” without having to say the actual words. Mary shot him a warning glare.

“Yeah, she is actually,” he didn’t take his eyes off Jed, just begging him to say one more shitty thing. He didn’t.

“Nice, well I’ll train the apes up and have ‘em civilised for the lady. Don’t worry about it.” Forrest slapped a hand on Mary’s back in support, heading back over to pack up and clicking his fingers in the other’s direction to get them moving too.

Mary was grateful for Forrest stepping in like that. There was a deeper bond with him than the others, not just on account of the longevity of their friendship, but he’d been there through all of Mary’s shit. For a long time, Forrest was the only friend he had and if anybody understood him, it was him.

Forrest had his own shit too – neglectful parents, like Mary, but in different ways. High-powered, career driven types. They’d leave him with a nanny and swan off on business trips and fancy vacations, so he knew loneliness in his own way too.

While his friends were always a good laugh, Davey and Jed just weren’t on quite the same wavelength. Where Forrest and Mary had matured a little, grown up with a smidge of respect, they were trailing behind. They were still young men, trapped in rebellion, angst and male bravado. They needed reigning in from time to time, usually by Mary’s or Forrest’s hand but on more than one occasion they’d had their asses kicked outside a bar for their mouth. The point is, they were learning. Slowly, but they were learning...

Once the guys packed up their stuff – largely in silence – Davey and Jed muttered a ‘see ya later’ as they filtered out of the unit, but Forrest hung back as Mary rolled down the shutters and padlocked them shut.

“Hey Mare, does uh... Does she know?” Forrest asked, his voice low as the others walked down the alley of other units just ahead of them.

“Know what?” he asked, a little confused. “That you guys made a bet with me the first night? Yeah she knew that then, we laughed about it,” he shrugged.

“No, I didn’t mean that,” Forrest scratched the back of his head awkwardly. He hated bringing this up, it was such a sore subject for Mary... “Does she know... what her dad did?”

Mary’s eyes widened as it hit him – no, you didn’t know that. Mary hadn’t divulged that much to you, and he didn’t exactly intend to...

“No. She doesn’t need to,” he shrugged nonchalantly, avoiding the subject. Forrest didn’t press the matter, not wanting to drag Mary down that road any more than he already had. Instead, they took a few steps in silence.

“So go on then, tell me what she’s like...” Forrest nudged his shoulder as the two of them walked out to the parking lot. Mary smiled at the ground, babbling and singing your praises for as long as Forrest would allow him.

Watching Mary apply his make-up was becoming one of your favourite past times. He was so particular about it, specifically tonight as he applied it in the dingy little mirror in the corner of their dressing room. Day to day, he cared a little less but tonight was important – every gig was, to him.

It became very apparent to you very quickly that he took his shows very seriously. As much as he was there to have fun, this was more than just a hobby to him. He wanted this to go somewhere, to make something of himself. This was a dream that he’d worked his skinny little ass off for, and so everything had to be just right, his before-show rituals performed the same as always.

But there you sat, watching him from the battered two-seater couch in the room as he added the final touches to his skull paint. He pulled back from the mirror, looking at his reflection and smirking with a nod of satisfaction. But then he caught you in that mirror behind him, watching him without an attempt to look away.

“Lookin’ good, Goore,” you told him, leaning forward on your elbows, chin resting in your palm.

“I guess, but it’s missing something...” He seemed unbothered, making no move to add any more paints.

“The blood, right?” you asked, but he shrugged.

“Wanna try something new. Get over here, doll,” he instructed, beckoning you over. You rose from your seat, closing the distance between you both. He leaned back onto the sink, folding his arms over his chest as you got a little closer than necessary, stood between his feet and leaning your hands on the edges of the sink. Mere inches separated you, and you waited for him to continue.

“That’s a pretty shade of lipstick you got on tonight,” he flirted, pulling your bottom lip down with his thumb and inspecting the red residue that lingered on it when he pulled back.

“You should recognise it, not the first time I’ve worn it for you.” If he remembered right, he’d know you wore it the first time he’d snuck in through your bedroom window; the same pretty shade of blood red. “You asked me back then if I thought it would look good on you, and then you kissed me.”

“I did, didn’t I?” he mused, feigning thoughtfulness. “And it did look good on me...” You giggled at that, and it damn near sent Mary to his knees right there and then. He would never get fucking tired of that giggle. “Have you got it on you?” he asked, before he could get too distracted by that pretty little sound.

“Of course,” you said, patting the little purse hanging from your shoulder and down by your hip.

“Good, you might need a touch up when I’m done with you,” he smirked. “Think you can make some pretty little lipstick marks for me?” You nodded, moving in to kiss him immediately but he stopped you, his finger on your lip. You pouted, sagging your shoulders.

He pulled his finger from your lips and pointed it to his cheek bone, where the black met the white of his thin and chalky paints. You took the initiative, and stood up on your toes to reach, planting a very deliberate kiss to the area. When you pulled back, you marvelled at your work; the prettiest lip stain sat where you’d pressed your lips against him. Mary turned his head to look sideways into the mirror behind him, smirking at the transfer.

“Perfect, need more though,” he said, turning back to you and pointing now at his jawline on the other side of his face. You obliged eagerly, lingering just a little longer this time and pressing your body against his where he leaned on the sink. You could feel his body tense under you, like he was trying to act cool and aloof but fighting an urge rising inside him...

“Can I choose a spot?” you teased by his ear, letting your breasts press into his chest just a little...

“Choose wisely, doll...” he warned, with no real warning behind it whatsoever. But you already had a spot in mind...

You tucked your head just under his chin, letting your warm breath fan over the expanse of skin around his neck before gently placing your lips directly over his Adam’s apple. You felt it bob as he swallowed with anxiety, the tension of holding back his urges to devour you becoming almost unbearable. You loved that you had this effect on him... He was supposed to be this cocky, self-assured little badass; so how come you could have him tensing and straining with just a few simple, light kisses? Because you drove him wild.

You lifted your hands from the edges of the sink, instead settling them on his waist while you parted your lips against his neck, letting your tongue lap at the skin briefly before pulling back with a smirk just as he let out a hum of satisfaction. You saw his head thrown back, his eyes shut just before he realised you’d disappeared and snapped his gaze back to you. The look on his face was priceless, silently asking you why the hell you’d stopped.

“Didn’t wanna smudge it,” you shrugged, smirking.

“You fucking minx,” he chuckled.

“One more,” you told him, digging through your purse to add another layer of red to your lips so you could leave the most definitive print this time. Then you leaned in one more time, as if you were going to kiss him on the lips – which frankly, by now, he was desperate for. But you dodged his advance and pressed your lips just to the corner of his mouth, planting a firm, red lip stain so prettily for him.

“There,” you leaned back, still crowding his space and holding his waist, “looks good.”

“Not fair of you to tease me like that when the guys are gonna be here any minute, and I can’t bend you over this sink and fuck you dumb,” he growled, knowing full well the effect only his words had on you. His brash vulgarity was such a turn on to you, especially now that you’d experienced Mary’s sweeter side, his tenderness and gentility. He was like Jekyll and Hyde, and knowing what a softie he could be when feelings were involved, it was all the more exciting when Hyde came out to play...

He pinched your chin between his thumb and knuckle, angling your head to tilt up to him a little more. “I seem to remember you wanted to see how pretty this shade looked smothered all over my cock, hm?”

Damn him. You had said that... Back in your bedroom that night, but he’d denied you in favour of being the one to taste you instead. If you had the time right now, you’d have dropped to your knees in a heartbeat, but that door would swing open at any moment, his friends and bandmates arriving to get set up and head out on stage. You hadn’t tasted Mary since the very first time you’d slept together, and frankly, your mouth watered at the thought.

“Shame I’ll have to wait a little longer,” you whined, pouting like a spoilt brat who didn’t get her way, but it only made Mary’s grin wider as he looked down at you.

As if Satan himself had planned the timing, the door handle to the dressing room rattled, alerting you to the presence of his bandmates arriving and startling you both to stand upright, Mary tucking you into his side with an arm around your shoulder almost protectively.

“Goore!” Jed strolled into the dressing room with his arms wide open, followed by Davey and Forrest lugging equipment in and glaring at the back of his head for not pulling his damn weight and carrying some of this shit himself. Jed walked straight up to Mary, ignoring your presence at first and forcing Mary into a typical ‘bro hug’ with heavy slaps to each other’s backs in greeting. But then he finally turned to you, a cheeky and mischievous look in his eye. “And this must be the Dutchess...”

Mary froze, desperately trying to think of something to say in your defence, anything to turn the attention away from Jed’s comment that he could only imagine stung so much worse with everything you’d been through lately. But he couldn’t think of anything... He’d told them to be good. To welcome you, to be fucking decent and immediately, Jed waltzed in and had to poke at an open wound.

Davey and Forrest stopped dead too, waiting in silence, everyone aware of the tension that lay heavy in the room just from one snide little dig at your family history...

You looked to Mary next to you and smirked, before turning back to Jed and folding your arms over your chest. You took a step towards him, looking him up and down as if inspecting him before putting on your best snooty impression, and saying, “I think you’re supposed to kneel before a Dutchess, are you not?”

Another moment of silence passed, Jed’s face twisting from one of slight shock, to mild amusement. “Nah, I’m sure Goore kneels at your feet often enough for everyone,” he teased, winking at you. “I’m Jed,” he introduced, holding a hand out to you which you gladly took, watching as he lifted the back of your hand to kiss the back of it briefly and bow his head in mock respect.

“I remember,” you laughed, looking back at Mary who was looking at you with concern, but also pride... You had handled that better than he could have expected, cleverly inserting yourself into the humour rather than allowing yourself to be offended by it. You took the power away from Jed, and instead, earned his respect. You didn’t miss his exhale of relief.

“What’s with the lipstick, Mare?” Jed asked, pointing generally at his face. The others looked over too, now registering it wasn’t fake blood on his face, but lipstick – suspiciously the same colour as you were wearing.

“Trying something new,” Mary shrugged with a smirk.

“That your way of telling the ladies you’re taken now, eh?” Davey laughed, waggling his eyebrows. “Goore is off the market!”

“Better be, I don’t wanna have to get the claws out,” you warned, stepping back into Mary’s side and wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You dropped your voice a little lower so only Mary could hear, “at least, not for anyone but you.”

Mary just smirked down at you, biting his lip at the thought of your nails dragging across his flesh in the heat of passion later on tonight. You were being very distracting this evening...

Forrest and Davey reintroduced themselves to you once they’d set the equipment they carried down, the room settling into a far less tense environment. You sat yourself back down on the small couch and let the preparation for their gig unfold before you, chiming into conversation every now and then where you saw fit. Jed would throw you a few more jabs, but you managed to bat them right back at him like it was child’s play. And with each comeback, you earned just a tad bit more respect out of not only him, but Davey and Forrest too.

The guys went to soundcheck before the venue opened, while you hung back in the dressing room citing that you wanted to see the real show first. You’d rather see Mary in all his glory and performing than playing to an empty club for the first time. When they came back in, you could see the excitement had grown within the band, the buzz starting to build for the show now that they’d set up and were ready to go.

The beers had started to flow, just a few to keep them coherent enough to play of course, but the atmosphere was changing, building right up until the moment the stage manager came to collect them. The guys all downed the remainder of their beers, gathering whatever little bits they needed before heading out on stage. The guys wandered out of the door without Mary, leaving the two of you alone.

Mary pulled you to your feet from the couch, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Keep yourself safe in the crowd, yeah? Can get a bit rowdy...” he warned, a hint of anxiety present in his features. Not just at the thought of you alone in a crowd of metalheads moshing without a care in the world, but at the thought that you might just hate his music. That thought had been niggling away at him for days, ever since he first invited you.

“I’ll be fine, gonna stick by the bar so you know where to find me when you get off stage,” you assured, pulling gently on the spike of hair he’d now styled in front of his face to sharpen the point for him. “Oh, wait!”

You rushed out of his hold and towards his backpack, digging through it until you found his make-up kit and rushed back to him. You picked out the little vial of fake blood you knew he kept in there, dropping the kit down on the couch behind you.

“Can’t go out there and be ‘Mary Goore’ without the ‘Goore’, hm?” you winked, uncapping the bottle and resting the nozzle on his hairline, letting it drip and dribble down his face just enough that it wouldn’t interfere with the pretty lip stains you made earlier. You screwed the cap back on and threw it back into the bag behind you.

“Part of me is starting to think the blood turns you on a little...” he taunted, that stupid little smirk on his face again. You wanted to one-up him, to have the last damn word... And so, with a quick check to make sure the two of you were in fact alone, you grabbed his wrist and directed his hand down to hem of the short denim skirt you were wearing, pushing it up your inner thigh until you could manoeuvre his fingertips to push the edge of your panties to one side and slide over the little mess that all this damn teasing had caused, coating his fingers in it...

You pulled his hand from under your skirt and lifted it to between the two of you, giggling in a way that had him stirring beneath his jeans.

“I think maybe it does...” you tormented, letting go of his wrist and making your way to the doorway, leaning against it as if you were about to leave. Mary stood in awe of you, his hand still hovering in front of him as he looked between you and the shine on his fingertips a few times before snapping back to reality and realising he had a damn show to put on.

He did the only rational thing he could think to, shoving his slick fingers into his mouth to clean them off while he held eye contact with you. You felt yourself flutter at the sight, gripping onto the doorframe a little tighter. This mother fucker really knew how to rile you up...

“I’ll need more of that later, doll,” he told you sternly, stepping towards you. You took it as your cue to run, heading down the hall towards the club laughing almost maniacally as Mary stomped after you, his anxiety over performing for you replaced with a simmering need to get it over with so he could just fucking have you.

It had only been ten minutes since you’d left the dressing room, but you were getting a little antsy waiting... This wasn’t your usual scene, and you’d hoped that maybe your first time in a goth club you’d have Mary at your side to make the experience a little less intimidating. The majority of the crowd were men, all metalheads, and while you were more comfortable here than at any political event or frat party you’d ever been to, you were sure you stuck out like a sore thumb.

This club was in the city, and so you weren’t worried about anybody really knowing who you were save for Mary and his bandmates. But you were still finding yourself, figuring out your style and the wonderful thing about goth clubs is that everybody here went all out for the aesthetic. You felt boring, mundane even in the outfit you’d chosen. Sure, it was all black, but you’d thought the fishnet top over a black cami was daring... But in this scene, it wasn’t.

You felt out of place, and without Mary at your side, you were sure you didn’t blend in nearly as much as you were hoping to. So, keeping to the edge of the club by the bar felt like a safe option. While everyone’s eyes were up front on the stage, you could stand back and watch as your boyfriend – well, you hadn’t exactly talked about a label, but you figured – owned the stage. And watch, you did.

From the second Mary got up on that stage, you couldn’t look away. You hadn’t seen him play much, just a little here and there on that battered old acoustic of his, but never like this... He had such a command to him, this enigmatic energy that captivated you. Clearly, he was in his element. He’d told you it was his dream to perform, to be successful with his music and watching him now, you could see he put every fucking ounce of his soul into it.

His music was heavy; you expected that. The lyrics were dark, screamed and growled into the microphone like he was possessed. You could understand why he was nervous for you to hear it, to see this dark side of Mary. Music like this wouldn’t appeal to the masses, sure, but it certainly did to you. He was starting to learn there was a dark side to you too, buried and covered up with pretty pink bows and glitter but it was in there. No wonder you were attracted to Mary like a moth to a flame...

There was something about him on stage that just sparked something... Perhaps the way he handled his guitar, his fingers moving so deftly through the manic riffs he shredded. Perhaps it was the way he growled into the microphone; a deep, gravelly noise that made your breath catch in your lungs. Perhaps it was the way the crowd responded to him, adoring him and screaming for him and yet you knew that he was yours.

The combination of it all was driving you wild. Riling each other up before the show certainly hadn’t helped, but you found yourself forgetting you were ever anxious to step foot in a club like this alone and focussing solely on him. With each song, you fell deeper into this almost obsessive need for him.

Your demise finally came when a few songs into the set, his eyes landed on you. And the fucker smirked.

With his eyes trained on you, he spoke into the mic.

“Are you morbid?” he growled. The crowd screamed back at him, but he wasn’t talking to them. Not really.

You bit your lip, unable to look away from him or even blink as he stared at you, as if he was waiting for you and you only to respond.

“I said, are you morbid?” he insisted, the crowd screaming back again, louder this time. All you could do was nod pathetically, squeezing your thighs together and squirming just from the way he sounded, his stare... His smirk spread into a menacingly dark grin, his make-up and the lighting acting to enhance his devilish persona. He was turning you on, and he could see it.

“Fuck yeah, you are,” he snarled, immediately running his fingers along the strings of his guitar to make it screech and diving into the next song. You could have sworn you felt the ghost of his touch as he did, as if his fingers were running their way up your inner thigh and not the neck of his guitar – the thought had your cheeks flushing, hidden under the dim lighting of the club.

Watching his set was like torture. You tried to focus on the songs, to get into the music and as much as you were enjoying it you just couldn’t tear your eyes from him. When you’d first met Mary at the dive bar, he’d had this arrogance, this cocky self-confidence to him that lured you in but the more you got to know Mary, the more you knew that was a front a lot of the time. He had that softer side, that insecurity that he masked. But this version of Mary? This was where his true confidence lay, and it might just be the sexiest thing you had ever seen.

As all good things must come to an end, so did their set. The crowd cheered and roared for them, and you found yourself fidgeting while you waited for them to come off stage, pack up their gear and for Mary to come and find you. Impatience had you leaning on the bar, beer in hand and tapping your foot to the metal playing through the club now that the show was over. When you finally felt two strong hands sliding around your waist from behind you, you let out a sigh of relief, smiling to yourself as you span in their grasp.

“And what’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone in this dive, huh?”

It wasn’t Mary.

A strange faced smirked down at you, a thick and heavy beard to match the blonde hair that fell in untamed waved past his shoulders. His lip was pierced, straining from where he bit it while his eyes drank you in from head to toe as if you were some kind of prize. He reeked of cheap spirits and sweat, his forehead shining under the club lights as if he’d been in the mosh pit for the duration of the set.

Beside him was someone you’d mistake for his twin, if it weren’t for the black hair and obvious difference in size and stature. The man holding you was tall, but solid. His friend was shorter, his body unhealthily thick. But still, he matched the description of your metalhead stereotype, and he too was dragging his eyes all over your body.

Immediately your smile dropped and you shoved both hands into the guy’s chest. He stayed put, his solid frame too strong to waver but your push forced you back against the bar far enough to get out of his hold.

“Waiting for my boyfriend, actually,” you snapped, laced with disgust. The blonde guy just laughed incredulously, as if he didn’t believe you.

“I don’t see no boyfriend,” he said, looking from side to side as if that proved his point. He stepped further towards you, trapping you against the bar and holding onto your waist again. “Can pretend I am for the night if you want?”

He leaned into you as if he were going to kiss your neck, but you leaned further back and out of the way, trying to push him away from you. All you could do was stop him just short, rather than rid your body of his hold completely.

“Yeah, no thanks. Get off me!” you yelled.

“Don’t play hard to get, darlin’. He’s just bein’ friendly!” his buddy chimed in, laughing as he took a swig of a drink he clutched with his sweaty little sausage fingers.

“Said I’m waiting for my fucking boyfriend, piss off!” You gave him one final shove, and while he took a step back, he didn’t let go of you.

“I got a better offer, baby. You could have us both if you wanted...” he smirked, glancing back at his friend who laughed with him.

“Don’t think she wants either of you, Corbin.” Relief set in when you heard his voice materialising next to you, a hand with rings you recognised planting itself on this guy’s chest and pushing him back with enough force that he finally let go of you.

Mary stepped between you both, squaring up to the blonde without a second thought.

“The fuck would you know about it, Goore?” The blonde – who you now understood to be named Corbin – sneered, clearly irritated by the arrival of Mary instantly.

“Well, ya see, that’s my girlfriend you had your grubby little paws all over. And I don’t really like it when people touch my things,” he shrugged, but his tone was far from indifferent.

Corbin and his greasy little friend roared with laughter, as if the idea of Mary and you was the funniest joke they’d ever heard. That pissed you off...

“As if a hot piece of ass like that’s gonna fuck you,” he roared, shoving Mary’s shoulder. You could see Mary take a deep, slow breath to collect himself. This guy was testing his damn patience. And you’d never seen Mary handle a situation like this before. But what you did know, was he was fiercely protective of the people he lo- well, people he cared for... You weren’t sure what was about to happen, but you just wanted these pricks to fuck off.

“Watch your mouth, man,” he warned, his fists curling up at his sides until his knuckles turned white. Corbin and his buddy were still laughing.

“Hey, hey darlin’... blink twice if you wanna ditch this fag and come hang out with some real fuckin’ men,” Corbin snorted, shoving Mary’s shoulder again. “A girl like you deserves a real dickin’ down!”

You didn’t hesitate, hocking back a decent glob of spit and launching it in his direction. The laughter ceased immediately as it smacked him on his cheek with a wet splat, dripping into his beard as he jolted in surprise. He wiped it with his hand, flicking it to the floor and while his gaze darkened on you.

“You little fuckin’ cunt,” he sneered, stepping towards you threateningly as if he were going to grab you but Mary got in the way without hesitation, shoving him and landing a solid punch to Corbin’s cheek with a sickening crack that had everyone within radius turning to look at the commotion.

Within seconds Corbin retaliated, grabbing Mary’s shirt with two fists and headbutting him, shoving him back against you and in turn, the bar. Bottles knocked to the floor, smashing as Mary took a punch to the nose before getting his footing and throwing one back.

It all happened too quickly, a brawl breaking out so fast as you got shoved to the side and landed on shards of glass cutting into your palm. You ignored the pain and the wet feeling on your hands in favour of trying to grab the collar of Corbin to drag him off, but his black-haired friend grabbed you instead, pulling your arms behind your back and holding you against him as you watched Mary trying to overpower this solid piece of shit.

“Mary!” you shrieked at him, turning to the asshole holding you back. “Get the fuck off me, you fucking inbred bastard!”

From the crowd, Forrest appeared next to you and dove into the fray, grabbing Corbin’s collar like you had failed to and dragging him backwards to the floor, straddling him and landing a punch or two himself to his gut. Mary leaned over the bar, catching his breath while two men in black polos and cargos charged in, one pulling Forrest from Corbin, the other pulling him up and restraining him with his arms behind his back.

Forrest immediately backed down, holding his hands up in the air while the bouncer who’d intervened let him go, focussing his attention on the asshole still trying to claw his way to Mary. In a last ditch attempt, you kicked your heel between your captor’s legs and tucked it behind his ankle, pulling it until he fell to the floor and freed you. You ran to Mary without hesitation, pulling him to stand upright and holding his head in your bleeding hands to inspect the damage. You couldn’t tell if all this blood was yours or his.

“You gotta keep that bitch on a fucking leash, Goore!” Corbin screamed, still struggling against the bouncer to get a few more swings in. Mary lurched towards him, but you grabbed his shirt, pulling him back to you.

“You’re done, man!” the bouncer yelled at him, starting to drag him through the crowd of onlookers than had gathered. Corbin’s face projected a vile expression of pure hatred, smeared in blood that matted his hair and beard.

“I’m nowhere fucking near done, you watch,” he threatened, “you’re an easy guy to track down, Goore! I’ll fuckin’ find you!”

Mary glared at him as the bouncers dragged Corbin and his friend out of the club, kicking them to the curb. You diverted his attention back to you, gently pulling on his jawline and cupping his face to take a good look at him and remind him that you were right here and you were okay, in the hope it might dissipate the fury in him.

Forrest stepped up to Mary, concern creasing his brow. He’d managed to avoid injury, no fresh blood on him anywhere but his knuckles.

“You good, man? I can’t tell what’s fake and what’s real...” He waved his finger at Mary’s face. Mary smeared the back of his hand against his bust lip, scoffing at the sight of real blood on his hand. “Corbin’s a dick, you know he’s always lookin’ for trouble, man,” Forrest scolded, “You can’t rise to it!”

“He needs to learn not to run his fuckin’ mouth,” Mary growled.

“Hey, enough, tough guy...” you told him, lightly smacking his chest. “C’mon, let’s get you patched up.” You took his hand in yours, weaving your fingers in his despite the blood and pulling him through the crowd towards the door you’d come through earlier that lead to the green room backstage.

The heavy music of the club quietened to a dull roar behind you as the backstage door shut, and you lead Mary down the hall to the dressing room. He was silent, stewing in his head over the things Corbin had said to him, mulling over his anger. When you got him inside, you locked the door behind you, wanting a moment of quiet to patch him up. You let go of his hand and grabbed his make-up kit that you’d chucked on the couch, heading over to the sink you’d pressed him against earlier to wash your own cut up hands and dampen some cotton pads from his bag.

He lingered by the door, awkwardly stood in silence while you filled the sink. You hadn’t said a word to him, and frankly, Mary was terrified he’d gone too far, that you were pissed at him – or worse, disappointed. He never wanted you to see him like that, he wanted to be better, but he’d stooped to the level of a mindless thug because he couldn’t control how he reacted when it came to you. He’d have let it slide at the comments about him, but the second Corbin spoke down to you? He may as well have waved a red flag to a bull.

“Come here,” you told him softly, holding your hand out to him. Without a word he did as he was told, standing next to you by the sink while you ran the cotton pads under the warm water. Lightly, you began to dab at a wound by his eyebrow.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled quietly. “Didn’t wanna fly off the handle like that.” You smiled as you dabbed at his face, replacing the bloodied pad for another fresh one.

“Always rushing to save me,” you cooed, “my hero.” Mary chuckled at that, because of course he rushed in to save you – as if he ever wouldn’t...

“You’re okay though, right?” he asked, tilting your chin you guide your eyes to his for a moment. He was so gentle, searching with genuine concern. You just smiled at him and nodded. “Did you at least enjoy the show?” he asked, changing the subject now he knew you were okay, and figured you weren’t mad at him. If you were, he’d know it by now.

“I think you know that I did,” you joked, coyly. “You were incredible up there.”

Mary smirked down at you, battling between his sense of relief that you hadn’t despised the heavy music and his smugness at the blush that was no longer hidden in the dim lights of the club. Frankly though, you had started this. You turned him on before he went on stage, and where else was he supposed to channel that energy?

“Oh yeah? What did you like about it?” He feigned innocence, letting the smugness win. Of course he did, this was Mary after all... You thought for a moment, avoiding his watching eyes and continuing to dab at the blood that had dribbled down his face and collected around his nose and lip.

“Well, y’know... Just the control you had of the crowd, like they were eating out of the palm of your hand for most of it.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in thought, “You do like it when I take control, huh?” This fucking guy. The blush on your cheeks returned hotter than ever, radiating across your face.

“Shut up, I’m cleaning you up,” you told him, desperately trying to hide the smile fighting to curl your lips.

“What for? Thought the blood turned you on...”

Only Mary could go from being involved in a bar fight that left him covered in blood with contusions on his face, to doing his very best to rile you up. But perhaps you were just the right amount of fucked up for him, because it was working.

Your arms sagged to your sides and you finally made eye contact with Mary. He was staring down at you intensely, waiting in silence with that conceited little twinkle in his eye that was already starting to turn a shade of purple under the smeared remains of his make up. He leaned against the sink again, parting his knees and pulling you towards him by grabbing the belt loops on your skirt and tugging gently. You followed him too easily for your liking, only needing the gentlest of coaxing.

“I thought... you were morbid,” he tormented, just like he had from the stage. Your chest seemed to flutter, heart stumbling over its own rhythm just as the words in your brain you thought you might use to respond did. But you were rendered speechless, hypnotised even.

Even partially cleaned up, Mary looked rough. What you couldn’t understand, is why it seemed to excite you the way it did. Was it knowing that he’d suffered his injuries while fighting for you? Was it the thought that he’d fought a guy twice his size just to defend you? Or did the split lip and bruising just give him an even more menacing look that flooded your body with uncontrolled heat?

You found yourself leaning into him, hesitating as your lips barely brushed his when you remembered they were injured, and a kiss would surely hurt him – especially the kind you were looking for.

He raised his hand to pinch your bottom lip again, just as he had earlier, inspecting the colour of them once again.

“That really is a pretty shade, doll...” His voice rumbled in his chest; you felt it, now that you were so close to him.

“Blood red,” you whispered, slightly garbled thanks to his grip on your lip. He grinned at that, the most beautifully sadistic little grin, before he let go and pushed his battered lips against yours in a deliberate and heated kiss.

He grunted on impact, pain shooting through his lip but it only spurred him on. Mary was no stranger to mixing pain with pleasure and for you he’d take it all. He didn’t hold back and didn’t expect you to either, your lips clashing together as you found a rhythm. Your hands – now barely bleeding, but still tender – planted themselves on his chest when he pulled you closer by your belt loops again, having you lean so far into him your hips crashed into his.

His hands held you in place like that as he forced his tongue past your lips, lapping at yours almost grotesquely. It had been a while since you’d seen Mary’s feral side, but here he was under the dressing room’s harsh luminescent lights trying to devour you as if you were his last meal on death row. Your hands grabbed at his chest, nails scratched at him to try and grip onto him but falling short thanks to the barrier of his shirt.

Hands grabbed at everything they could, both of you seeking the other out and feeling as if close just wasn’t close enough no matter how harshly you pressed against each other. You could feel his jeans growing solid, taught under you and just the mere thought of him hardening at this alone had you pressing your thighs together and pushing your hips into his as much as possible.

Mary pulled his lips from yours just for a moment, pressing his forehead to yours as he groaned at the intoxicating mix of the pain that pulsed through them and the pleasure that pulsed through his growing erection.

“Now’s your chance, doll,” he panted. You looked him in the eye, glaring intensely back and forth at one another. “Show me how pretty it looks, hm?”

It took you a second, but then the penny dropped...

“I seem to remember you wanted to see how pretty this shade looked smothered all over my cock, hm?”

When that penny dropped, so did you, immediately falling to your knees between his feet and reaching for the studded belt that held his jeans up. He watched through hooded eyes, gripping the sink behind him to lean his body weight on it while you undid his jeans and pulled them down just enough to expose the trimmed hair that tapered from his stomach down past that delicious ‘v’ line of his hips.

You reached past the hem of his boxers and fished your prize from its confines, laying heavy and thick in your palm. It was almost shameful, the way your mouth watered at just the sight of him, the feel of him in your hand but there wasn’t even the tiniest part of you that cared.

You looked up at him through your lashes, gently stroking his length and taking in the view from below him. The lust in his eyes had your body setting itself alight from the inside out. He looked dangerous, waiting for you to do as he wanted. He had full control of you with just his stare and without a single word... What he wanted was very clear, and you were more than happy to oblige knowing that obedience would earn you a reward.

Truthfully though, you wanted to do this for him just as much as he wanted it. Even when he was on stage, all you could think of was bending to his will, doing whatever the hell he wanted you to in order to derive his pleasure from him. You wanted him to take control of you, to channel that same darkness you saw in his eyes as he played and growled into the mic and use it on you.

And so, as you stared up at him through those pretty lashes of yours, you opened your mouth and lay your tongue flat on your bottom lip, never breaking eye contact as you leaned in and lay the reddened tip of his cock on it. It was your turn to put on a show for him now, to prove yourself worthy of reward and worship him like you were kneeling at an altar rather than his feet.

He inhaled sharply, hissing through clenched teeth when your tongue made contact with his head. You kept your eyes on him still, circling your lips around him and relishing in the purr that sounded from above you. How had you failed to do this for him since that very first night in the dive bar? How had you resisted? The way he’d reacted to your mouth last time should have been enough incentive – it certainly was now.

Frankly, you were appalled by how long it had been since you’d taken him in your mouth like this... You’d more than make up for it now, slowly leaning further into him to take as much of his length into your mouth and throat as possible while still holding your gaze on him.

The eye contact was driving Mary insane, seeing right through you and knowing you wanted him to watch, to see how good you were being for him. You were freakier than anyone would give you credit for, and only he knew that. Only he got to see it.

“That’s my girl, huh? Fuck...” he praised, one of his hands letting go of its death grip on the sink and running through your hair as you bobbed slowly. You whimpered a little at the approval, particularly when his fingertips grazed over your scalp, nails scratching and massaging. The pleasure was nothing like what you wanted, what your body craved but you’d take any bit of praise, any kind of encouragement he was willing to give.

When he wrapped his fingers in your hair, tugging at it gently to encourage your movements you couldn’t stop yourself from gripping his thighs, grounding yourself while he groaned above you. You relaxed your throat, swallowing more of him until your nose nuzzled against his skin and his grip on your hair tightened, holding you there.

Mary was losing his mind, his head rolling back and eyes squeezing shut when he felt your throat constricting around him. He pulled on your hair to lift your head off him, giving you an opportunity to breathe but all you did was hollow your cheeks and breathe through your nose, using your fist to pump the half of his cock that was now exposed.

You suckled at the tip for a moment before pulling off him completely, holding eye contact again and stroking him where you knelt. You made sure he was watching you when you began to press deliberate kisses to his shaft, leaving slightly dull lipstick stains against his pale skin. Mary grinned wildly, stroking your hair and allowing you to mark his cock in red stains like you’d promised him.

“Dirty girl,” he keened, “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” You didn’t answer with words, only nodding as you started leaving open mouthed kisses, tongue laving wetly at the ridges of his cock where veins protruded. “Such a pretty colour...” he chuckled, starting to lose control of his hips as they rolled towards you, chasing the feeling. He so badly wanted to be buried in your mouth again, surrounded by that delicious wet warmth...

You didn’t tease him for much longer, taking the tip past your lips again and sinking down on his length. The moan he released had arousal pooling between your legs, and your own need was becoming hard to ignore. But you would, knowing that Mary would pay you back for your patience – if not now, when he got you home...

“So tempting to use this pretty mouth of yours, doll... See how much you can take.” That was an invitation, an open hint to ask for your consent to do just that. The thought of pulling back to give verbal consent was just not sitting right with you – a second of neglect to his now weeping cock was a second too long, and you weren’t about to neglect him at all. Instead, you gripped the hem of his jeans and pulled his hips towards you, indicating you wanted him to use his hips, to move and use you just as he’d said.

“Oh, you want that, huh?” You nodded, pulling again. “Shit...” he hissed, pushing himself up from leaning on the sink to stand in front of you, all the while you never let him slip from your mouth.

With his feet firmly planted to the floor either side of you, he wrapped his hand in your hair again and began to rock his hips; slowly at first, savouring the feeling and watching intently as you sat so prettily for him, obediently taking everything he gave you. But he couldn’t help himself – the sight at his feet completely maddening – and he found himself thrusting a little faster, testing how much you could take. When you didn’t struggle at all, he amped his thrusts up again, grunting and moaning above you. It took all your willpower not to let go of his jeans and dive between your own legs for some friction, some kind of relief from the arousal overtaking your body.

As if he read your mind, Mary used his free hand to rip yours from his jeans. “Touch yourself,” he ordered, “Until I can feel your fucking moans on my cock.”

You had no willpower to deny him, immediately diving your hand beneath your skirt and pushing your panties to one side to circle your clit with the juices that had gathered there. You whined in satisfaction, the sound vibrating along Mary’s shaft and spurring him on to bury himself to the hilt in your throat.

“Don’t hold back, make yourself cum.” And you didn’t, wasting no time building up to pleasure and doing everything you could do get yourself to the edge. It never took long with your own fingers, not when you knew the goal was just to cum as quickly as possible. There was nothing to savour, you were rushing not for yourself but to give Mary exactly what he wanted.

“You fuckin’ wait, doll... I’ve been too sweet on you, hm?” he warned. Truthfully, the sex recently had taken more of a sensual turn now that feelings were involved but there was still a filthy side to Mary, and he knew you had it too. There was no harm in mixing it up a little here and there... “Wait ‘til I get you home. I’ll have you fucking screaming for me...”

You believed him. You knew what he was capable of, and you had no problem letting him do whatever he deemed necessary to elicit those screams that you couldn’t create here. But his promise had your hips bucking against your hand, chasing the high that fast approached. Your moans echoed around his head, vibrating down his cock over and over as he used your throat.

“Come on, doll, cum for me. I’m not letting go ‘til you do,” he groaned, tightening his grip in your hair until your roots burned but all it did was spur you on... You hollowed your cheeks for him, using your tongue to please him as he fucked your throat. Your fingers sped up, furiously circling your clit and pushing you closer and closer to the brink until you snapped...

Your hips jolted and thrashed where you knelt, the floor harshly bruising your knees. Moans ended up as choked garbles as you came harder than you’d expected for such little build up. The only thing keeping you remotely in place was Mary’s grip on your hair, holding your head for him to continue fucking your throat with reckless abandon now, too turned on to hold off as soon as you fell over the edge of euphoria.

“That’s it, doll... Fucking hell...” he growled, biting into his already injured lip and trying desperately to hold onto his own control. He waited, watching you as he used your mouth, getting closer and closer until you stopped squirming beneath him.

“Where?” he panted, desperate now, “where can I finish?” He sounded frantic, panicked. Truthfully he was, because if he didn’t get some kind of answer soon, he’d be unable to hold off, and the thought of ruining his orgasm was too devastating after all the work you’d put in for him... You just pointed at your full mouth and sucked at him harder, earning you a roar of “Fucking SHIT” as he threw is head back one final time and lost all control.

You took every drop of his spend you could like a champ, holding what you could on your tongue as his hips slowed to a shallow splutter and he whimpered and grunted above you like an animal. He looked ethereal, despite the injuries to his face as he found his pleasure in you.

You waited patiently as he caught his breath, the last dribbles of his spend finding their way onto your tongue as you lapped at his now over-sensitive head. He leaned back against the sink again to steady himself, looking down at you sat prettily waiting for him like a puppy dog waiting on a treat. Your lipstick had smeared across your face, messed up by your kisses and his borderline brutal motions. And yet, you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

Even prettier when you opened your mouth for him, and showed him what you’d collected on your tongue.

“You waitin’ for permission, or something?” he laughed, pinching your chin to tilt your head side to side and inspect you. You just waited in silence, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Lipstick’s ruined, baby. Gonna need a fresh coat...” he bent down until he was eye level with you, “Or maybe a gloss?”

With a wink, he dipped his finger into your mouth, coating his finger in his cum and spreading it over your lips gently as if it were lip gloss. It sparkled under the lights of the room, matching that playful twinkle in your eye.

“So pretty...” he complimented, watching as you now closed your mouth and swallowed what was left. Mary watched in awe, almost pissed off that his cock had softened and for now, he was spent. Just that act alone had him wanting to worship you like the goddess you were. But he’d have to wait until he got you home...

But Mary being the nasty little shit he was, wanted nothing more than to do whatever he could to keep the fire going, to fan the embers and turn you on as much as you did him. And so, he took your hand in his, helping you up off the floor. Then with one hand, he wrapped his fingers around your neck and held you still, moving in to kiss his gloss from your lips.

You knew from the first night you spent with him he had no problem with the taste of his own release, but as long as he kept finding new and ridiculously sexy ways to show you that, you’d always find it one of the hottest damn kinks of his... You melted into his kiss immediately, adoring the taste of him on your tongue mixed with the fresh blood of his split lip he’d bitten into. Was it a nice flavour? No. But it was the very essence of Mary, and it had you drifting into a world of your own as you made out with him.

Suddenly, the doorhandle rattled, followed in quick succession by a heavy thump on the door and an “ow!” being yelped through the wood. It sounded like Jed, trying to get in without knowing you’d locked the door when you came in to clean Mary up. He’d tried shoving the door open with his shoulder, only to collide with it instead.

“Hey, what the fuck?” he yelled through the door. Quickly Mary parted from you, tucking himself back into his jeans and doing them up. He stepped to the side and made his way slowly to the door, giving you enough time to take another cotton pad from his kit and run it under some fresh warm water, wiping away the red smears from your face to look somewhat presentable. Your hair was still wild from Mary’s grip, but you didn’t quite have time to get it back to normal before Mary let Jed into the dressing room, followed by Forrest and Davey on his heels.

They looked around the room, flitting between the two of you who in your effort to look nonchalant looked more guilty than if they’d caught you mid-blowjob.

“You fuckin’ animals...” Jed laughed, slapping Mary’s chest as he walked further into the room to gather up their kit. “Glad we got here in time, don’t need your ass print on our shit Mare.”

They thought they’d caught you before anything happened... Good, you’d let them believe that.

“You good, man?” Forrest asked, “I know he landed a few punches. You look rough.”

“Thanks,” Mary scoffed. “Did he look worse at least?”

“Oh yeah, think you broke his nose. Blood everywhere, looked crooked. Nice,” Davey laughed, “Bouncers shoved him out on the street while I was having a smoke, he was pissed.”

“Bastard deserved it, has done for a while,” Mary shrugged.

“We’re gonna load the van and head out, you two alright to get yourselves home?” Forrest asked, picking up some of the kit they’d brought in the dressing room after their set.

“Yeah we’re good, not over the limit,” Mary turned to you then, “you ready to get outta here, doll?” You just nodded, turning to pack up Mary’s kit and drain the sink of the pink-tinted water.

It didn’t take long to shift the gear into Forrest’s van with you and Mary helping out. Surprisingly, all the guys gave you a hug as they were leaving, citing it was nice to meet you and hopping into the van – not before Jed got in a jab about ‘going easy on Mary’ despite his new ‘bad boy look’ when you got him home. You just promised him you wouldn’t with a wink, to which he laughed.

As they drove out of the parking lot, Mary turned back to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him.

“Shall we?” he asked with a suggestive tone, swaying you in his arms and smirking down at you.

“We shall...” you sang, leaning up onto your toes to plant your lips to his in a slow and delicious kiss. He hummed against your lips, his hands grabbing at your waist as you introduced your tongue to the mix – but he soon cut you off.

“Get in that van, right now,” he ordered, earning a giggle from you. You span in his arms and felt a playful smack to your ass as you began to walk towards the passenger side of his van, Mary making his way into the driver’s side.

The tension in the front seat was thick and heavy, anticipation for the moment he finally got you home building with each passing second. At some point, Mary reached over and placed his hand on your thigh, stroking his thumb over the bare skin and letting it slide inwards. You twisted in your seat, allowing him the room to slide a little higher, just to tease...

Once out of the city and back on home turf, you threw caution to the wind and leaned over the centre console to kiss at Mary’s neck, nibble at his ear, anything and everything you could do while he drove – very carefully – through the streets he knew like the back of his hand.

“You want me to total this thing, doll?” he growled. You just giggled, sucking a hickey into his neck.

Eventually, he pulled into his apartment complex, parking up in his designated spot. As soon as he took his seatbelt off he was shoving you back over to your side and climbing over the console himself, his hands everywhere all at once as his lips engulfed you. You fucking loved riling him up like this...

“Do you know how tempting it is just to fuck you right here?” he growled as his lips made the descent down your neck.

“I’d let you,” you laughed, “but I gotta stop by the 7/11...”

“Huh?” he pulled back from you, confused. “You didn’t fancy mentioning that before I dived over here?” he teased. You giggled again – and of course, had no idea what that did to him, inevitably making the unfolding situation in his jeans worse.

“What? I’m out of birth control...” you whined. “And as much as I love the idea of you railing me until the sun rises, I really don’t fancy motherhood any time soon. Pharmacy isn’t open this late, so condoms it is. Just for tonight.” You leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the end of his nose.

“Fine by me, condoms make me last longer anyway,” he smirked. “I’ll come with.” He started to retreat back to open his door, but you stopped him.

“No no, it’s fine. It’s just around the corner. I’ll be like five minutes. You take your stuff upstairs, get a little rest – you're gonna need it...” Mary sighed in defeat.

“Alright fine, you got your phone on you, yeah?” he checked, a little concern on his face.

“Yeah yeah, I’m good. I’ll see you up there,” you leaned in to press another kiss to his lips, jumping out of the van and heading down the street in the direction of the local convenience store.

Mary watched you walk away – absolutely nothing to do with the way your ass looked in that skirt, of course – and gave in, knowing there was no arguing with you on this. So instead, he got out and fished his guitar case from the back, along with his backpack of make-up and guitar picks and headed upstairs. He hummed to himself as he climbed the two flights of stairs up to his floor, content and happy despite the bar fight that had broken out.

Truthfully, Mary couldn’t believe his damn luck. He’d landed a girl like you, worked at the differences and insecurities and whilst it was still a work in progress, you were his. He’d won the biggest battle, let his walls down just enough to let you in so you could take care of the rest together, brick by brick.

Mary rounded the corner to his apartment, shoving his hand into his pocket for the keys to unlock the front door when he stopped, frozen and staring straight ahead... Something wasn’t right.

The door to his apartment was slightly ajar, the wooden frame splintered by the lock as if it had been forced open with a crowbar. He couldn’t hear anything, only silence spilling from the crack in the door, but Mary knew better than to go charging in...

“I’m nowhere fucking near done, you watch!” Corbin’s threat echoed around his head. “You’re an easy guy to track down, Goore! I’ll fuckin’ find you!”

Corbin had made good on his promise. And for all Mary knew, he was still inside, waiting for him. Waiting for you.

Quietly, Mary set his things down in the hallway, rifling through his bag for his cell phone, typing a quick message and hitting send before he fished into the hidden pocket inside and pull out a Swiss army knife. Handy little thing to own, when you own a guitar workshop and play in a band. Never know when you might need it to screw something together, or cut or saw something. He’d never needed to use it for self-defence before, and frankly, he felt sick at the thought of it. But he wasn’t going into that apartment without something.

Slowly, and quietly, Mary stepped towards his front door. His heart pounded in his chest, sweat beginning to form on his brow as fight or flight began to kick in.

He took a deep breath, flicked the knife attachment out of its hiding place, and slowly pushed open his front door...

You sifted through the aisles of the 7/11, humming to yourself one of Mary’s songs that you particularly liked from the show tonight. With condoms in hand, as well as some assorted snacks, some beers and a few toiletries, you headed over to the register ready for the sluggish teen employee to ring you up.

They took their sweet time, and you tried your best not to look impatient. It was late, after all, and this poor kid had the graveyard shift. You wouldn’t wanna be here either, in their shoes. Not that you’d worked a solid day’s work in your life, mind you...

As the poor kid moved at the pace of a turtle scanning each of your items, your phone buzzed in your purse. Figuring Mary was asking you to pick something up for him, you checked it, only to have your heart jump into your mouth, and your stomach fall out of your ass...

Don’t come home. Not safe. Call Forrest +1 (618) 107-1423

#mary goore x reader smut #mary goore fanfiction #mary goore fanfic #mary goore x reader #mary goore #repugnant fan fiction #repugnant fanfiction #repugnant #repugnant band #ghost bc #the band ghost fanfic #the band ghost #ghost band #ghost #ghost the band #mary goore smut

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dusterbishop · 30 days

Text

you believe me like a god (i'll destroy you like i am)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 3.8k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. once again, i'm so grateful for the likes and kind words! it means a lot to me! this chapter is long, but the next one is going to be heavy and i needed to get it all out here.

part one. || part two. || part three.

Come’on, chér, just hold on.

Playing the odds?

Non, I’m bettin’ all on you.

Gambit talks for a long, long time. He tells you about Cassandra Nova, and the Resistance's intent to cripple her center of operations. He tells you about the other mutants he allied himself with. He tells you about the climate of the Void, which is dry and barren and desolate. He tells you about his liquor collection, even as he laments how he won’t be able to indulge in it for a while.

This version of him is dead-set on a suicide mission, you quickly realize. Nova and her power sounds far beyond the scope of Gambit’s abilities, and you doubt his allies could overtake her, either. They are all hopelessly outmatched.

Then again, they are also decaying in the Void. Void is a good name for it; the earth is desolate and menacing as the pair of you travel. Your powers flicker at the edge of your vision in a blurry mirage of recollection, like a film played backwards. You can taste the metallic tinge of blood in the back of your throat. Your body still simmers with feverish fatigue, even though you are five days deep into this timeline. You haven’t been using your abilities beyond necessity, but each time you wonder what would happen if your intended time-object doesn’t appear at the command.

C’mon, Wildcard, don’ get skittish on me now.

Just deal me in, Cajun.

They are all outmatched on their own. You stare at the broad expanse of Gambit’s back as you walk, taking in the way he walks over the uneven terrain, the idle twirl of his bo staff slung lax in his hand. The travel has worn him down at the edges; his hair is mussed and dirt-streaked, and his coat is weighted and torn at the hem. Five days of trekking through the daylight and camping through the night has taken a toll on his body, but he still hums to himself as you both walk.

You know this song. It’s the one Tante Mattie would sing to him when he was young and couldn’t sleep. Or at least, that’s what your Remy told you. Perhaps this version of Remy LeBeau found it through another source. You can’t imagine the man in front of you as a little boy needing comfort.

No. That isn’t quite true. You have seen photos of a younger Remy while visiting New Orleans, much to his dramatic announcements of utter embarrassment, and you never forgot just how small he seemed. How unfair that his life was wrought with pain and fear, even as that little boy, just for the color of his eyes. Abandoned by one family only to be raised in crime with another.

You know what your Remy went through. You just can’t bear to think about what this one has suffered with. Not now. Maybe not ever considering the terror Nova has been spreading across the Void.

“Okay,” you say suddenly. It’s nearly nightfall. You should find a place to settle for the night, then scrounge up enough from your rations to feed his burning metabolism and soothe the disquiet ache in your stomach. Despite the fever, you should eat something of substance even if the thought alone makes you feel nauseous.

“Go’on, chér,” Gambit says. He’s eyeing the horizon with a calculating look, no doubt thinking the very same thing you are. You don’t know how far the makeshift headquarters are for the rebel cause, but you can figure it’s still some ways off by the frown on his face. Just how far did he go wandering alone? You don’t allow yourself to wonder why he seemed to be looking for you, either. That would lead to more questions than your mind could handle.

“You want me to fight Nova,” you say. That catches his attention. He jolts as if you charged him with his own kinetic wave, his pitch-dark eyes sliding to lock on yours. He looks like he’s ready to argue, or maybe to sweet-talk, so you add, “I’ll do it. Fight her.”

“Suicide, chér?” His mouth is twisted unhappily. “Nobody tell you to do that.”

“Didn’t need you to, Cajun,” you shoot back. “No other reason for you to go hunting across the Void for me.”

“Mebbe,” he drawls out, his smile temptingly coy, “Gambit like what he sees.”

You don’t take the bait. “I can kill her, but where does that leave you? All of you?”

His smile grows just a little brighter at the misstep. It takes every nerve in your body to resist the urge to sigh in exasperation. You don’t have to remind him you care about his wellbeing. This Gambit isn’t yours to protect.

“Don’ worry ‘bout us, chér,” he says, nearly a purr. It sends a thrill down to the base of your spine. “We talk it out, eh? Our hand t’deal.”

“With a suicide mission?” Your laugh is strained. “You really know how to raise the bet, Cajun.”

“Playing de odds,” he agrees. In the half-light of the sinking sun on the horizon, his profile is cast in shadows, and yet you can see the faintest twitch in his mouth. Almost a frown. Then he turns his face away from you entirely, hiding back behind the facade of his relaxed shoulders. “We gonna get out dis place.”

He sounds so sure that you say nothing, taking in the moment of staring at the setting sun. It would be much easier to leave entirely, even with the heaviness of your limbs from the fever. Who knows how much time you have left in this place? Something about the timeline here has you untethered from reality. You keep swallowing back the taste of blood.

Part of you almost tells Gambit, right then, that you don’t think you have time to talk about plans. You can’t just wait for the right opportunity to land in your lap like a wounded bird.

But you don’t. The two of you quietly settle down around a fire and divide your meager rations. It’s a strange collection of his preferences with the oddity of your Void self’s miscellaneous tastes. It’s an unspoken agreement to swap the night watch while the other is asleep. Gambit takes the first watch. You pretend to sleep curled next to the heat of the fire, your mind flashing through broken images of different times, like watching broken sunlight filter in from under the surface of the ocean.

Remy used to think it odd that you didn’t dream. You would joke to him that you had enough of dreaming when you found him. Still, some part of you feels a hollow curiosity towards the thought of dreaming. How could your mind conjure images of desires only for you to wake up without them? There was never a time that you could remember where you didn’t just wave your hand and hold the world in your palm.

Yet the memories that flicker across your mind from the darkness behind your closed eyelids are strangely nostalgic. Thwarting a burglary attempt as your mutant debut, celebrating Jubilee’s birthday at the mansion, visiting New Orleans for the first time as a LeBeau. Waking up to Remy’s arm slung over your waist as if he was trying to keep you secured in this timeline, even as your mind traveled right in plain sight, gone beyond his reach.

It rends a heart-wrenching ache in your chest. You have to fight to keep your breathing steady. The memories are still there, rushing past you quickly enough to make you dizzy.

Marrying Remy and nearly missing on your cue to kiss because you were staring up at his eyes. Desperately reaching out to him as your power stuttered, nearly sending you tumbling over the edge of the roof. Discreet shuffling around in bed to avoid waking the cats piled around you two, with Remy sleepily pressing a kiss to your temple. Losing days at a time, flickering in and out of your life like a specter, only to watch him grow more and more desolate in the wake of your disappearances.

Growing sicker for all the time-summoning your body forced you through. Reaching out for Remy’s hand to kiss it. Laughing at the way Remy pulled you up out of your chair to waltz in the kitchen in the middle of the night, despite him supporting most of your weight. Staring at the abandoned costume hanging in your closet, no longer your size due to the weight loss, knowing you could not wear it again in this lifetime. Accepting that, to be with Remy.

Accepting it all, just to be with Remy. Playing the odds with your own sort of suicide mission, just to keep a life with him. To earn your title with the X-Men and get dispatched on missions with them again. To be able to cuddle with the cats without scaring them with a violent waking. To go to sleep next to your husband with the knowledge you could see the same version of him in the morning.

Deal me in, LeBeau.

Eyes, mon cuore.

Warmth burns the back of your eyes. You open them slowly to stare at the blur of the fire crackling quietly in front of you. You can taste the fresh warmth of blood coating your tongue and sticking to the back of your front teeth. There’s something small and rectangular in your hand, but you don’t shift out of your curled up position to see what it is. You hadn’t intended on bringing something out of the timeline.

How strange, to dream and wake with nothing to show for it?

“C’est tout un sucre,” Gambit says softly. You flinch at the sound of his voice. You had nearly forgotten that he was there. “Not gon’ go ahead an’ ask what’s got you so scared.”

It takes effort to swallow back the swelling emotion in your throat. “I can take watch.”

“I s’pose you jus’ want some quiet, eh?” There’s the whispering shuffle of fabric, and then Gambit is settling down to lay next to you, leaving a near-imperceptible gap between you. In another life, you could reach out and touch him. Just not this one.

“Not really,” you sigh. He lets that lie for a heartbeat, letting you collect the raging tempest of thoughts scrambling your head. It would be awfully convenient if a wandering pack of mutants tried to attack you, or if Nova herself descended from the sky to kill you. Anything to spare you from the grave you were preparing to dig yourself into.

“Gambit,” you start, still staring resolutely ahead at the flickering flames, “I told you what happens to me.”

“Reset,” he muses. You can hear the gentle rustle of fabric, then the soft flicker of shuffling cards as he takes them from one hand to the other. He thinks best when he’s in control, and so he has his cards poised for action. You don’t look at him, but you’re not entirely sure if it’s for the sake of your control, or for his.

“What I said,” you agree. “It’s not a suicide mission if I go after Nova.”

“No,” he says.

“Even if she destroys the Void version of my body, I keep traveling,” you continue. “I can — ”

“No,” he repeats. The edge in his tone makes you pause, but it’s the hand that grips yours that makes you turn to stare at him. He isn’t wearing his gloves, and the warmth of his skin against yours makes the heat of the fire feel insignificant. It’s his eyes, though, that make your lungs seize up. All night-black pupils with hardly the rings of red. His eyes are his only tell that he’s terrified out of his mind.

You blink back at him, stunned.

“Don’ be a fool,” he finally says. Slowly, reluctantly, he takes his hand from yours. The cold air in the wake of his touch burns just as much as uncontrolled wildfire. “We all gon’ get out dis place. Nobody dyin’.”

“I can’t die,” you shoot back. “Don’t you understand? I will always move on to another life. None of this matters to me! Not the Void, or Paris, or fucking New Orleans! If I go and blow up Nova, then I can move on and live my life in another timeline without dealing with any of this.”

“Movin’ on,” Gambit notes. He’s smiling, but there’s an edge to the curve of his mouth. “Dat’s jus’ called runnin’ away.”

“And Gambit never folds, is that it?” You hold up your other hand, the one with the playing card, and toss it to him. It flutters in the breeze before resting on his chest. He narrows his eyes at you, but his curiosity wins as it always does. He was always too easy to bait. A gambler never gives up the promise of a winning prize.

You don’t have to look to know what the card is. If you were dreaming of Remy, it only makes sense that you dreamed of his favored card. Gambit studies the Queen of Hearts with an inscrutable gaze. It’s not the version that Remy gave you; that one was likely consumed in the same blast that destroyed your body. This one is unwrinkled and vibrantly colored. Brand new.

“You don’ know, do you?” Gambit says. The flatness of his tone makes you pause, though you can’t bring yourself to look at the expression on his face. Your gaze locks onto the card he’s holding so delicately, as if he’s holding onto your heart rather than a piece of pressed painted cardboard.

“You kno’ me, hein?” He turns his head to look at you, and you have to force yourself to release the breath you’ve been holding in a slow, controlled sigh. Still, you feel stripped raw by his gaze. You wrap your arms around yourself to avoid the impulse to summon a staff and fend him off from his next words: “You recognize me.”

��Seen a lot of you lately,” you say. It’s meant to be dismissive and unaffected, but even you can hear the hitch in your breath when he shuffles an inch closer, eyes burning black into yours.

“You and Gambit meet before,” he half-laughs, not happily.

“Many times.”

“Then you know Gambit’s never forgotten a beautiful woman.”

Like that, he’s up and crouched above you, his hands clasped tightly to your upper arms. You’ve forgotten how quick he can be when he’s lost in the lure of a gamble. His warmth leeches through the thin fabric of your coat, time-stolen to match the beige wasteland around you and offer some hope of camouflage. It’s nothing like the armored fabric woven into his, and his touch reminds you of just how vulnerable you truly are right now.

You’ve met a few Gambits that have tried to actively kill you, before. One had plunged a sharpened edge of his staff right into your chest, aiming with precise calculation to slip it straight through the soft skin between your ribs. Another had taken you down as collateral in pursuit of more satisfying prey, stepping around your fallen body as he continued his game. And, of course there had been Remy, too.

This Gambit doesn’t tighten his grip, though you can feel the tension humming like hornets beneath his hands, kinetic energy pulsing in anticipation.

“Gambit,” you warn him. You don’t try to pull away. You don’t even reach for the veil of time that whirs at the edges of your vision, even if it would be almost easy to summon some method of distraction and escape this sudden intervention.

“He ain’t forget,” Remy repeats. He squeezes you, just once, eyes darting over your expression with intent tenacity. “Listen to me, eh? I promised you, chér. Even if you don’ remember it, I mean it. We gonna get out dis place together.”

Something metallic tastes spoiled in the back of your throat. You blink at him, struck suddenly by the realization that you have been hiding in plain sight. The Void must be more of a well-fitting title for this place than you initially assumed, as it’s given you nothing but barren territory to let your power meander. It gives you space to let the timelines mingle in a blurry mirage of recollection at the edges of your vision, like a film played in rapid reverse.

You thought you had been desensitized to meeting Gambits, and perhaps you were right. You couldn’t even recognize Remy LeBeau until he was right in front of you. How else would you explain finding your Remy here, and not recognizing him sooner?

One of his hands flickers, almost too quick to follow, and the cuff of his sleeve unravels to reveal a card. It’s not one of the suit of aces.

It’s your Queen of Hearts.

“Is dis your card?” His words are meant to be wry, but there’s a catch in his voice where his breath stutters, so soft you might miss it if you weren’t struck senseless at the sight. The edges of the card are singed black, no doubt remainders of the kinetic energy, but the crease down the middle is undoubtedly from your nervous fidgeting during missions with the X-Men. You kept it in your pocket as a good luck charm only to fiddle with it during downtime. Folding it over and over, running your thumb over the lines to memorize every feeling.

You can’t speak. It feels like being dragged into a violent undertow, the waves of memories flickering at the edges of your vision threatening to drown you. You suck in a shuddering breath, nearly a cry, and finally succumb to the urge to reach out and touch the curve of his jaw. He’s warm and familiar beneath your touch.

“‘M all in for you, mon coeur,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you.

Warmth burns the back of your eyes, the telltale harbinger of the tears that start trickling down your cheeks in a slow caress. He’s kissing you with reckless abandon, and you open up under his touch, unwinding your arms from your sides to reach up and clutch at the lapels of his coat. One of his hands wraps around your waist, tugging you impossibly closer, the other moving up to cup your salt-streaked cheek. You can hardly feel the rough pad of his thumb wiping away the tears beyond the whir of power buzzing in the back of your throat.

You have to pull back, breathless, though Remy is holding you tight from retreating too far.

“I’m the kinda man that don’t leave,” he tells you. His voice is just as hoarse as you feel. “I don’ care if it hurts, mon coeur. Dis place can’t have you. We gonna get out.”

“I care, you idiot.” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, pulling back before he can turn his head to steal a proper one. He makes a soft noise of indignation, but you can’t let him think that any more sacrifice will fix the gaping wound festering between you two. “I don’t know how we can fix what’s broken between us, Remy. I’m terrified that you’re going to end up dead trying to fix it yourself.”

“Non,” he shakes his head, though he can’t hide the way his body tenses up beneath you. “Since when you talk that way, mon coeur? Gambit has a plan.”

“He knows the odds, is that it?” You tug him down to kiss him again, and he goes willingly to your silent command, his mouth warm against yours. You can taste the salt from your tears, only to pull back and see the shine in his eyes, too. How long had it been since you two were separated for good? You don’t remember. You have lived far too long outside of this time to remember when. You hope that Remy, however he ended up in the Void, doesn’t remember either.

You can’t bear the thought of him waiting to see if you would return, following in the wake of this Void version of your face. Counting the days, over and over, just to see a stranger wearing your body every time the sun rose.

“In this, he do,” Remy agreed. There’s a furrow in his brow, and you marvel at the way you reach up and smooth a thumb over the wrinkle, only for him to scrunch his nose at you in familiar distaste. “I taste blood, mon coeur. You hurt?”

Even as he asks, his hand runs down your side, checking for hidden injury. The memories at the edge of your vision flicker to a time where he had done the same thing after a particularly rough mission sent you crashing into a wall. You had cracked two ribs and spent some downtime on mandatory bedrest while he fussed over your every movement and tried to keep the cats from sleeping on your chest.

You don’t realize how long it’s been since you’ve seen him fuss over you, but the back of your eyes start to burn again. “I’m okay, Cajun. Just adjusting to the timeline.”

He lets you kiss him again, this time keeping your mouth closed to hide the taste of your blood, but he’s still frowning when you break apart. “Six days.”

You’ve never had to spend so long adjusting. You didn’t think Gambit would notice your lack of time-summoning, but then again, you hadn’t realized Remy was silently cataloging every action that confirmed your identity. In some instances, you would only spend a minute or two in a timeline. Six days counts as practically permanent without a reset.

God, how the hell had you not noticed him watching you? Of all the Gambits for you to return to, it had to be him. And out of all the versions of you that cross-trek the known universes, he had to get the one that is too goddamn tired of losing him. He had to get the version of you that was too tired to pretend that this life was worth wrestling with every moment of the day.

No wonder he broke his silent watch to admit the truth to you. Even if it broke his heart to watch you leave the timeline, he couldn’t sit there and listen to you act willing to destroy yourself again.

Which is why you can’t tell him you’re dying, anyway. Time doesn’t exist in the same capacity in the Void. The memories overlapping your vision are nothing more than ghostly shrouds of a past life. However your power works, it doesn’t have the same support in this place. Staying here will kill you.

“Listen,” you tell Remy. His body burns hot above you, a livewire of kinetic warmth. Alive and real. Your Remy, alive. “I promise we’ll get out of here, okay?”

I promise I will save you, you think as he kisses you, his hands cupping your face as if you are something precious to protect. No matter what.

#gambit #remy lebeau #gambit imagine #gambit x reader #remy lebeau x reader #gambit x y/n #remy lebeau x y/n #gambit fic #d&w #dp3 #xmen imagine

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chaptersleftunwritten · 1 month

Text

Cue the beat drop

Blurb: After Eddie goes missing, assumed dead, you replace him as lead guitarist and singer of Corroded Coffin.

Pairing: Vampire!Eddie Munson x Stranger!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of grief and death, mentions of trauma, mean-ish!Eddie, blood(?), possibly an inaccurate attempt at description of Kas from D&D. Fictional Corroded Coffin songs.

Trauma permanently alters the brain, and whether or not we are willing to admit it, it changes our lives and who we are. We never really get over it, at best we can make peace with it- grieve with it and try to put it to rest. But a large life disruption leaves a new normal behind and there is no returning to who we were before. Before this.

It had taken Gareth and Jeff two and a half years to muster up enough courage to paper up flyers all over town- every window, sign post and street lamp had one stuck and stapled to it. They were looking for their new lead guitarist and vocalist for Corroded Coffin- a legacy that Eddie Munson had left behind.

Being new to Hawkin’s came with a profound sense of oblivion. You were unaware of the history and all you knew were the rumours of what had happened a few years prior to your arrival in the cursed town. Words twisted and whispered from ear to ear. Elderly ladies clutching their Holy jewellery as they walk through the streets, mumbling prayers beneath their breaths. It was unsettling, to say the least. Oddly, though, there was something about Hawkin’s that called to you. A dark beckoning leading you from one place to here. Where you’ll remain.

‘Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.’ Friedrich W. Nietzsche

When you first read that quote, you never understood it. Not then. Not until you actually saw him. The abyss… staring back at you.

Corroded Coffin had soared in popularity. One of their singles, It Only Takes Six Feet, ended up on the Hot Top 100 billboard in the whole of America, sitting at #86 on the list. It was a song dedicated to Eddie, written by all of the members of the band. Of course you did most of the edits and redrafts but it was made by you all. For him. For the man who started it all.

After the stats came in, and the fans followed like metal headed soldiers, the rest was history. Corroded Coffin had its own army of ‘devil worshippers’ and their songs were playing across America on radios, stereos and TV’s alike.

It led you to here. Centre stage with blinding lights blurring your vision. Your lilac guitar slung over your shoulders securely, your hands supporting the weight. The audience is a single organism of moving, reeling silhouettes, who are screaming lyrics wildly back at you. The feeling is intoxicating. The way your voice echoes on the speakers, or how your body glistens and glitters with sweat and even the confidence radiating from your choice in outfit. Tonight felt electric. Everyone was paying attention to you…

You narrowed it down to it just being a really great gig, but things hadn’t been this good since you left Hawkin’s for a small out of state tour. Being back in the bands origin town created an atmosphere that was.. unearthly. Something darker and deeper than you could never comprehend.

Eddie really just couldn’t believe it. Hearing his own lyrics leave your precious little mouth. It seemed wrong- it was wrong.

He watched you with intent from the back of the concert hall, blending in with the shadows cast upon him as he hugged the walls.

No one paid him any mind, he was purposely invisible- seeking out your attention and yours alone. His eyes glow, flickering like a faulty light bulb between a thrilling onyx and a fierce maroon. He wanted you to clock him. To seek him out in the crowd. You and Eddie had never had the pleasure of meeting and Eddie planned to change that. After all, you deserved to know who you were singing about, right?

The fans adored you, and because of your reputation, your angelic voice and your looks- you invited in a wider spread of demographic. You expanded the band without changing a thing and it made you feel accomplished. You were proud of what you contributed and so was Gareth and Jeff.

It made Eddie giggle demonically to himself so see a photograph of him taped to Gareth's drum set. It was a decent picture to say the least, however he couldn't help but wonder why they were paying him so much tribute. Was it some sick and twisted way to promote the band and get more media coverage? Or were they really just as pathetic as he thought and still missed him.

Eddie preferred the 'sick and twisted.'

The hall falls eerily dormant to you as there is a brief pause between songs. The audience remain enthralled but their screams are drowned out but a high pitched ring in your ear. At first, you thought it was mic interference. You never understood it. Not until you actually saw him. The abyss... staring back at you.

Staring into you.

Despite being beneath the sweltering stage lights, your skin coats in an unavoidable freezing spread of goosebumps. Your breathing staggers outwith your control and your head blazes with fog. You can hear Gareth trying to speak to you from behind but you're bolted to the spot, your eyelids fluttering in sync with your heart which you are now suddenly over aware of thundering inside of your chest.

You move a hand to where it beats beneath the skin, clutching at the fabric of your sheer pink blouse as you fight the urge to collapse- but unfortunately for you, your efforts go to waste. Eddie made sure of that.

You come to a small flashlight being shone in your eyes and a worried paramedic frowning at you.

“She’s awake!” Gareth yells over to Jeff and both of them appear in your line of vision, they are a bit distorted figure wise but you recognise them nonetheless.

“You’re backstage. You’re in your dressing room, can you tell me which town you are in?” The paramedics voice feels like it is a thumping base inside of your head and you wince inwardly to yourself. Gulping thickly before you reply.

“Hawkins.” You bark rather harshly, your throat dry, “Water? Please?” Gareth nods and both him and Jeff leave the room to go grab you a refreshment. Trust those two to make a one person job into a two person job.

“You’ll be alright, it was probably dehydration.” With a click of a button the flashlight turns off and it is placed back in the medics equipment bag, “I’d recommend taking it easy for the rest of the night- but I know you young ones don’t really listen to anyone these days… so take some pain medication and drink some bloody water, please.” With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders he exits the room, heaving a sigh and leaving you to recollect your fractured thoughts.

What the Hell happened?

“You collapsed. Is what happened, love.” His voice comes from behind you, a hissing in your ear like a serpents tongue. Which seems impossible because you are situated on a sofa which is pressed against a wall. Logically, no one should be able to get behind you.

Whipping your head over your shoulders frantically, your eyes shot wide with terror as you search the room, only for your gaze to land on him cackling in front of you evilly. The tiredness has been shaken from your bones and the adrenaline flooding your bloodstream is enough for you to jump and go straight through the ceiling.

You know him. You know this man.

“Boo?” He remarks with a sinister grin.

You always thought, when put in these situations, that your trigger response would be fight or flight.. but you are frozen as cold as ice, to the spot.

“This is the part where you try to run away but I ultimately catch you.” His voice is strained, like he is longing for a drink of water, “Cat and mouse, my favourite game.” His large hand finds his chest in a sentimental gesture, “Usually it would warm my heart- but I don’t have one anymore.”

Not anymore? Confusion wraps a noose around your mind. What is he talking about? And why does he look so familiar and yet so alien?

Noticing your rigid unmoving frame Eddie frowns mockingly, “Awh,” He starts with a coo, “You’re no fun.” His bottom lip pokes out before he is biting back a smile. Flashing what you can almost pinpoint as fangs…

“I recognise you…” Your weak voice sounds pathetic as it leaves your throat in the form of a gulp- starting strong and then fizzling out into a whisper. Eddie cocks a brow, his hawk like eyes narrowing in on you.

“I’d like to hope so, sweetheart, considering you were just singing my lyrics.” He leans against your vanity mirror, crossing his strong arms against his chest, not having a single care for any of the products he has just swiped off of the desk.

“Eddie?” Your eyebrows knit together tightly on your face, eyes pinching as you shake your head, “I must be hallucinating. This isn’t real.” You let out a breathy laugh, bringing your palm to your face where you run it down your skin semi-aggressively.

“I must’ve hit my head hard!” You continue to laugh, your mind reeling. Eddie stares at you- a mix of amusement and impatience dominating his features.

“That’s adorable.” He pushes himself from the vanity mirror and within seconds he is in front of you, pinning you down onto the worn leather of the decades old sofa, “I don’t know if I should find you cute or annoying.” His fingers grip your face with a punishingly tight force and you squirm beneath him, fear replacing every one of your comedic thoughts.

“Please,” you squeak out, hoping there is some humanity left inside of him. But you would be wrong to assume, “Eddie, please…”

Your feeble attempts make him snicker beneath his breath, his grip only worsening on your cheeks, “This isn’t a dream, baby. I’m real, I’m here- I may not be alive… but I bet this pain feels pretty human to you, doesn’t it?” He quirks his head slightly, like a psychotic interested dog and you wince, your fingers clawing desperately at his wrist to try and get him to ease up, “It’s a shame that you might have bruises left on this pretty face of yours. I can see why Gareth chose you.” His chest rises and falls with more distorted laughter, “Poor lad, he so clearly wants to fuck you… but you don’t want him, do you?”

The dark sounds of his strangled cackle fills the room, you can hardly breathe with his weight on top of you. He is too strong, so unwavering. It makes you question..

What is he?

“You’ve replaced me.” He clicks his tongue, evidentially displeased, “You replaced me- and you hadn’t even met me.” He brings his face dangerously close to yours, your breathing is erratic and uncontrollable and only now are you able to really hone in on his appearance.

His eyes are blown to an impure murky shade of black and his lips are crusted ever so slightly with a tinged shade of red. Spider web like veins have crept themselves up his neck and arms- the hue of them being a deep purple… almost like the veins are dead- void of any blood at all.

“That’s it, baby, take it all in.” His pointed tongue sticks out, the muscle meets your face as he licks a long strip from your cheek to the corner of your eyes. You hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down your face, but Eddie was relishing in the saltiness of the liquid, “Tastes good, but not really what I’m gunning for.”

His obsidian eyes settle on your neck and you can feel your pulse quickening. Your legs have entered the equation as you start to thrash more violently against him, coming up short.

“Eddie stop! Please! Please!” You’re wailing now, screaming for your life and it irks Eddie beyond description. Violently he lets go of your face, only to clamp his hand steadily across your mouth.

“Those aren’t the type of begs I want to hear, gorgeous.” Your fists pound against his hollow chest and he brushes your attempts at self defence off like it is nothing. He even fake yawns at your bratty behaviour.

“You sounded so pretty up there on stage, I just had to meet you. That’s why you had that little dizzy spell.. that was me, you following along?” He sniffs at your hair, his nose tickling down to the shell of your ear, “Call me obsessed- but I might be your biggest fan.”

Heaven opens the floodgates to your eyes and you are a quivering, sobbing mess beneath Eddie. Your limbs are much too tired to fight against him and you can see your demise approaching.

“I’m not going to kill you,” He answers your thoughts, almost like he can hear you think, “I’m just so fucking hungry.” Craning your neck off to one side Eddie nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his nose poking and prodding at your skin- right above your main artery, “I also want my position back as lead guitarist.” His voice is much gentler now, a breathy whisper against your flesh, “I’m sure we can find room for you somewhere though, hmm?” You can tell that his words have a demented double meaning and you muster up enough energy to try and push him off again.

Your limbs feel like jello, weak and boneless. Eddie feels as though he is made of steel. Weighty with effortless leverage against you. Your eyelids feel fluttery as you look at the dressing room door- hoping Gareth and Jeff are just outside.

You can see shadowy figures dancing beneath the crack in the door and you mumble out a cry from beneath Eddie’s palm, “They won’t be able to help you.” His words are punctured by his teeth piercing your skin- harshly but with surgeon like precision.

Fire scorches your blood at the contact and your eyes shoot open with furious panic. You can’t scream against his hand, but you try. Choking out sobs and knocking at Eddie’s body. He doesn’t give, if anything he sucks at your neck harder, growling lowly into your ear. All you know is pain, it’s all you know- no more fear, no more terror. Just pain. Agonising. Paralysing… and then..

Nothing. You go numb. Your body falls limp against the cushions, the hard wooden beam running through the sofa presses against your spine in an almost relieving way and you let out a large sigh through flared nostrils.

Eddie finishes with you, unhooking his talon like teeth from your veins and studying your expression closely, “You might feel a bit lightheaded, but you’ll be okay.” His fingers stroke against your cheek which is aching from his previous grasp, “You look so pretty… so exhausted.” With a clasped hand he strokes your hair back and away from your face, only to grasp it roughly and pull you up from the leather material which now has a very prominent outline of your body wedged into. You yelp out, your hands flying to the back of your head where you grab his wrist.

“Now go and open that door, and tell them we were having a quickie… maybe I’ll reward you later if you’re good.” With a knowing wink he pushes you away from him brutishly, slapping your ass and laughing as he watches you move on wobbly legs toward the dressing room door. You don’t understand why, but you listen to him. His voice is like music to your ears- and you’d do anything to hear him speak to you again.

And being the good, obedient, brainwashed girl that you are- you open the door to Jeff and Gareth, looking like your world just got rocked.

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000 @ali-r3n @daisy-munson @serenadingtigers

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evilminji · 4 days

Text

Okay... Maybe I just like Causing Jedi STRESS?

But! Again! SI-OC Jedi Youngling!

You know what HAPPENS to a Jedi when they die? They JOIN THE FORCE. Luminous Beings, we are~☆, remember? That kid! Got there SOMEHOW and don't tell me they just walked!

They had to DIE FIRST.

In short? Go Through The FORCE.

They are LUMINOUS. A bright and shining soul... shoved BACK into crude matter. Death UNDONE. Reversed. It's basically a god damned disability. Not ONLY are you smaller then your soul remembers you being? But your Soul GREW, as it was no longer contained! Like dense gas in a glass bottle, finally allow to spread out into a cloud.

Now? Shoved back into that bottle. Dispite having generated MORE GAS.

You are MORE then you were. BEYOND simple matter.

Multidimensional, in a way that is just a few steps beyond what you could ever be, as something bound by living flesh. But? You are also NOT. Because the Force took you, gathered you up, and neatly shoved MOST of you? Into an Itty, bitty, teeny, tiny lil meat suit. Cramped. Small. It... it pinches. You're weirdly AWARE of your organs and fluids and you don't like it.

Everything is so... so FLAT.

So EMPTY.

And they want you to pay attention to some mundane, random ass, LECTURE?! While you can FEEL your BONES and the stars whisper their grief? While plants sing growth just a few rooms away? While the light of billions of lives flicker flicker FLICKERS in chaos and confusion, in need, hurting and hoping, all AROUND YOU?!

Fucking MATH!?

You're BUSY. Will be for the foreseeable future. Now excuse you, you need to steal a ship, three modified blasters, a crate of sea shells, and enough credits to get a show tooka license for your false identity. The Force says you need to go to a moon you've never heard of. Yes, you are four, why?

Honestly? It might save Anikin's sanity. Having to help a youngling cope with their MASSIVELY OVERLOADED FORCE CONNECTION. What's that? Can't hear you. Can barely hear anything! Me and Anikin here are basicly standing Right Infront of the speakers of this, the Force's Heavy Metal Rock Concert.

Heads pressed up all niiiiice and cozy, to that jet engine!

We can't hear SHIT over the ENDLESS CACOPHONY.

IT'S. VERY. LOUD.

What is it like? Oh, same as you. The Force wants us to help. EVERYBODY. All of them. Now. All at once. Just.... just save EVERYBODY and fix EVERYTHING and what is this "food and rest" thing you keep talking about? Keeps pushing an endless quest that is impossible to fufill.

Except WE can hear it.

And it's not SUPPOSED to be this loud.

........so that's fun.

#star wars #minji's writing #star wars oc #star wars promt

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star-girl69 · 1 year

Text

Hollow Bones

Natalie Scatorccio x Lottie Matthews x Fem!Reader

—-

sypnosis: The Antler Queen and her Prophet take notice of the lonely Yellowjacket in the corner.

a/n: au where coach ben didn’t burn down the cabin bc i’m not dealing with that ❤️ i hope you all enjoy!!

also i think i’m gonna do a part two of this but ENJOY THE YEARNING!!!!!!

warnings: cannibalism, swearing, mentions of hypothermia and death, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

To you, the wilderness has become a sort of home. If you forgot about the startling cold, the blinding hunger, and the rolling fear in your stomach- it was a peaceful place.

Especially in the summer, when you could sit outside and hear the leaves rustle with the scurrying of chipmunks and squirrels and know that food was at arms length. You think about that summer a lot now.

You think about the sun while you sit in the corner of the cabin, watching the other girls hug each other and laugh for warmth.

You think about the food when you’re patiently waiting in line for your scrap of meat. And while you ate the feast in front of you that was once a living breathing girl.

It’s not surprising that someone built a cabin out here. It’s quiet, besides for the wind and your breath.

It’s cold out here, even the wood of the porch you sit on, your converse digging into the deep snow in front of you, listening to your breath and the wind. You never attended one of Lottie’s ceremonies, feeling a little awkward every time you thought about it. But the sentiment was calming.

You had only joined soccer when you were little because your mom forced you. You faked sick to try and get out of it, but your mother thought your shyness was only something to break. And once everyone figured out you had a natural talent, you were placed front and center onto the field. And the more you grew, the more serious the teams were, the more you were valued.

And then it was easy to be in the center of the field- because you knew you wouldn’t fuck it up. You couldn’t. Something in your blood.

You sighed and stared at the bucket next to your feet, filled with things you didn’t want to look at.

With Crystal gone, and everyone’s newfound respect for Misty, the task of emptying the bucket had fallen to you.

You were good on the field. But much too shy to really form any real connections with the girls that could be useful out here.

And as you pick up the bucket, the cold metal sinking into your palm, leaving red marks, you remember that no matter how peaceful and beautiful the trees and the snow are, you’re still starving and cold. You still hate this place with everything in your body.

—-

In this place with no rules, you had made your own, and Natalie had become the master of them. The Queen.

In the weeks following the hunt and Javi’s death, the food in your stomachs, she had only solidified her reign until everyone looked to her without question. Sometimes it even felt like the only reason winter was here because she made it.

Even when they were at odds, Natalie and Lottie had still held a lot of love for each other.

Lottie had been something of a prophet before, and now that she had passed most the power and responsibility onto Natalie, she could truly become that prophet, that spiritual being.

And whatever they had done? They were good at it.

The snow crunched under your feet, and every bad moment in the place had been accompanied by that sound. No matter how beautiful the snow was, you were surrounded by it, suffocated by it and it’s frigid coldness.

Today was the day that most of the girls had been sent out to trifle through the woods, looking for any wood you can use to build up the fire. You had quickly peeled away from the rest of the groups that had formed, going off on your own.

You had already collected a good pile, and were making your way back to the cabin, feet crunching in the snow, singing songs in your head to keep you occupied. It was easy to wonder if you would ever hear a song again.

One thick branch rolls off from the pile in your arms.

“Shit,” you mutter, trying to figure out how to grab it without letting the rest of your pile fall to the ground. You’re thinking about leaving it when someone speaks.

“Hey,” the voice says, familiar, feminine.

You look around, your eyes tracing over the familiar fallen logs, the land, the girl crouching next to the tree stump where they had tried to murder Travis, wrapping a piece of cloth around her hand.

Blood in the snow.

“Sorry,” you mutter, looking between Natalie and Lottie. You feel a little guilty intruding on them. Even though they still dress the same as you, they still hold so much power, they’re still in a relationship, and you have no idea what they were doing out here. “I… I’m just trying to get back to the cabin.”

Natalie smiles, like she has this entire exchange, and nods to the right. “Cabin’s that way. You’re not with anyone?”

You almost wonder if she’s talking to you.

“Oh. No, no. I’m fine.”

She takes a step forward, still smiling in a way that makes your stomach flip, leaning down in front of you and grabbing the fallen branch.

“Sure,” she says sarcastically, carefully placing it back on your pile.

“Thanks,” you say, smiling politely before turning towards the cabin. You can feel two pairs of eyes on you as you walk back.

—-

After you came back to the cabin, your cheeks aching from the cold, your hands red from the weight of the branches sticking into you at odd places- throbbing from your palm, a splinter lodged right into the center.

You sigh, sick of the throbbing, sitting by the front window for the light, trying to get the tiny thing out of you. You know you’re sitting on the bench that Lottie claimed long ago. But it’s the only one by the window, and you can’t see in the rest of the dark cabin.

You’re so focused on trying to get out the splinter, almost about to cry in frustration, your brows furrowing together, so you don’t notice the door open. Don’t notice anyone coming back, until Lottie is sitting right next to you.

She looks at your palm, studying it, and you look up.

“Sorry,” you say, referring to how much space you’re taking up on the bench that’s come to be known as hers.

She shrugs. “Need any help?”

And after a moment, you nod anc put your hand into hers. No one had any sense to bring tweezers to nationals, so all you had was your fingers. Lottie’s nail’s were sharper and longer than yours. Maybe she could get a good grip.

She tries a fails a few times, and you watch, just waiting, feeling her skin on yours and feeling how nice this silence is, how nice it is to touch someone and be with someone.

Before this, you can’t even remember the last time someone touched you.

Finally, it slides out slowly, and she flicks the tiny thing onto the floor. You smile immediately at the relief, feeling your stomach flip as she grabs your hand and pulls it up to her face, making sure she got all of it-

She looks up at you with such a blinding smile you feel a little dizzy.

You’re not stupid. You have eyes. Lottie Matthews is beautiful… but she looks like a star in this moment.

“All gone,” she says, and you’re breathless, thanking her, feeling eyes on you.

—-

It’s been snowing all day. Enough so that everyone is stuck inside, enough so it’s freezing cold, enough to make everyone feel a little like they’re dying.

Snow is just another reminder that each day you’re here, you’re not there. Life is passing you by, like you’re frozen in it.

You’re missing college, where every adult in your life said you would come out of your shell, first boyfriend, first party, first everything. College was where your life was supposed to happen.

Instead, you’re here in the beautiful, cruel forest.

Boredom is slowly overtaking your mind, and without chores to do, all you can do is lean against the wall and stare out into nothing. The voices of the girls playing games, Truth of Dare, 3 Truths and a Lie, fading into the background.

“Hey, Y/N?” Gen asks. You look up, not sure what to expect from her. She seems a little sheepish. “Uh… the bucket is full. And… it’s your job.” She twists her hands together, making a point not to look at the windows.

But you look over at the windows, the snow whipping around. It’s nothing like the snowstorm all those weeks ago. And it’s not as bad as it was before.

“…Okay,” you say after a moment, gauging that you’ll be fine if you walk quick and keep your hood up.

“Thanks, Y/N,” she says, and you simply stand up, letting your blanket fall from your shoulders, a little excited to get out of this stuffy cabin.

You walk past everyone and towards the back, past Lottie and Natalie who sit together at the table in the back.

“Where are you going?” someone asks. You turn around and look at Natalie and Lottie, about to lean down and pick up the bucket.

Natalie seems to be cleaning the rifle, which is spread out over the table, taken apart, and Lottie just sits next to her.

How nice would that be? You think before you can stop yourself. How nice would it be to have company like that?

“Uh, the bucket. It’s full. And it’s my job to empty it, so…” you trail off, watching as Natalie scoffs. She looks towards the window. The snow.

“No,” she says after a moment. “You can’t go out there in that.” You feel a little bad for Gen, and you stand a little straighter.

“It’s not that big of a deal, I’m sure I’ll be fine if I just walk quick-”

Lottie smiles, a little in disbelief, and gestures towards the window. “No one is going to the cliff in that, Y/N.”

And your face must reveal how shocked and confused you are, because Natalie sighs and gestures for you to sit down in front of her. You do, after a moment, resting your hands on the table so you won’t start biting your fingernails or anything stupid.

“Listen,” she says. “You spend a lot of time outside, which is fine, but… you’re getting sick. You feel it? You can’t go out there in this. You can’t go out there at all, not until you get a little more color in your cheeks, until you just… get a little warmer.”

Lottie reaches across the table and wraps her hand around your wrist. You almost gasp in shock, so long since someone touched you so fast and so much, pressing your hand to your face.

“Feel how cold you are,” she says in that apathetic voice, emotionless, the one she’s adopted out here. You think about her yelling, laughing, cheering on the field.

When you look at the girl across from you, you can’t imagine her doing that.

And when you feel your own skin, how cold it is, how you’re freezing and dying right in front of everyone, and you can’t imagine the girl you are right now running across a field.

“Oh,” you mumble, and her hand falls, and yours with it. She squeezes your hand before letting go.

“Just get warm,” Natalie says finally. As if that’s easy to do.

—-

The next time Mari came around with the cards to pick the chores, a task which had gotten grim in the past few weeks since the hunt, she doesn’t hold out the cards for you.

“Lottie told me you’re gonna make sure the fire is going, and helping with the cooking.” She looks you up and down. “Don’t know why, but.” But she won’t disobey them.

“Okay,” you say simply, looking over at Natalie and Lottie at the table, who are talking in hushed tones, and they’re looking at you.

—-

And this is how it goes for the next few days. You sit by the fire, and when it goes low you put another log in it. You help Mari cook dinner, cutting up meat you pretend isn’t what you know it is, mixing it together with the last of the plants. Watching as it cooks over the fire, them watching you.

When they held a ritual one night, everyone cutting their palms, dripping blood onto a bone skull, Natalie had grabbed your hand in hers, cupping it so softly with her warm skin that you couldn’t even feel sick at the feeling of the knife dragging through your skin, the blood coming forth.

And if anyone noticed how small a cut she had made, if anyone had noticed how little blood you contributed, mo one said anything. No one could, not with you standing there like a deer in headlights, Natalie wrapping up your palm herself.

You spent late nights staring at the ceiling, knowing they were just above you in the attic, holding each other and sleeping soundly, warmer than you. Why did they take such an interest in you? Why did they watch you?

Your bones are cold and hollow, and you have nothing to give besides the scraps of yourself. You’re cold and cold and that’s all you’ll ever feel until you finally freeze in the corner of the cabin, away from the fire, alone.

The days are warm by the fire, Lottie and her window fo your back, the sun pouring in, but every night you’re freezing. Natalie told you to just get warm. But you can’t, not at night, not all alone, so far away from the fire.

And the more you feel their eyes on you, and the more you can’t imagine a life without their eyes on you, the more you just want them to take away the coldness in your bones.

You and Mari stare at the pot of water, cut up rations of meat on your makeshift cutting boards, ready to be dumped in. Still, it doesn’t boil, and you let out a sigh, sitting back on your heels.

“Add another log in,” Mari says, her eyes reflecting the flames of the fire licking at the bottom of the metal pot.

You reach around to Lottie’s bench, in between her and Nat’s feet, grabbing another small log and throwing it onto the fire.

“You guys do know that a watched pot never boils, right?” Nat asks, and you can hear the smile in her voice.

“Fine,” Mari mumbles, closing her eyes and sitting back. You watch as she peeks one eye open. “No, I can’t do it,” she groans, before turning around entirely to resist the temptation.

You laugh before turning yourself, your back pressed against the warm brick, your legs stretched out straight, shoes clicking together.

You listen to Natalie and Lottie whisper more, watch Taissa and Van play some weird game with a toothpick.

“Y/N,” Lottie says suddenly, and you look up. “That splinter you got a few days ago? It healed all right?”

You’re surprised she even remembers or cares.

Her eyes meet yours, and you swallow quickly, holding out your unmarked hand. You can’t even see the puncture left behind by the splinter anymore.

“It’s fine,” you smile slightly, and she smiles too, nodding, almost pleased.

“And you’re looking at lot better,” she notes. “A little less cold,” she muses, still smiling softly in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“Yeah,” you say, staring at your legs again, content to just wait.

Natalie nudges your leg with the toe of her boot. You meet her eyes, feeling the same as when Lottie looked at you, fire in your lungs, ache in you heart. She nods towards the fire.

“It’s boiling,” she says, loud enough for Mari to hear it.

“Finally,” Mari groans, turning around and putting the meat and vegetables into the boiling water, finally turning it into some messed-up stew.

But you can’t stop looking at Natalie. Staring into her eyes. Pinned under her gaze.

And she just smiles.

You look away, finally, only to lock eyes with Lottie again.

She has that same smile.

And that’s when you realize that they know what they’ve been doing the entire time, they know what they’ve been making you feel, they’ve been doing it on purpose.

Twisting the strings like they’re the masters of some dark game, weaving a spider web full of the yearning in your heart and your hollow bones.

Then you smile back.

—-

taglist:

@emilynissangtr

#lottienat x reader #lottie matthews x reader #natalie scatorccio x reader #yellowjackets x reader

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ofmermaidstories · 11 months

Text

You are five when your Quirk manifests for the first time, with Rinchan.

‼️📍 content warnings: implied major character death, death in general, in a myriad of ways (falling, head trauma, old age, drowning, suicide), im a little graphic for emphasis, grief and mourning. there’s also some light smut and implied underage sex.

Rinchan. Rinchan who watches you while your mother goes to work. Rinchan with her big, soft, crepe-paper arms; who holds you in them for as long as you want, singing you songs as she shells peas into a metal bowl—you clinging to her, placid as a koala, your legs dangling over her lap. Rinchan who is probably your most favourite person in the entire world—the entire world being your neighbourhood and your school and the nearby park, overgrown, and the overwhelming shopping centre a car ride away.

Rinchan. Rinchan. Rinchan who, when you are five, starts appearing before you naked and wet, her face covered in blood.

The first time it happens she’s still alive; the sizzle of her cooking coming from the kitchen just behind you as you sit on the floor with a pile of milk-chews in front of you, staring in frozen horror at this other her—shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O, everything about her soft and sagging.

You make a tiny noise—fear, caught in your throat, a baby mouse curled up—and then Rinchan, your Rinchan, Rinchan alive and warm and dry, calls out, “Are you okay, Baby?”

The Other Rinchan’s mouth stretches open further, like it recognises her—like it’s trying to say something back and you—

You wail in answer, scrabbling at Rinchan (living, alive) when she flys in, concerned, asking, “What? What? What is it? What’s wrong?” her soft crepe-paper arms around you tight as you sob into her neck.

She’s bewildered and a little frightened herself; but she hums as she rocks you, a warm hand stroking your back, soothing you both until your sobs are little more than wet snuffling, your hand curling into the fabric of her dress.

You loved her. You love her, still, after all this time. But that love doesn’t save either of you, and you are haunted by the other Rinchan for the rest of that awful summer: in the park, with your friends, Rinchan watching, mouth agape, from the bushes. Walking home, hand-in-hand with your mother, Rinchan behind you. Alone in your bedroom, at night, Rinchan standing over you as you watch the water drip down her skin. You start wetting yourself with the fear, whenever it happens—a response that quickly loses you those parkside friends and worries your mother and living Rinchan sick, the pair of them whispering about you when they think you can’t hear, their fear—your fear—condemning you to pull-ups, like a giant baby.

It doesn’t stop the end from coming.

Rin dies just before Halloween, when the shops are filled with green-faced witches and plastic skeletons that rattle and can’t frighten you, anymore. She dies alone, at night. A fall in the shower, your mother tells you in a whisper a couple of days later, red-eyed. You knew enough by then to be able to picture it: Rin, shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O—her face covered in blood.

Your mother holds your hand at her funeral, too tight, and you cling back and say nothing.

The other Rinchan never comes back. Rin never comes back—cannot come back, no matter how much you love her.

Others do, though.

It’s a parade of the dead, shuffling forward to a dirge only you can hear. You learn, over time, that it’s specific to people you either know or will come to know—people you have some kind of tie to, some bond, good or bad. When you are fifteen it’s your homeroom teacher Miss Aoki: her head and shoulder caved in, her right eye bulging out at you, unseeing. You’d been drinking a bottle of milk-tea when she arrived, the blood stark and jewel-like in the daylight. You do not touch milk-tea for ages, afterwards.

You no longer wet yourself in fear, but you cannot look your teacher in the eye for weeks—it ruins everything. You stop pausing after homeroom to talk to her, stop sharing the music that brought you together, unable to face her, unable to face the bemusement and then the tiny flashes of hurt.

You cannot warn her. What would you warn her about? The trauma to her head could’ve been a fall, or some kind of rock—an accident or murder. And even if you knew, even if you could pinpoint it, she would not believe you. You know that because you had tried, with the ghost after Rinchan—with Yochan. Yochan, a boy from your neighbourhood and once, once before your Quirk had come, a boy you had followed around like a guiding star. You and all the other kids, faithful to him above all. But when your Quirk came and you got weird, he got mean.

“You’re a stupid piss-baby!” He’d shout at you, cackling. The other kids hung back, unsure of how to treat you—and this was how you saw him, the other him, standing behind the others with a swollen, awful face, his Endeavour shirt stained with a creamsicle, his eyes disappeared under the red, weeping slits of an allergic reaction.

You tried. You tried.

“Yochan,” you’d whisper, “please—”

His face would twist in disgust though, any time you came near him. “Freak!” he’d hiss. “Piss-baby! Get lost!”

He’d run away, then, laughing to himself and telling everyone that you had threatened him (“Piss Baby wants me dead!”)—and you had shut into yourself more, haunted by the agonised version of him that only you could see, that would stand there in your bedroom and twitch, the last throes of death.

It came for him, eventually. More than half a year later, during a game of softball where he’d knocked over a wasp nest and stomped over to it, the others too scared.

(The teacher explains it in class the following week and you sit there, in your seat by the window, untouched by the light. Empty.

Miss Aoki dies during the war, caught in the shadow of a collapsing building. You go to her service without your mother to hold your hand, and pray for forgiveness.)

You can map your life by the bodies that follow you. A year after after Miss Aoki it’s Hiroe: the tiny, fierce old woman down the street who grumbles at you every morning. When her doppleganger appears across the street from the pair of you, thin and wan and gasping as the hospital gown slips off her shoulders, the living her angrily talking about her carnations, the only thing you feel is relief. She’ll be in hospital—someone will be with her. It won’t be alone in a shower, or sprawled out on her kitchen floor, blood pooling under her. It’ll be death, still, leeching the life out of a woman who pertly tells you that the colour of your coat doesn’t suit you, but it’ll better than some of the lonely things you’ve seen, you live with.

(But it’s not better at all. Hiroe’s son works too hard, his hours too long in the aftermath of the war, helping the restoration. You visit her after school, bright flowers in hand and some of the colour returns to her face as she complains that you’re already dressing her altar, but her son is never there—and she dies alone, during the night, gasping for breath.)

You’re cursed, you think; cursed to see death everywhere you go, in everyone you know. And then you meet Kouki and realise that your curse smears over your future, too.

Kouki. Kouki with his brilliant red hair, like autumn leaves in the sunlight. Kouki who laughed easily, who would evenutally come to keep his pocket full of those old-fashioned milk-chews, just for you. Kouki, who, before you meet him alive, you meet dead—floating mid-air before you during your walk home one night, his hair dancing around his face, his eyes unseeing as his mouth opens and closes, gulping for air that isn’t there.

You are seventeen by this stage. It had been a hard couple of years with Miss Aoki, with the war, with Hiroe. Kouki appears before you under a streetlamp and you drop your schoolbag, your throat siezing.

“Don’t,” you say to this corpse of a boy you haven’t met, yet. “Don’t—don’t you dare do this to me.”

He opens his mouth; a tiny silver fish darts out and you burst into tears, overwhelmed, your new ghost lingering with you as you sob on the street, alone in the night. You don’t even know him. You don’t even know him.

He transfers to your senior class at the end of the month.

By then you had gotten used to the vision of him, numbly, the drowned boy following you around like a harmless stray—keeping you company on your walks home from your part-time job. You had sat with him as he floated, you solidly on the ledge of a park, unwrapping milk-chews and staring out at the dark before you, undaunted and unafraid, the most haunted thing there as his tiny fish flittered about him, again and again, on loop.

And then he walks into class that first day, and you are—you are frozen, even as he grins at you, bright and undaunted and alive.

“Hey,” he says after class, too interested and too friendly. “You look a little frightened—you good?”

Considering you had woken up that morning to his vestige floating at the foot of your bed, you most certainly were not good. What you say instead though is a curt, “I’m fine,” which proves to be mistake.

His eyes—big and blue—brighten at the challenge, and he grins.

“Fujita Kouki,” he introduces himself. “What’s your name?”

In the daylight, the light of the living where he can soak in the sun and return it, Kouki’s—Fujita’s—eyes are warm, not the milky colour you’ve been haunted with. You should walk away, you think desperately, wavering; you should retreat immediately. But the daylight is seductive. You are seventeen and it has a been a hard year and you are tired of being afraid.

Your lips part, even as you hesitate. But when you give him your name, his smile widens, and it almost—almost—chases the ghosts away.

Kouki quickly becomes your best friend.

Best friend is not the right term; it’s not fair to him and what you know about him. It doesn’t capture the horror of seeing him walk into your classroom that first day, nor the fear that follows you when he’s late to meeting up, or stays home from school because of a cold, because he’s bored. But—

He’s easy going. Refreshing, like cold, sparkling lemonade in the hot sun. He’s friendly and quickly becomes popular with so many of the others in your class and he wants to—he wants to hang out with you, walk you home. With Kouki you’re not the Silent Weirdo that never interacts with anyone. With Kouki you laugh—all the time, like all he wants to do is make you happy. He fills his pockets with those milk-chews and walks with you in the evenings, pushing his bike alongside you, telling you about the way his little brother terrorises his parents and how his father has been wanting to go on a vacation for years, now—and you let him. You let him become apart of your life, you let him walk you home. You let him sink into everything you know, into your pores, the fabric of who you are. He’s the good morning lets gooo texts before you meet up for school. He’s the warmth against you as you sit side-by-side on your park ledge, no longer the most haunted thing in the dark but what you should have always been: just a kid, sitting with a friend. Being with Kouki is easy, too easy. You no longer see the ghost of him—suspended in midair, his silver fish. You just see him, have him—Kouki, alive, chuckling to himself as he hands you another milk-chew.

“My dad’s finally free,” he tells you one night. You’re sitting on your ledge, mouth full of the creamy chews—Kouki (living) before you, lingering close.

“Mmph?” You question, unable to quite pry your jaw open enough for real words.

Kouki laughs like you had said something funny, and despite yourself your stomach flips, pleased to hear it. He’d been subdued; unusually quiet, had been since lunch that day, when Keichan had confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. Keichan was pretty, effervescent—she laughed like he did, easily and among others who sparkled with her attention. On paper they were a perfect match and you almost wanted it—you wanted Kouki to be happy, however it happened. For as long as he could be.

But he had said no. You, sitting on the edges of the yard and picking at the grass, had been unable to help but watch in the same horrified, fascinated fear as everyone else, all of you silent. Keichan’s pretty face—shocked. Kouki’s red hair shinning brilliantly like fire, as he shook his head.

“Sorry,” he’d said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “I just—I don’t want that.”

In the evening gloom, he nudges your knee.

“The old man’s finally got that time off he wanted,” Kouki explains. You nod, swallowing your chews and trying to ignore how he moves forward—bracketing you, where you sit. “He wants to go fishing.”

“Oh,” you say, a little uselessly. Kouki’s hands are either side of you, distracting—the space between you warm, as he dips his head in closer.

You still. He’s always crowded your space but tonight in the silver light his face—normally so open, light—is afraid.

“You never tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, low, and you shake your head, emptied of words. It wasn’t true—you told him about the books you read, the songs you heard. The way you liked cupping sunlight in your hands because it made them glow, made you feel like you had a different Quirk entirely. You had never told anyone else that.

Kouki’s eyebrows tighten; pull. Frustrated, maybe, even as his hand balls itself into your skirt.

It pulls you closer to him, just a little. Your hand comes up between you—your fingers tracing the fold of his jacket pocket.

“You smell like those milkchews,” he whispers, and your heart is in your throat even as your lips part, his parting in echo as he watches them—

—and you don’t know who pulls who in first but then you are kissing, a hand cupping your face, anchoring you to the moment, to him as your fist tightens into his jacket. You sigh into the cool of his mouth and can almost taste the way he smiles before he presses in harder, hungry.

He pulls away after a moment; only to press more kisses, soft and careful, against your mouth, your nose, your cheek, laughing when you make a tiny, annoyed noise.

“You’re dumb,” he tells you, low, pressing another kiss against your hair, and then another. “And I’m gonna take you out and watch you eat those dumb sweets and make you tell me everything you’re thinking, forever. Until you’re sick of me.”

Your heart lurches. Forever.

“I could never be sick of you,” you tell him, the ache reopening inside of you.

Kouki grins, pleased and so, so alive; his brilliance softening to a glow as he dips his face close again, tracing your nose with his.

“I mean it,” he says, quiet. Promising. “You’re gonna have to chase me off.”

You try to stay in the warmth of him, the light and life, clutching at him, letting him kiss you again, soft.

But there’s a sob in your throat. And when you open your eyes, breathing in as Kouki kisses your jaw, your neck, his spectre is there—mouth gaping open, as a tiny, silver fish darts out.

(You beg him not to go, when his father announces the boat he’s rented, for his fishing trip. The man’s never been out on one before. Kouki has never seen your desperation, your fear, not like this and he almost stays, brows furrowed—but his little brother is excited. His father too. He buys all three of them matching fishing hats.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against the back of your neck, when you’re curled up together in your tiny, childhood bed. The house is quiet; you have it to yourselves, the sunlight dappling in your room, filtered through the tree outside. “I’m a good swimmer. Don’t worry.”

He presses a kiss against your shoulder, his fingers slow, tracing figures in the wet touch of your underwear. You breathe him in and to reassure yourself he’s right, that he will be okay, that you will always have this.

He’s gone by the following week. A storm. Kouki was right—he was a good swimmer. But his little brother wasn’t, and the love that made him go in the first place was the same love that made him search for him, endlessly, after their boat was capsized.

You go to the joint service. Kouki, his father, his little brother. His mother is held together by an older woman, desolate. In a row in front Keichan cries silent tears but you—

You stand there and you stare at Kouki’s portrait, his smiling face. He will never again soak in the sunlight and reflect it He will never again wait for you, his pockets filled with your favourite sweets. He will never again kiss you, with the cool press of his lips, the taste of his laugh behind them.

Fujita Kouki is gone. He is gone, slipping away—taking the you who believed in hope and a future where you could be happy with him.)

The years slip away. One, then two, then three and then four and then five. You move to a bigger city; and then you move again. You work in offices, department stores, a warehouse once, washing carrots—anything that will pay you, pay the bills. You keep to yourself and your coworkers lose interest in trying to keep up small talk with you and you don’t form any kind of tie, good or bad, that could manifest before you, rattling in death.

Kouki would never forgive you for this bleak existence, you think, if he could see it. But wherever he is it’s not with you, not on this plane, and so you keep your head down and when one of your ghosts does come to you, you grit your teeth and ignore it.

Even in isolation, they find a way to haunt you. You start seeing the clerk from the 7/11 you stop in to and from work, his neck snapped, and you avoid the store for three weeks before telling yourself it was stupid of you, that maybe you could say something—only to find someone else there, when you walk in, the guy already replaced.

The new hire at the office you work at starts appearing before you, swinging, his throat and face mottled as hands claw at a rope that’s not there and you—you thank him when he brings you a coffee, and try to be a little kinder, try to watch as he blends in with the others, laughs among them, the crack underneath his smile not showing.

He bungles a client, six months into working there. Your boss chews him out in front of everyone, the guy taking it with a silent, shame-faced nod, and when you try to say, “You worked hard, mistakes can happen to anyone—” he only bows hurriedly, already backing away.

(he doesn’t come back, and two weeks later his desk is cleared.)

Head down, keep to yourself. Another year passes. And then another. And then your curse rears its ugly head one final, terrible time.

You are waiting for the lights to change in the middle of a busy street, on a cold, bright afternoon, when you first see him.

You’re not paying attention; staring into the crowd on the other side of the street, thinking about what you had in the fridge at home and then he’s there, in your line of sight, his face twisting in fury, in grief, as he reaches out, shouting something—

And then there’s a flash of light, blinding and sharp and he is gone, startling you even as the crosswalk starts to sing, people moving around you like water around a stone as your heart races.

No, you think weakly. No. Not again.

He doesn’t return and you stand there, in the same spot, even as the crosswalk blinks back to red.

All your life, your Quirk has worked one way: showing you the death of someone you already knew, for better or for worse. Not someone famous, not a stranger. Kouki had been an—anomaly, you thought, desperate. Some freak tie. Japan had gone through so much in those years during and after the war: reports of abnormal adolescent Quirk growth had spiked, at its worse. You had always thought that maybe yours had been apart of that, that that’s what Kouki’s ghost had been. A result of stress, or your loneliness. Something, anything. And you’d only grown more sure of it when it didn’t repeat—

Until now.

You get home that night and in a fit of anger tear through everything, up end it all. Your clothes, out from the wardrobe or the basket, strewn along the floor. Your pots, clattering thunderously throughout your kitchen. You scream, pitching book after book across the room at your couch, the covers bending, pages tearing. You wouldn’t go through it again, you wouldn’t—

You curl up against your kitchen island, sobbing. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do this. Not again. Not ever again.

(But your heart’s already sinking. Already tender with the hurt, remembered and preemptive. His hair had been golden in the light—like winter sun.

When your hiccups calm, you look up—and he is standing over you, his face twisting again. You shut your eyes but the flash is bright, even then. Nuclear.

When you open them, he’s gone.

“Please,” you whisper to your empty apartment. “Please don’t do this to me.”

But it’s only the silence that answers you, the absence of mercy or comfort and you shudder, your tears nothing but salt in your mouth.)

Your plan, eventually, is simple: just ignore your newest ghost, when you finally meet him.

It should be easy. Even though he was a Pro-Hero he was also a famous one—and how often did you run into famous Pro-Heroes? They always had something to defend, always had someone to save. You just had to keep living your life, squarely and safe and you would be fine. You would skirt past each other and he would live or die just however a Pro Hero should.

A month passes. And then another. You begin to think maybe you’re safe; and then you’re not.

“If everyone can line up, then that’ll make everything go smoother,” your boss calls out, echoed throughout the office. Below on the street is the firetruck—overseeing the drill. You peer over the ledge of the window in worry, trying to count the firefighters out: seven that you could see. If you saw anymore than that while out on the street you were just going to close your eyes and wait it out.

Your boss calls your name—and when you glance to him, startled, he gestures with his megaphone, sheepish.

“Can you run and grab my laptop case for me?” he asks, already half out the door. “You’re closer, and I have a feeling we’ll be down there for a while.”

“Yeah,” you say, already standing. You leave your own things at your desk—as you’re meant to—and dart to his office, partitioned by glass. When you turn around, the case in hand, the office is empty—your boss’s megaphone calling out down the hall, down the stairway, leaving you alone in the wake of it.

You go to the window again, to count the firefighters. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—

You freeze. There’s an eighth figure there, standing solidly with them, talking, his arms crossed. A Pro Hero—dressed in black, with bright orange details.

Your ghost, you think in alarm.

He looks up at the window and you jerk away, startled. He shouldn’t be able to see—the glass was tinted—but his face is suspicious and you clutch your boss’s case to you tighter, heart thumping.

Don’t give him a reason to single you out, you think desperately—you hurry to join the others but they have left you on an empty floor, already making their way down the three flights quickly, leaving you and your noisy footfall as you race down the emergency stairs—only to have the door to the lobby thrown open roughly before you could even reach it.

It bangs against the wall; leaving you to stare in silence as he fills the doorway fully, glowering, stopping you in your tracks.

“The hell?” He asks you, roughly. Under his mask his eyes flicker over you, over the case in your hands, unimpressed. “Why didn’t you evacuate with the others?”

You can only shake your head, tucking your hands around the case tighter. Even having his spectre repeat and repeat in front of you—it doesn’t compare to the space and heat of him in the flesh, taking up a doorway. He’s more solid now, more real and when he shifts, just a fraction, you step back in fright.

Something his eyes—ink red under his mask—don’t miss, narrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and mercifully your voice is calm. “I had to grab something.”

“You ain’t meant to take anything,” he points out, barely civil, and you duck your head into a nod—his jaw tightening in response.

You’d rather this, you think, wincing. The brittle patience, barely hiding his rippling irritation. Anything was better than the despair that’d been playing over and over in front of you.

Pro Hero Dynamight—Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight—scowls at you, jerking behind him. “The extra with the megaphone is doin’ roll call.”

He means your boss. You look at him, curious, and his mouth tightens. It doesn’t thin the curve of his lips, though, and when you realise you’ve noticed that—

You hold your boss’s laptop closer. “Okay,” you say, meaninglessly.

Dynamight only moves out of the way when you go to squeeze past him, your jacket catching against his suit as he grunts.

“Wait,” he commands, annoyed. You stare ahead and will everything within your mind to empty as he pulls you free from the catch of one of his grenades—you mutter a thank-you and don’t look back as you hurry to the glass doors, the light, the open outside away from him and the heat of his space.

(You hide behind your coworkers as your boss commends everyone for their examplumery speed and when one of the firefighters steps forward to walk everyone through the basic dangers of an office building fire it’s Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight who stands behind him, solid and real and flinty eyed, as he stares everyone down. Someone in front of you giggles; he glares at her until she stops, bowing her head in shame and letting him look directly at—

You. Standing at the back.

His mask moves; his eyebrow raised. You lift yours in a helpless, silent, question. He frowns, like you’re speaking two different languages and morosely you think to yourself, so much for not giving him a reason to single you out.)

It’s just one off-chance meeting, you tell yourself. Just a weird little moment to establish something there, and make you feel a little guilty when you hear about his death on the news.

Only—

Only it keeps happening.

Perhaps it’s your karma, for never saying anything to the ghosts that had followed you. Or maybe it’s one last laugh from Kouki, his evil delight in teasing you manifested. Maybe it’s just plain old bad luck—but whatever it was, it meant you kept running into Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight over and over again, humiliation on repeat.

He’s—there, in his Pro-Hero gear, at the konbini you get your morning coffee, scowling as the cashier stammers through the burglary you’d only just missed. He’s—crouching amid a group of excitable kids, his grin for them sudden and sharp and bright, distracting even in the middle of a busy street. He’s—walking past you as you startle, safely tucked away into a coffee shop as he patrols past, barely sparing the café window a glance.

He is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. And in turn his ghost is too: the blinding flash in your mirror, as you try to brush your teeth, squinting. The nuclear eruption that startles you awake, in the darkness of your room. The silent twist of his face as he reaches out to you, over your counter as you eat your cereal.

It’s worse than it was with Kouki, you think bitterly. When Kouki the living appeared in your life, Kouki the ghost receded. Now you were just being haunted on both ends, both versions just as fleeting as the other.

Your only consolation is that you are, truly, a nobody to him. Just another face amid a city full of them. For all the tiny run-ins, the awful timing, you manage to wriggle away quickly, without attention—or so you’d thought.

You’re walking home under the city dusk: a universe of lights below you as you trek up the winding path that leads home. Work had been awful. You’d seen your vision of Dynamight no less than three seperate times that day, the furious twist of his face, his silent shouting—his disappearing. He was taking you with him, you thought in despair. No other ghost of yours had been so persistent. Distracted, you’d bought a supermarket bento for dinner—some nectarines, for dessert. As you walked the bag swung low and slow, too flimsy; when it splits everything in it splatters, and tumbles.

You swear, skidding as you try to chase the fruit, rolling away as they gain speed—

Stopped by a black boot, it’s orange detailing almost glowing as it scuffs along the ground, blocking them.

Everything within you settles; flattens as you straighten.

Under his mask, Dynamight arches in an eyebrow.

“You good?” He asks.

You shrug, and hold up the remnants of your plastic bag—drifting like a bride’s veil, between you.

The Pro-Hero tsks, crouching, picking up your nectarines. “Weak crap.”

In the twilight the black of his uniform makes him a dark void—until he stands again, holding out your fruit to you. You frown, and watch him mirror it, his wide mouth turning down, unhappily.

“You afraid of me, or somethin’?” He asks, rough. His face is pinched—it makes him look like a little kid, trying to tough out a pout and your stomach squeezes with the guilt. The last anyone would see of him would be a flash of light—and then Japan’s dynamite, Japan’s explosive anger, would be gone forever.

And here you were—making him feel bad in what could, quite possibly, be his last days.

“No,” you admit, opening your handbag to take back the nectarines. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He squints at you, disbelieving.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Then why do you keep runnin’ away like you’ve shit yourself?”

Oh, you think, he’s disgusting.

“I do not,” you say instead, crossly, dropping to the ground grab the remains of your bento.

Dynamight grunts in dismissal. “Yeah you do. Every time I’m walkin’ down a street, or I have to drop into some shitty little place—you’re there, turning tail. If you ain’t on laxatives and you ain’t afraid, then what is it?”

“I’m prejudiced against all Pro-Heroes,” you tell him, stoutly. “And you keep foiling my plans for world domination. Why do you notice, anyway? Why are you here?”

His boots scrape against the path, suddenly loud between you, as he moves in closer.

“‘M on patrol,” he tells you. “It’s my job on patrol to notice weirdoes—and you’ve been the weirdest.”

“Congratulations!” you tell him sourly, skittering around the solid wall of his presence to a nearby trash can. It’s already overflowing, but you squeeze your own rubbish in and turn back to the Pro, as much apart of the world around you as the dark undergrowth of the pathway, or the city lights behind him.

He’s so real, you think angrily. And in days, weeks—maybe months, if he was lucky—he’d be gone, just like that.

“Now what?” You ask him, ask yourself. “What happens now?”

Below, a train screeches past. Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight shrugs, indifferent.

“Depends,” he says. “You gonna keep being weird?”

You almost laugh. You don’t, though, holding your handbag with your nectarines closer. You are standing in the last, dark moments of a twilight world with a man who will die, God knew when—weird was probably the least you could be.

“Maybe,” you say instead. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The Pro-Hero shrugs again. “Then I do my job, and keep an eye on ya.”

He’s not looking at you when he says it, shifting awkwardly like a school boy and you—

You let your shoulders sag. You are an adult, no longer seventeen—but has been a hard life, and you are tired. Tired of being afraid. Of always being at the edges of your own life.

“Okay,” you tell him, tell yourself. Tell your ghosts, wherever they’re gathered. “I surrender.”

Dynamight snorts, kicking out a loose gravel and when he glances back to you his face has softened from its suspicion—waiting, instead.

A new pattern starts.

He walks past the coffee shop when you’re there and squints at you—acknowledgement you return with the ugliest face you can manage, the woman at the table across from you snorting into her mug.

You walk past him one weekend, surrounded by fans, and he looks up and sees you—bright eyes flickering over the fizzing orange juice in your hand, your wide sunhat, not hiding the startled surprise on your face—and grunts at the kids around him, holding up his hand as he tries to squeeze out, to you.

“Your hat makes you look like a frilly grandma,” he complains, loudly, as the fans follow him, encircling you both.

“I like your hat!” One girl says, brightly. She’s wearing a GEMG:D shirt with his scowling face under his title scrawl; you touch the brim of your hat, self-consciously.

“Thanks,” you say, self-conscious. She beams at you, even as Dynamight starts jabbing at you, trying to get you to move.

“I gotta get grandma home,” he tells everyone, as the group groans. “S’gotta have that nanna nap.”

You let him bully you. You let him pick you out, every time you cross paths. You don’t fight it—and when you start seeing him out of his Pro-Hero gear, his weaponry, your heart tightens in on itself in warning.

“You hungry?” He asks you, one evening. You’d been walking together, the pair of you having finished work at the same time; you in your neat, office wear, your leather handbag. Dynamight in sweats, a loose shirt, a dufflebag over his shoulder.

The sky above you is pink, the moon a silver crescent. A manga moon, you think to yourself; overlooking a love story.

“Yeah,” you answer him, eventually. “I’m starving.”

He nods, resolutely not looking at you—though when you glance at him his jaw tightens, head turning away.

“Denimhead introduced me to a place near here,” he says, gruffly. “They’re decent, ain’t wankers. And they’re cheap. Private.”

He should be doing this with anyone else, you thought to yourself, desperately, watching your shoes. Anyone. Someone who wouldn’t be counting down the days, the weeks, the months.

“I’d like that,” you say instead, softer. “I’d like to go.”

He doesn’t risk looking at you but his smooth face reddens, even as he passes a large hand over the back of his neck, like he could rub the colour out.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s go then.”

It’s a bistro; a tiny pocket of a place only marked by a single, hanging sign of a smiling cow, the sizzle of steak permeating the alleyway. Inside the lights are low—Dynamight stands back to let you sit at the bar first, watching hawkishly, before he follows, the bartender smiling at you both.

“They gotta menu,” he says, nodding to the mirror behind the bar, where a sparse few dishes are written. “Otherwise if ya trust me I can—I can suggest shit.”

His gaze flickers over your face as you watch him in turn. He was so—here. Alive. With every tiny movement—the draw back of his elbow, the flex of his hand—you feel it, too aware.

“I trust you,” you tell him.

He grins—sudden and pointed and startling a smile out of you too, even as you try to bite it back.

(He orders blistered tomatoes, the size of doll heads, dressed in olive oil and a sweet fig vinegar, a soft cheese that bursts over them. There’s toasted baguette—slathered with bone marrow, garlic butter. There’s steak cut like it’s been shared among cavemen, several inches thick and still on the bone, bleeding even as it sizzles. The bartender puts down a little plate of fine, perfectly ruffled pasta in front of you; dressed in pesto, charred greens, tiny flowers and you have to share it with your Pro-Hero, who’s nose wrinkles when you try to offer him a speared garnish.

He is warm and he is close and he smells like the char of a grill and soap and a sweet wood layered over warm skin and neither of you move to touch each other—

But his leg presses against yours, and stays. Your hand slips over his by accident as you move to help yourself to dessert, a soft creamy dish with fruit—and he turns his palm up, catching it. Squeezing your fingers for a brief moment before letting them go, unmooring you only to anchor you again when you walk side-by-side, back to the train station, the warmth of him reassuring, and inescapable.)

Days. Weeks. Months.

You walk together, have dinner sometimes, lunch others. He complains about the other Heroes he works with; you listen, side-eyeing him when he then mentions feeding them, making meals at the agency because everyone was useless—

He doesn’t poke at you to talk, but you start sharing anyway. The book in your handbag; the gossip the others at the office always had.

“Tell ‘em to either deal with it or shut up,” he suggests, and you laugh despite yourself.

Days. Weeks. Months.

He goes away on a mission across the country—after a villain the news was calling Hazard. He’d been responsible for the complete destruction, the levelling, of a factory, a shopping centre, slipping away before anyone could scramble through the rumble and detain him. It rains the entire time Dynamight is gone, leaving you to walk home alone, an umbrella over you, as the news loops over about flood warnings.

(When he comes back it’s an overcast day; finally dry. He’s waiting for you at your usual crossroad, now, and when you see him you smile, his eyes following the curve of it before flickering over you.

“You good?” He asks.

“Better now that you’re back,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

You were. You had stayed up every night he was gone, on your phone—watching the news, the tags, waiting for his name to appear, footage of the flash that would take him. There’d been nothing; no arrests, no collision.

But your Pro-Hero’s face softens, just slight, and you realise that he’d read something else in it when he says, low, “Yeah. I get it.”

Days, weeks, months. Your heart thumps to it, reminding you and nervously, you shift away.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, wanting to fill the space between you with anything else.

He watches you skitter away, trying to encourage him to move; his eyes ruby.

“Yeah,” he repeats and in relief you turn away, all too aware of his stare, at the back of your head.)

Days. Weeks. When you finally kiss it’s at his table, in his home; empty plates in front of you.

“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you tell him honestly, quietly, the smears of your tiramisu the only remains as you stand, to take your plate to the kitchen.

“You’re always tryna—dart away,” he says suddenly, still sitting.

You startle at the look on his face—serious, soft mouth trying not to pout.

“I just—I just want to help with the dishes,” you say, but his brow furrows, pinched, and when he stands it’s carefully, slow, the coiled draw of a bow that shivers, waiting.

“I can’t get a read on you,” he admits to the quiet, his knuckles against the table. “Can’t—guess at whatever’s goin’ on in that squirrelly head of yours.”

You swallow, and run your hand across your forearm, too aware of the soft edges of your sleeves, of your Pro-Hero following your fingers.

“There’s nothing,” you whisper, and he snorts; boyish, disbelieving. It makes him less of a threat and more of a man—real, living, breathing, with his own thoughts and his own feelings.

“Like hell there is,” he swears, stepping closer. It brings his warmth in; the smell of coffee, of his cologne, aniseed sweet. “Whatever you’ve got spinnin’ around in there keeps you worlds away from this one. And I ain’t—”

He stops himself, his mouth parted around the rest of his words as his eyes flicker over your face, your lips; the way you can’t breathe for his nearness, hesitating in the space between you.

“—I ain’t gonna let you disappear,” he finishes, low. For a moment he traces your nose with his, and when your lashes flutter he sucks his breath in, tight; his mouth on yours, warm and sudden. A press. And then another. And then another and then the kiss is deepening and you tilt your head as hands fist themselves in your hair, keeping you close even as he pulls away, tiny, to pant against your lips. “Hah—”

You kiss him back. You take him back. Your hands are tight in his shirt, too flimsy to hold him and you whine and you can feel him snarl—or smile?—against you, his teeth hard against the corner of your mouth, scraping your jaw as he nips at your neck.

The plates on the table rattle as you both slide to the floor. You gasp as his mouth meets the bare skin of your thigh, then again as his thumbs hook under your underwear, the cool of his floor a shock. He moans, muffled; free of your ass your underwear drapes, wet and warm against you and he mouths at it, a heavy kiss as you gasp again at his tongue through cotton. He kisses deeper—you gasp again, and again, until you’re panting, tiny ah, ah, ahs that have him squeezing your hip, nosing the wet slop of your underwear out of the way so that his mouth meets your skin and you both moan.

(You are unravelled, on the floor—your clothes pooling, your breasts freed, your legs splayed. His hold is firm and warm and you are heavy-eyed, even as you gasp again, under him. You want to drift away—you want to stay, hissing as his blunt nails claw along the meat of your ass.

He lifts himself to meet you for a kiss—his mouth and chin shiny, his eyes glimmering as his shoulders ripple, panther-lithe as he leans over you.

His mouth is warm. You hum into it as he curses, tasting him—coffee, sex, you—as hot hands smooth the small of your back, the slip of him inside of you so, so easy and wet.

Even in the rut, the thrust, you are safe. You arch off of the floor like you’re trying to escape it, escape into the solid wall of him, waiting with another kiss, long and hard as he thrusts in deeper, deeper still.

You curl your legs against him, your heel in his ass. He grunts, then bites at your chin and your laugh is broken off into a moan as he ruts in hard.

Days. Weeks. When you come it’s sudden, starflash hot; you gasp for a final time and your hero is there to nose against your wet skin, to kiss you, his own undoing a groan, a sigh into your mouth.

There are no ghosts, lingering afterwards. Only him, panting; only you, your legs slipping together, your lips parting. Only him, only you.

He presses a kiss against the side of your head, almost forcefully.

“Wasn’t too shit,” he says, gruff, and you laugh around your breathlessness, anchored and alive.)

Days, weeks. Days.

Your Hero asks you stay over; you do, waking up in sheets that smell like him, that smell like sex, like you. You give yourself the moments—let yourself kiss his shoulder in hello, when he’s brushing his teeth. Lean into his touch, when his hand smooths up and down your waist.

“The others wanna meet ya,” he says one night, grumpily. “Said something about a lunch—I told ‘em s’up to you.”

At the counter, you hesitate. Who knew what you’d see, around them, the country’s frontliners. And it would only make this death, the one you were waiting on, worse—

But your Hero is determinedly not looking at you, his face pink, and you realise—he wants it. He wants you to meet them. Them to meet you.

Oh, you think, stricken. This was going to hurt.

“Okay,” you say. “I’d—I’d like that. Let’s do that.”

When he grins it twists his whole face into childlike brightness. You smile back with a wobble, looking at him and only him—ignoring his ghost behind him, shouting at you before the flash.

Days. Day. It’s a bright Saturday and you were meant to be meeting his friends, at last, the city busy as you hurry to the department store. There was a store in the food hall that sold small, perfectly round cream cakes, with glossy coatings and made to look like fruit—you wanted a tray of them, to take.

The sales clerk is handing you the bag, sealed with a ribbon when the shouting starts.

“RUN!” Someone screams, a flash from the back of the store blinding you. It’s the call, the break through the spell. Everyone panics, shouting as people start to bolt for the stairs to the street outside.

You’re almost torn away from the store—the girl serving you yelping as people barrel past, the force of them moving you, too, until the girl shrieks—trapped behind the counter.

“Wait!” You say, but a man almost shoves you aside and you drop your bag, your cakes, pushing against the others that follow him until there’s a gap. The sales clark is wincing, behind her case, but there’s a ominous rattling above you and you scream, “Come on!” at her, your hand held out as everyone on the floor screams.

She sobs as someone smashes into her counter, shoved up by a crowd and you wedge yourself out of the way and scream again, “We have to go! Now!”

You’re almost blind in your panic, wheezing as your elbowed in someone else’s desperation—but then she’s scrambling with the hatch, reaching out to you too and when her hand is in yours you run, following the crowd.

You’re separated in the push—there’s more screams, as more and more flashes fill the room and someone, an older man, almost claws at your face to get in front of you.

Outside there’s a wail of sirens; someone on a megaphone, shouting for surrender.

The explosion is small. It doesn’t feel like it—everyone tumbles to the ground with the shock wave, the smoke quickly filling the space and trying to tunnel out the same way and someone grabs your elbow and tugs, begging you to move—

You follow them. Her, the girl from the cake stand, her face puffy and bruised. The pair of you crawl over people, stand, and when you break out of the glass doors and into the daylight it’s almost a relief—until you see the ring of Pro-Heroes, police officers, all tense.

Your stomach swoops. The Pros, the cops closest to you are ashen-faced—looking beyond you, to whoever is now holding you in place with a calm, heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Just put your hands up,” one of the cops calls out, over the megaphone. “And surrender. There’s no need for hostages.”

Behind you, broken glass shifts. The hand on your shoulder squeezes tighter, a warning, and you stare out at the crowd, trying to empty your mind even as the clerk, still next you, sobs.

Day. Moments.

Beyond the crowd you can hear his sharp voice, his shouting and you squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to know, not wanting to see—

But everything within you is attuned to him. The world falls away into white noise and all you can hear is your name, being screamed furiously, and you have to look.

You blink away your tears, and he’s there, two other Pros trying to hold him back as he swears, elbowing out at them; his face twisting in fury, in grief. Your eyes meet—and he surges forward again, shouting something to you as he reaches out, an officer barrelling into him as nails dig into your shoulder—

And then there is a flash of light. Blinding and sharp.

And you are gone.

#‼️📍 content warnings at the beginning of the post 📍‼️#tw: major character death #tw: death #tw: bludgeoning #tw: wasp stings #tw: drowning #tw: suicide #tw: grief/mourning #tw: smut #bakugou x reader #prompts and drabbles and other things #merms apology tour

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hauntedraggedyanne · 3 months

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more character quirks

take these as seriously or as unserious as you want

1️⃣: VERY specific habits

I’m not talking about doing their laundry at 8:30 and eating breakfast at 8:50. No. I’m talking about a movie they watch every time they have a bad day at work. I’m talking about the routine an artist/writer character makes in order to get an idea, maybe by walking around the block seven times or staring at a particular photo/artwork. Maybe the wizard can only make potions while singing cheesy 2000s emo songs and it annoys everyone else in the party to no end. The more specific and random you make this, the better. Think about if the habit is noticeable in any way, or if it’s something they do all by themselves or if they’re comfortable enough with the people around them to share. Your choice.

2️⃣: Song/music genre choice

The deeper you go into specific music genre niches, the more potential this has. Picture you have the whole team sitting in the car, and the driver picks their playlist, only for everyone to groan in agony because they only listen to 70s hippie music and they retaliate by saying that ‘they’re the driver, they get to play what they want’. Music can tell a LOT about a person, and you don’t have to lean in on stereotypes, because I don’t think anyone will get tired of the preppy, girly, rainbow character to give someone their headphones only for the other characters to be terrified at the screaming death metal. How willing are they able to listen to music they don’t like or appreciate, in turn possibly showing how well they work with other people with different viewpoints?

3️⃣: Friday night routine

It’s been a long week of work/school, and now finally it’s Friday. I’ve never met a single person who doesn’t treat Friday like a mini-holiday, and that can apply to fiction as well. Do they go all out and party with everyone they know? Or do they sit down to order pizza at home while they watch their favorite program? How willing are they to stick to their schedule, because if someone offers them to do something else, do they try their best to work with the other person or do they just refuse flat out? While this might not be the BEST reoccurring piece in your story, early on, it can tell a lot about someone, as well as giving the audience a sense of how they spend their free time, and what they do to relax or loosen up after a long week.

Yes a lot of these are VERY specific, it’s up to you to figure out how these little traits and quirks can showcase more important characteristics down the line, and also giving your audience a little piece of the character to remember so that they stand out in a sea of other unique characters.

#Writing advice #writing tips #creative writing #fiction writing #writing #Unique characters #writers on tumblr #Character advice #character prompts #writing prompt

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kerubimcrepin · 3 months

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Liveblog: Wakfu Season 2 (episodes 13-16)

Episode 13 - The Night of the Thirsters

Proof Amalia and Joris are not close friends number 829342345: if she knew the alcohol he drinks and what he considers "a clean environment to live in" she'd get scared.

WoT twitter would kill Amalia.

I know it's more likely that both alcoholic and non-alcoholic bamboo milk exists, but the thought of everyone being a-ok with Yugo underage drinking makes me giggle for some reason. Ruel would fucking do that.

Are your villains 1. indestructible, 2. want to consume something that could theoretically fix them, 3. in the process, inflict a fate worse than death upon their victim, who 4. becomes one of them?

...Necromes were a missed opportunity. Shoulda called them Wakfu Thirsters instead.

Episode 14 - The Voice Thief

It's always sad to see the way the world has been devastated by Ogrest's Chaos.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

...This says:

Her singing is so cute!

She is now fully bamboo milk-pilled. GOOD.

New Krosmoz music lore: We already know that vinyls and their players exist, as well as the fact that rock music exists (due to the fact that The Blues of a Hypermage (parody of the IRL song The Blues of a Buisinessman) exists).

Now we have the confirmation that metal bands are real.

Also, electric guitars are also real.

Mics are also real. (I am totally not noting all of this down because I want to write a "Joris, Kerubim, and Atcham go to karaoke" scene in one of my fics in the future, nuh-uh...)

Hummina hummina hummina bazooooooooing! eyes pop out AROOOOOOOOGA! jaw drops tongue rolls out WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF.

It's very rare to see, within the show, characters who differ from their usual class skin and hair colours, which is a shame. (I am 99% sure this is an iop due to his clothes and his hair pointing upwards)

Text behind Eva: rien ne sert de payer il faut en fuir / there is no point in paying, you have to run away

Text behind Amalia is too shielded to transcribe fully.

This is written in Brakmarian. It says:

This means that, metal music is stereotypically a Brakmarian form of music (big news: spoon found in kitchen)

I usually don't point this sort of stuff out but, man, this tavern is really well off. Not only is there a lot of food, there are also huge hot baths...

Also, once again, canalization and running water are real in this setting.

I choose to believe that this bubble thing is the Krosmoz equivalent of vaping because it's funny.

[blushing] Would!

Jpop is real in this setting, and someday, I will be able to prove to you, that Joris is a fan of it, using some proof besides "well ecaflips are kind of japanese-coded sometimes" and "it just makes sense."

Good rooms in taverns like these not only have hot baths but also fruit, candles, and drinks... [starts writing down "Joris, Kerubim and Atcham go to an expensive tavern and start talking about some convoluted topic, with vivid descriptions of delicious fruit-eating, how good the wine is, and how soft the bubbles in the bath are" in my fic self-indulgent scene ideas document. I can live my vacation fantasies vicariously through those three men]

Of course metal music from Brakmar is about the fact that the apocalypse caused inflation and that it's Good.

This says:

ourse

olle

m al

venu

Episode 15 - Wabbit Island

Hhh she is a very good artist.

[guy who is insane voice] This means that if I ever want to use the expression "canary in a coalmine" in a fic it'll be "tofu in a coalmine" instead.

The word Sayonara exists in Krosmoz which implies that some sort of fantasy Japanese is real. Big win.

Episode 16 - The Cursed Fountain

While I usually talk a lot about character parallels between Yugo and Joris (these men who had to grow up far too fast will someday commit acts which no human being can be forgiven for in the name of goodness—-) there is a lot to be said about parallels betwen Eva and Joris.

They're both artistic, kind people who try to appear logic-driven (and sadly, they are both basically the wranglers/babysitters of their entire adventuring groups).

#ro liveblogs dofus #krosmoz #dofus #wakfu #wak2

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x--daughters-of-darkness--x · 2 months

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The 100 songs that changed metal (by Metal Hammer)

74. Within Temptation – Ice Queen (Mother Earth, 2000)

In the 90s, symphonic metal was more a glittering garnish than a scene in itself, something bands from Therion to Celtic Frost would sprinkle on their music to make it sparkle. And while the genre would start coming together into something more tangible towards the end of the decade, it wasn’t until a few years later that a song would emerge to put symphonic metal on the map.

That song was Within Temptation’s Ice Queen. A complete volte-face from the gothic doom of the Dutch metallers’ 1997 debut, Enter, it appeared on the follow-up, Mother Earth, in a flurry of lavish arrangements and fairytale histrionics. Buoyed by vocalist Sharon den Adel’s crystalline voice, it pushed metal towards a new frontier, quickly whipping up a buzz in mainland Europe. Ice Queen can take credit for being symphonic metal’s first major hit, pushing women to the forefront and influencing a brand new generation of bands.

81. Evanescence – Bring Me To Life (Fallen, 2003)

Evanescence’s debut single, Bring Me To Life, turned vocalist Amy Lee into a megastar. Arriving in 2003, when mainstream music was dominated by hyper-masculine men and overly sexualised pop stars, with her billowing long skirts, corset tops, arm socks and steely self-confidence, Amy redefined what a female artist could be, becoming a role model for millions of misfits and dreamers everywhere.

Despite its crunchy guitars and a rapped verse, courtesy of 12 Stones’ Paul McCoy – which Amy has since said she was forced to add by their label – Bring Me To Life’s cobwebby, goth fragility also brought something fresh to nu metal’s dick-swinging party, extending the mainstream’s flirtation with the genre for a little longer – as of 2019, it’s sold more than 3 million copies and has passed more than a billion streams on YouTube and Spotify.

82. Arch Enemy – We Will Rise (Anthems Of Rebellion, 2003)

We Will Rise was a huge song, not only for Arch Enemy but for the new generation of 21st-century melodic death metal they spearheaded. Guitarist Michael Amott had already laid down the melodeath blueprints with Carcass, while Arch Enemy themselves had already made three albums with singer Johan Liiva, but neither they nor anyone else had made an anthem quite like this.

As well as propelling the genre as a whole to greater heights and popularity, it provided a bigger platform for Angela Gossow – a hugely influential figure and one of the first prominent female vocalists to not only try but absolutely nail an extreme metal style. “Her emergence as a metal vocalist was, without hyperbole, revolutionary,” Svalbard’s Serena Cherry told us recently, and we’re not arguing.

84. Nightwish – Nemo (Once, 2004)

Nightwish didn’t invent symphonic metal, but alongside peers Within Temptation and Epica, they popularised it and packaged it to the masses. By 2004, the Finns had already established themselves as a major player in Europe, but with the sumptuous Nemo, they broke through on an unprecedented level.

No longer a niche concern in the geeky corners of the metal world, symphonic metal, in all its lavish, overwrought glory revelled under a global spotlight. Nemo’s fantastical magic, sparkling piano refrain and stirring melody has endured – it’s still the band’s best-known song – but its lasting image comes via its gothic music video, and then-singer Tarja Turunen singing in the snow in a blood-red coat. Nemo showed metal at its most fragile and beautiful.

95. Babymetal – Gimme Chocolate!! (Babymetal, 2014)

If elitists were tearing their hair out at the likes of Ghost, Bring Me The Horizon and Limp Bizkit being considered ‘metal’, then they might as well have just reached for the clippers for this one. The sight of three young Japanese girls rocking choreographed moves and singing sugary-sweet, J-pop-infused choruses about chocolate over heavy metal riffs was as shocking as it was delightful.

Babymetal hadn’t just broken the mould for metal, either; they’d given the West a fuller glimpse into the uniquely Japanese phenomenon of idol culture, and given the cutesy world of Kawaii a bigger global platform than ever. Overseen by band mastermind and producer extraordinaire, Key ‘Kobametal’ Kobayashi, Babymetal were unlike anything our world had seen before: equal parts hyper-polished girl band and full-on heavy metal experience, with their mysterious Kami Band backing musicians as formidable as any ‘proper’ metal band you could name.

Cynics moaned, but with the likes of Rob Halford, Metallica and Corey Taylor throwing in their support, the trio quickly transcended their ‘gimmick’ tag to become a legitimate force in the modern metal landscape.

99. Spiritbox – Holy Roller (Eternal Blue, 2022)

Spiritbox were already firmly established as Ones To Watch by the time Holy Roller, the first single from Eternal Blue, exploded like a hand grenade in the summer of 2020. Once those first, colossal riffs rang out, however, it was clear that the Canadian troupe hadn’t just levelled up considerably – they had successfully repositioned themselves as one of the most exciting and vital bands of their generation.

Backed by a memorable video inspired by Ari Aster’s disturbing Midsommar movie, Holy Roller was the perfect crystallisation of the last decade-plus of evolution in metal, packing djent, metalcore, nu metal and more into a massively crushing (but seriously catchy!) three minutes. “This song was never intended to be a single,” explained vocalist Courtney LaPlante later. “Our mission statement was, ‘Let’s make the most ridiculous song that we can.’”

#sharon den adel #within temptation #amy lee #evanescence #angela gossow #arch enemy #tarja turunen #nightwish #babymetal #courtney laplante #spiritbox

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hotheadedhero · 2 months

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Hi! I was wondering if I can request bayverse Donatello where he finally manages to have enough courage to ask out reader but because he took to long reader is already dating someone? I want the angstiest angst that you can make 😇 also can it be like a one shot?

AN: Oh, honey, you're singing my tune. Had to consult with my angstiest of demons for this one, so I hope it succeeds 😜 (Love your pfp btw <3)

Consequence of Dilatory Behaviour

Donatello x Reader

Warnings: angst

If anyone were to ask Donatello why he loves you, he wouldn’t know how to answer. At least, his words wouldn’t do him justice. The answer he could try and provide wouldn’t come close to demonstrating those reasons. You just seem to radiate this celestial vibrancy everywhere you go, and his calculative mind sits on pause just long enough for him to bask in this full-body wonder that comes with your presence. Day in, day out, you’re an entity with his heart on hold.

This is why he commits any energy he has spare to making you happy. He wants you to experience the same joy he gets when you do as little as enter a room. He almost makes it his mission to get a good laugh out of you and when he makes you laugh louder than anyone else, he gets this sense of accomplishment. Either he’s imagining it or you genuinely find him that funny. In hindsight, you do share a similar humour. You share a special bond altogether. It’s how and why you’ve always been regarded as a coordinated duo straight from the get-go. Wash and Zoe. Vision and Wanda. Mulder and Scully. Wall-E and Eve. Much like some of these couplets, he desires to move past friendship and onto something more. He only wishes he had the grit to speak on it.

Donnie can’t even blame the situation on being a thinker. Yes, that’s true but he’s still proven to be a man of action. He was the first of his brothers to dive out of that plane without a chute. He blindly tested mutagen on himself without thinking about its ramifications. There have been so many near-death experiences that he’s willfully jumped into and, yet, this is the one instance that he can’t. Any time he entertains the idea, a nameless force pulls him back into a chokehold.

He’s living up to the stereotype that turtles are slow-moving. Slow and steady wins the race? Seems not. It’s hardly a race because he hasn’t even started running yet. This is a solo song he’s been singing to himself for the last year, which sounds unpleasant - hence why he never attempts to put it into words - but that couldn’t be further from the truth. You’ve given him so much without realising it: the gut of a lion, the tranquillity of ocean shores, the ease of being someone he can be around without any worries.

To put it simply, you’re poetry in motion. He’s always been a fan of literature but poetry has become a lot more appealing since you’ve been around. He still can’t quite explain why it is as magnificent as it is, why it feels like there’s something hidden deep beneath it that he hasn’t yet discovered. There are just so many beautiful intricacies to these words and how they paint pictures that illustrate the writer’s feelings. He spends some of his nights trying to put his own verses together, taking this inspiration and running with it in his mind, such as how you’re the comfort of dusk adorning the captivating light of a sunrise. Perhaps it’s best to leave it to the professionals.

One famous poet in particular has caught his attention the most. When he thinks of you, he thinks of a quote by Alfred Lord Tennyson, ‘If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever’. He can’t manifest this into reality and prove it, however, which is why he chose to make a flower out of spare metals. A garden can’t continue for eternity but a flower made out of unperishable materials can at least live close to such; something to personify his endless love for you.

An argument might be made that he’s obsessed and maybe he is. Or, less obsessed and more so enchanted to the point of devotion. Maybe he’s a hopeless romantic at heart. Although, he’s beginning to think it isn’t hopeless after all. As of late, your hand lingers on his arm just a moment longer than it normally would. You laugh with a more elongated chime. When you make eye contact, there’s this lazed glassiness that makes him warm all over.

You seem to be a lot merrier. Donatello has always revered you as a bright spirit but you’re extraordinarily more animated than usual. Whatever it is that has you so additionally elated recently, he’s become gluttonous for it. It feels selfish to be indirectly reaping the benefits of your happiness but he finds himself unable to help it, nor can he stop it. You always enrapture him with everything you do and this brilliant ray of sunshine you emit has him drawn in like a moth to a flame. His rose-tinted glasses have him convinced that it has something to do with him, so naturally he has to fly closer.

That’s right. After months of pining, he’s finally going to shoot his shot. First, he wants to add some final touches to the flower he’s made. It isn’t all that big - probably as tall as the width of his hand. All he’s had at his disposal is whatever he found lying around the sewer, so he’s put the effort into making it look as pretty as possible. Contrary to belief and despite his anatomy, he’s actually incredibly delicate with his touch. He has to be with the kind of work he does. The last little details are proudly set and, like clockwork, you come bounding into the lair and head straight for him. He’s quick to hide it in his pocket before you have a chance to see.

And as you stand opposite one another, you both blurt out, “I’ve got something to tell you,” in unison, Donnie somberly, you energetically.

The two of you laugh at each other and call a jinx before laughing again. Your elasticated smile makes the turtle’s face hurt with one of his own. What could possibly have you so fidgety with positive hysteria? He supposes he’s bubbling with a frenzy himself but he’s intrigued to find out why you’ve come storming into the lair.

“You go first,” he offers.

“Okay, okay, so I didn’t want to say anything just in case it didn’t work out but I’ve been seeing someone,” you ramble ecstatically. You only stop for a dramatic pause, to catch your breath, before excitedly proclaiming, “And now we’re dating!”

Seeing someone. Dating. The words make it to Donatello’s ears but the reality is that he’s now drifting. White noise blares so loudly that everything starts ringing. He can hear every breath that passes through his lungs, every beat of his hurting heart as it plummets to his stomach. His eyes shift out of focus and even you in all your magnificence disappear for the first time since he’s known you.

To be dilatory is to be slow to act. So absorbed in his procrastination, he failed to see this creeping possibility until it unveiled itself to him at the last second - the second he finally gained the courage to speak out. In this same second, he realises the source of your upscaled mood. Of course. That makes so much sense. More sense than him believing it had anything to do with him.

“No need to be so shocked,” he hears your voice again, followed by a laugh. “I’m not that undatable.”

“No, no! It’s not- no, just-” There might as well be an earthquake with how much his lips are trembling. He tries to catch himself before he falls, before you can catch onto the source of his stuttered mumbling. Donnie sucks in a breath along with a laugh in a futile attempt to lighten up. “I’m just surprised you kept it a secret this whole time.”

Your eyes shine up at him with your smile, so brightly that it stings his vision rather than enlightening him as it usually would. “I wasn’t going to take that chance and jinx it.”

“Congrats," he manages to breathe out. "I really am happy for you."

“That means a lot to me, D. Thank you.” Your fingers land on his forearm and he tries to keep it from shaking. Luckily, you pull away before his muscles convulse and wave your hands up. “But that’s enough about me. What was it you wanted to say?”

His hand clenches in his pocket and he can feel the flower’s metal creaking against his tendons. It wouldn’t be fair to say anything now. He could live with risking rejection because you could still be friends. He would have spoken his peace and things would resume as normal. Now? It only stands the chance of making things awkward. There’s no point in trying to dismiss your question either. He’ll only make himself seem suspicious and you’ll badger him for information. You have your ways and, unfortunately, he has a hard time keeping things from you when you get investigative.

Donatello pushes the middle of his glasses closer to his face and discourages your curiosity with a warm, trusty smile. “It’s not nearly as exciting as your news but I found a website for that movie you wanted to watch.”

“That’s great!” It seems you’ve taken the bait. “We can watch it tomorrow?” Your hands clasp together and you blink up at him sweetly. “I just wanted to give the news quickly before my next date tonight.”

“Sure. Have fun, okay?”

You nod intermittently and give him a quick peck on the cheek before darting off. As you take your leave, every step feels like a manifestation of you getting further away from him. It isn't as though you're disappearing from his life but you might as well be. He just can’t seem to get a hold of himself. How did the last couple minutes of conversation beat him down so much? How could he have been so foolish to let you slip through his fingers like this? If he were more straightforward, brazen, or charismatic as his brothers, he wouldn’t have dawdled on the idea. He would have just gone for it. He would have taken action. This could have been different. You could have been his. Or, at least, he could have let his mind be rid of these thoughts.

He takes the small flower out of its hiding place, now misshapen from being cramped up in his pocket and his deathly clutch. It still holds its meaning. His love for you shall remain eternal. The only difference now is that this undying love comes from a broken heart, missing pieces and bent out of place just like the little flower. The idea of throwing it away is marginally tempting but he’d feel too guilty, as if he was trying to throw you away. He couldn’t do that even if he wanted to. Even if would guarantee easing his heavy chest, he still couldn’t do it. You mean too much to him. You always will.

Instead, he gently places it on his desk where it will forever remain to collect dust. Tennyson comes to mind once again with his arguably most famous quote of all, ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’ He would like to take consolation in these words but it isn’t as though he had the proper chance to love you or show such. The rug was swept away from him before he even set foot.

Donatello slowly descends onto his chair, staring at the flower, and in this moment, he thinks he understands the dark underlays in all of those poems he’s read. He reckons that the layer of mystery he was so fascinated by has finally revealed itself to him. His eyes fall shut and his head rests back, and he allows the silence to swallow him whole as he solely expresses to himself and only himself as he has always done this whole time.

Love breaches the stronghold of man’s chest, but melancholy is the derisive sensation of emptiness that comes with knowing this love has nowhere to go.

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt bayverse #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt x reader #donatello #donnie #donnie tmnt #bayverse donnie #donatello x reader #x reader #angst #request #answered

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taintedcigs · 8 months

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modern!steve popular culture hcs:

loves taylor swift. this is obvious. 1989 is his go to album when he's getting ready (especially during his hair care routine). he thinks style and wildest dreams were written FOR HIM. is not afraid to sing the songs out loud and sometimes annoys u a lot by singing them in a really high-pitched voice. sings "he's so TALLLL and handsome as HELLLL, he's so bad but he does it so well." at you with a wink and pointing to himself, fully believing it's written about him, you can't convince him otherwise.

rom-com lover. through and through. he used to hide it but he just can't anymore. loooves 10 things i hate about you, how to lose a guy in 10 days, and notting hill. he also enjoys all of katherine heigl's iconic rom-coms.

LOVES MUSICALS. mamma mia is in his top 3 on letterboxd (he loves abba SO MUCH). and he cried watching la la land and regularly listens to the soundtrack.

he can't watch horror movies for the life of him. he got creeped out by the idea of coraline and still can't get himself to watch it. (robin dressed up as the other mother for halloween and steve SCREAMED.)

he's one of those people WHO loves watching movies that are so bad that they are ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECES. also have a feeling he laughs really hard at those 00s parody movies. idk why. it's what bonded him and eddie. and they have a marathon of bad parody movies when they're stoned tf out of their mind. they just told me.

he loves ANYTHING pop. (he loves fantasize by ariana grande and has begged u on countless occasions to do the dance on tiktok and only send it to him) and he loves himself some alt-pop and occasionaly indie stuff like lana, lorde, arctic monkeys, death cab for cutie, sufjan stevens, inhaler, franz ferdinand, band of horses and boygenius!!!

also random but he'd be such a trashy reality tv fan.... watching ALL of them with you... love island, jersey shore, housewives, dANCE MOMS, any other horrible netflix reality tv... like at first he scoffs at you for it, but then he does that dad stance. just standing and watching whatever you're watching, then finally after a few hours, he takes a seat next to you, fully immersed in the experience, not even letting YOU look at your phone, and he's sitting on the edge of the couch, staring at the tv like a man-possessed while critiquing the show and doing commentary like they can hear him.

the most "metal" he can listen to is literally fall out boy. (eddie keeps making fun of him for this. you are now sending metal songs to steve, day by day, trying to get him to like it, just so that eddie won't make fun of your poor angel bf anymore<3)

this is self-indulgent but he's a twilight fanboy through and through... team edward but he feels bad for jacob (sadly... you have an argument about this each time and once you bring up jacob claiming a baby he's dead silent), has a tradition w u to watch them every fall. he acts like he's seeing it for the first time each time u guys watch it.

likes harry potter (fuck jkr forever, u guys don't engage in the content and u 🏴‍☠️ both the movies n books:)) bc he grew up with the movies but if you're a harry potter nerd, he'd poke fun at THAT A LOOT. HE'S A LIL TEASING ASSHOLE. "oh that wasn't very slytherin of you!" "i thought you were supposed to be brave, huh? aren't you a gryffindor, babe?" he taunts with a loud chuckle, enjoying the way you narrow your gaze at him.

#steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington blurbs #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #modern!steve harrington #steve harrington drabbles #LOOK THESE ARE MY HCS OKAY!!#IF U DONT AGREE FEEL FREE TO DO UR OWN #NO NEGATIVITY THANK YOUUUUU

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 1 year

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MORE Cute Spider Society Headcanons: Extracurriculars and Sports

Another list of headcanons I have about Spider Society and what it's like on campus. This time - Music, Sports, The Society Newspaper, and other fun things to do on campus

Heads-up: There's light mentions of Spidersonas below - including my own lovely Disco-Spider Diane. All creators tagged at the end

[This post has a lot of links in thise - ALL lead to other tumblr posts. Most of them explain callback jokes, additional headcanons, or the information about the Spider-person being named. All the Spider-people mentioned here are free-to-use headcanons, unless otherwise named. Those who are actual Spider-sonas that my Spider-sona knows - their first names maybe used, or their sona introduction will be linked. Basically if their normal name isn't given and/or theres no link, have at it]

LETS GO

The Spider Music Scene goes CRAZZZYY

Thought it was just Hobie?

Of course not! There's MetroSpider too

In fact there's a whole wide range of accompanying 'Spider-*music genre*'

There's Spider-Goth who plays gothic death metal, DiscoSpider who plays funky pop, Spider-Grunge into 90's garage grunge, RrrriotSpiderrr who plays Riot Girl Grunge

There's even SpiderSync

Which is NYSNC. But they're all Spider-people. Like Justin Timberlake as Spider-man. They roam as a group

That's because Metro isn't the only celebrity Spidey either -

There's SpiderB, which is just Beyonce but a Spider-person. Britney Spiders, which is Britney Spears but a Spider-person. Doja-Spider, Doja Cat. You get the gist.

Like imagine being in the Spider Society campus food court and turning around to see BEYONCE

And she's like 'yes.. It's me'

and it's literally just like the normal Beyonce with albums and everything excepts shes also Spiderwoman

And gay. And has a rapper wife named Jane-Z

Every year there's a collaborative album from all the musical Spiders

Called 'The Yearbook'

A lot of the songs are about the direct struggle or experience of being Spider-people

With some really good party songs thrown in for the Spider-raves

Hobie and Gwen's band Wicked Webs appears on the album, along with any Spider who plays an instrument.

If your spidersona can carry a tune, they're on it.

AND IT'S FIRE

You can buy the album at the Commissary.

The first week at campus EVERYbody is playing it. In the common rooms or the food court or training rooms -

They'll just play this album that's by Spider-people for Spider-people

If your spidersona starts singing ANY part of a 'Yearbook' song some without a doubt will respond with the next lyric. everybody knows the words

Spidey people really treat Hobie like a rockstar - and a lot of them go to his concerts

It's kinda a huge unspoken thing on campus that a LOT of people are willing to break rank and head to 136 without permission, just to see Hobie on Saturday nights.

Even people who don't hang with Hobie or don't necessarily know the real him

They still go cause his shows are THE PLACE to be.

Spider-people pour into his tiny venues in London, all out of uniform, and they mingle with the punks in the crowd while Hobie goes Miguel Mode on stage

It's a place where they can all drink (if over 18) and party (any age, Hobie gotchu ur safe with him) and enjoy themselves

And as a result, Hobie is a HIT with people from his universe

They know that Hobie's shows are always lit and full of cool people you'll never see anywhere else

The after-parties are CRAZY (party on all six walls), and it's really common for Spider-friends to link up and head to each others universes after the show - getting into their own shenanigans

There's MANY times Ansi, Asa, Hobie, and Diane have gotten themself into some shit while lit after one of Hobie's shows

And every Monday people are talking about what they get into after the show, the crazy stuff that popped off in the after-parties

MetroSpider, Pavi, Diane, Hobie, & Margo throw the BEST parties

Miguel knows about this, and he lets it slide - for the sake of morale (and not causing a riot if he banned it)

There's an international Spider community on campus

You thought Spiderman India and Spider-UK was it? NO

Spider-Canada and Hobie are other noticeable ones , but there's more!

There's the Peruvian 'IncaSpider' named Moche, a Paris born SpiderFrance, a SpanishSpider, SpiderItaly

A Mahayana Buddhist ThaiSpider, VietSpider, Spiderwoman Brazil. The list goes ON AND ON.

There's a large group of Indigenous Spider-people

Some Spider-people are even born in countries that don't exist in most universes or live in universes that live in countries that USE to exist

My favorite international Spider-person is the Australia Spider-person who is simply named Australian Spider

People constantly joke they're no dangerous than the average Australian Spider

And there's also a Spider Olympics!

And the events are DESIGNED for superhumans

Diving from buildings into swimming pools, Track meets where people are running at like 80mph, Web Gymnastics, Contact Sports

Ice Hockey gets REAL intense - and of course SpiderCanada is a team captain

As does Roller Derby. Wanna see superhumans fucking WRECKING each other? Go watch Spider-Derby, the players have derby names that play off their own Spider-names. So it's like a triple identity.

And once a year, they all throw down - and even if you aren't THE Spider of your nation, you can still participate if you want -

Like Hobie can enter for Britain but he'd rather die than do anything for that country

It's the one place you can compete and fully push your spider powers without danger - plus it's with your friends

They do give out medals. But it's mainly bragging rights.

Pavi earned his first gold medal in the diving portion for India only three months after his bite. Which is a record for The Society

However the Spider-person with the highest number of medals is Lego-Spider-man. I don't know how.

Sports are HUGGGEEEE on campus I cannot stress this enough

Everyone knows The Society LOVES baseball (shoutout @theevoh12)

But they also love football too (European - not American)

The Society also has TWO soccer teams that constantly play against each other

They play 4 wall soccer in which the field extends the length of a room, up the walls, and across the ceiling - leaving two walls for spectators. This is usually just called 4wFootball or 4WF

This is played with extended rules - and a modified ball that can stick and roll along walls

MANY people on Society backs one of the teams.

And before a game there WILL be arguments without a doubt

You DO NOT insult someones 4WF

You can get team jerseys in the Commissary

WebSlinger Patrick O'Hara is Captain on one team. No, the horse does not play

(I want a jersey with Patrick's 4wFootball number)

Imagine being a Spider Society Athlete and seeing other superhumans wearing your jersey and giving you thumbs up - WHOLESOME

Games can be played 'Plain' or 'Full'

A 'plain' game of 4wFootBall uses basic spider abilities such as speed, strength, and reaction time - however special abilities are not allowed

A 'full' game of 4wFootBall uses basic spider abilities as well special abilities and passive tactics. If Mile wants to go invisible in a 'full' game - that's permissible

Miguel's venom is NOT however. Can't be paralyzing other players. Abilities that effect the other players are off limits, so no electro powers

'Plain' games are played out-of-suits, in team uniform

'Full' games are played in-suits, with the team uniform over it

Betting on teams and players is against the rules

But also Lyla runs an underground betting system and fantasy 4wfootball league. Don't tell Miguel.

There's other activities with solo athletes, and like Hobie being a famous rockstar on campus - there are star athletes too

Tennis is a huge one. Volleyball too. With an extra long field.

The serves, spikes, and hits can be genuinely dangerous. They're managing swings and hits that can top out at like 110 mph (just above the world's fastest baseball pitch)

But because everyone are Spider-people, its fairly easy to follow in real-time

Star-Spiders are usually tennis players, gymnasts, weightlifters, and track stars, but there's a couple others too.

Pavi is a star gymnast, swimmer, AND A 4WFOOTBALL PLAYER - he goes REALLY hard at extracurriculars

(And he's surprisingly competitive. Like insanely competitive. Pavi will scream at the top of his lungs cause he scored a goal. He loses a game and as soon as they end the game he wants to practice cause he HAS to win next time)

The boy is a perfectionist.

One thing that's SO annoying is Venom Evaluation Checks

If you come in acting weird, too bold, or uncharacteristically agressive - You get sent to Spider-psyche so they can make sure you don't have venom.

Not my fault. Raimi-Peter (from the Raimi movies) pulled up to HQ one day in all black and started dancing all weird and saying cringy shit like 'Now dig on this'

And Jess was immediately like "Yeah, no. We're not digging on anything, sir."

There's a newspaper you can write for

Spider-Scrawl is the Editor-in-Chief of The Daily Web who is a GREAT boss by the way

And it's a MUCH better gig than working at The Bugle

So if your spidersona has worked for Jonah - submit a resume, you might get a call

Theres things like a Canon Event Advice Column, which Diane writes for

A news section that details the Craziest News across the multiverse

If your Doc Ock pulls some crazy shit and turns into a giant octopus - oh yeah thats going Front Page. Everyone on campus knows and you get to gloat about fighting a giant octopus

There's a Debate Section that updates with hot topics that only exist between Spider-people like:

'Is it okay to genetically replicate another Spider-persons organic webbing so you can recreate it for your mechanical webslingers?'

'Masks: Hair out or No? Spider-man India and DiscoSpider weigh in'

'Is the Go-Home machine ethical?'

'What's Miguel's favorite flavor of empanada?'

As you can imagine, these coversations across campus can get REALLY heated

There's a lot of entertainment

Yes, there's a movie theatre on campus. They play movies from across the Spider-verse, and they're a GREAT way to see versions of films you know - but different.

Watch GhostBusters except it's from WebSlinger's world and everyone is cowboys and they catch the ghosts with lassos

Other hits are shown on the big screen too

Barbie was a HUGE hit on campus. People coming in with pink outfits OVER their suits

And it's really cheap in terms of credits

So people like Gwen who started out living on campus, or who are apart of the Educational Study Program have nice things to do in their off-time

And, The Food Court is THE BEST

You think they only have empanadas - think AGAIN

Every culture, every time period. Even weird ass food that you wouldn't even want but is a staple in other universes.

They even have a FISH N CHIPS SHOP (Malala loves it there)

So Hobie can get his nasty ass beans on toast without leaving HQ

The Food Court is almost as big as the Training Wing, and there are so many places indoor and out to eat lunch

And it doesn't stop there -

There's a store (based on credits not money) and a general kitchen.

(As well as separate kitchens in each dorm wing)

You know how in SpyKids they have those meals that like GROW to full size in the microwave???

Guess what NUEVA YORK HAS THAT MY FRIEND

Missing McDonalds or a specific chain? - Just go to the Grocery in HQ and get a capsulized happy meal.

It grows to fill size in the expanders in the kitchen

Just pick the meal, put it in the expander, dip your ID card, and BOOM

Olive Garden with breadsticks on the side, Waffle House Waffles, McDonalds WITH international food options

Plus the grocery is fully automated by Lyla so you don't have to talk to people if you don't want to

But she will see all the nutter butters and pringles you pick up and she will judge you for it - it's between you and her but she's judging you

Miguel wants members to actually like the place he made

Because he finds no point in having unhappy, unsupported, unstable Spider-people out in the field -

He wants them at their happiest and healthiest so he tries his best

And he hardly partakes in any of this, but to him that's fine. It's not suppose to be for him.

He does enjoy seeing a full food court or walking by the training rooms and hear all the sessions going on

Hearing people talk about the new movie on campus

And sometimes you can even catch him humming a song from 'The Yearbook'

Imagine how smug Hobie was when he went 'bruv - are you tapping out my guitar notes rn?? you thinking about my song?'

Miguel can never live it down

Miguel DOES follow 4WFootball though -

He is actually one of the coaches for 4WFootball - he's a GREAT coach. Hardheaded ass fuck sometime but GOD he loves the Spider's on his team they're his favorites but he tries not to show it

And finally -

Yes there's a nursery and kindergarten on campus, specialized for Spider-kids regardless of if they have powers.

Peter doesn't let MayDay run free (all the time). MayDay attends the Itsy Bitsy Spider Daycare, and so will Jess's child

Sometimes while walking around HQ, you'll see little toddlers in single-file lines, holding lunch boxes as they follow Spider-Teacher on a field trip to another universe - to learn about the wonders of the multiverse

Their favorite trip is to WebSlinger's world, all the kids get to be cowboys and Patrick shows them ponies and lets them feed his horse Widow

There's a breakroom for people the multiple Spider-Teachers, Spider-Professors (Educational Program), Spider-Psyches, Spider-coaches, the list goes on and on

(Though Society Administration like Jess, Ben Reilly, and yes - Hobie (don't ask how hes just that good) have a separate breakroom from the educators and coaches and such )

And those breakrooms are funny as HELL It's like the Office back there.

This is really long :) Here's a photo of Hobie

Bye.

_________________________

ALSO ALSO ALSO : All the people, OCs, and other things I mentioned -

Ansi - by @spidey-bie Asa - by @suchholydebauchery Disco-Spider Diane - by ME @theevoh12's amazing baseball concept Spider-Scrawl by @whaliiwatching

Thanks for making HQ so rad!!

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