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chebyreksan · 10 months

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Weeeell it’s

Feel like you fic (part 2)

————

Not finding him, the girl returned to her room and plopped down on the bed

,,Gosh, why me? no Caine, no answers. It’s F[censorship]G-’’

- come on, M[censorship]R! Ugh!

Shouting into the pillow, she raised her head to the bedside table and saw the box that ringmaster gave

- ..hmm

Taking the box, she sat down more comfortably

,, please, let it not be something dangerous. Please, not something dangerous..’’

She closed her eyes and opened the box.

- one..two.. three!

She opened her eyes abruptly. Inside was a small music box with a pattern of beautiful flowers with the inscription "moon flower".

- wow..- whispered, raising her eyebrows

Jester took out and carefully opened the box, from which music began to play. The melody filled the room, making her forget about many things, holding her breath, afraid to miss this moment. This music. This feeling.

The figure of a grand ballerina was spinning in the box and there was a plastic floor under it, through which someone can see how the mechanisms were spinning. She didn't think about anything, just lay down on the bed listening to music and realizing how much calmer she felt from this, as if she had returned to a place where there were no worries and it was warm. Somewhere far away from this place. Where was home felt

After that incident, everyone noticed Caine's strange behavior. He began to glitch more often, to wonder more often and try to hide it, which did not come out of the word at all. Everyone gathered in a circle when Caine left them again, "for something"

- Maybe he caught a virus?-ragatha asked thoughtfully

- Don't you think it has happened before?-zooble crossed their arms

- Mmm, I don't remember this, although he’s rarely been so thoughtful. Almost never!- said King, which surprised pomni because he sounded much more reasonable

- He's just going crazy, guys. Soon he will go so crazy that he will surpass Kinger- jax smiled-and he will take us to his swamp

- Jax, for God's sake shut up- ragata said with displeasure

- And-and if it's because of his new image?- gangle said softly

Everyone abruptly quieted down, looking at the gangle and she began to nervously rub her hands-ribbons

- w-well, this has never happened before, ri-right? Uh, as soon as he changed his appearance..then he became i-ill

- ..if we think about it like that-beginning of Ragatha - then it is quite possible. It sounds logical, at least

- I also think so now- pomni nodded

- Wow, gangle said something clever for the first time!- Jax laughed and zooble grabbed him by the neck, which made him groan

- D-Do you really think so?- gangle said in surprise

- Yeah, I can't think of much options for such behavior-Ragatha nodded and looked at the stage, not far from which they were sitting - it remains to figure out what to do

Zooble let go of Jax and he cleared his throat. Everyone fell silent, as if they expected someone to make the first move. And someone did.

- ..maybe we should ask him first-Pomni asked uncertainly

- Mh, as if he would just say-zooble rolled their eyes, adjusting their horns

- Hmm, maybe quite, if there is someone to trust-Jax seems to have come up with something- come on, guys , who does he trust most?

- K-Kinger?- gangle looked at the Kinger and he screamed

- What am I?!

- That's another question, who trusts Kinger?-rabbit raised an eyebrow

Except for Jax himself, everyone raised their hand and even Kinger, although he probably didn't know what it was about

- Oh come on? Are you kidding me?

- No one trusts you at all, so be quiet - zooble said with displeasure

Jax remained silent with annoying, clearly upset by such words. Pomni decided to say something so that there would not be a tense pause

- um, shall we ask bubble for help then? Caine trusts him, right?

- Probably, but bubble only appears with the help of Caine, and if we ask him to summon, he will suspect something - zooble said calmly

- okay, two things need to be found out: who does he trust and why did he change his appearance - ragatha folded her hands in a lock

- Well, he said to understand people and that it would be more comfortable for all of us..

Everyone looked at pomni in surprise and she herself stared back at them

- what? Isn't that right?

- um well..He didn't tell us the reasons -Ragatha began to explain

- More precisely, he said that it was just to see how we would react -Jax interrupted her

- .. wait, seriously?

- W-why did he say pomni the other reason?- Gangle looked at pomni , as if she could say the answer.

- Obviously, ladies and gentlemen-abruptly Jax stood up and pointed to jester- he trusts her a lot more than us. He told her the truth of his new appearance, which means she must find a way to return it back

Everyone fell silent. Pomni looked at everyone with confusion. She also stood up, showing her displeasure

- w-what? No! You can't claim that it was true. He could have lied to me too!

- Yep, but then why did he tell you another reason, hmm?- Jax chuckled contentedly

- To confuse us, probably

- But he doesn't need to confuse us, y-yes?-gang rubbed her hands-ribbons

Jester has reached a dead end. She wanted to prove something, but she couldn't do anything.

,, but it's true..if it was a game, he would have specifically said different versions, but..That's a f[censorship]r’’

Jax looked pleased and pomni started to get angry from the rabbit's behavior. Before she could do anything, bubble flew up to them, smiling broadly

- hello, friends! Caine asked me to tell you that now I will spend some time with you in adventures. Have you missed me?

- A-and what about Caine?- gangle said uncertainly

- He's fine, but a little busy. And now the adventure! Today we will play , "find a thing"!

Pomni frowned

- What kind of thing?

- You should already find out for yourself- the bubble giggled - this thing is very different from the circus, so you will find. Good luck!

- Wait-

but Bubble disappeared and pomni sighed.

- mmh, in any case, leave the victory to me - Jax put his hands in his pockets and went somewhere

- Mhm sure - doll said softly

Again, everyone has dispersed, they are doing something again. It seemed an endless task, but the ending melody was heard and jester breathed a sigh of relief. At the end of the game, everyone gathered at the stage, where Zooble was already standing and holding something, and next to her was babble

- well, participants, the winner was zooble , who found the very thing! Show them

Zooble lifted something above their and it turned out to be a disco ball

- of all things disco ball?- Jax frowned with displeasure .

- It would be better if it were a collection of bugs- Kinger muttered.

- all well done, you can go eat my gorgeous dish-

- G-GUYS!!

Suddenly, gangle collided with bubble and bubble burst. Gangle was shaking and gasping for breath

- t-there! There! I-

- Calm down, Gangle-Ragatha gently stroked her mask-calm down and tell me what happened-

- I-I found Caine! He's-he’s.. follow me! Follow me q-quickly!!

Gangle tugged on Ragatha's arm

- what? Did you find Caine?- doll looked surprised

- wow! Finally you are useful, Gangle!-zooble slapped jax on the back with all their might- Oh!!!

- f-follow me! Hurry up!

They looked at each other and quickly followed her. They went into the room and stopped. the ceiling of the room was high and glass, the walls were concrete and only a couple of crooked paintings were hanging, and some colorful figures were lying on the floor, but this was not what attracted the guys in the first place

Caine

He was just sitting in the middle of the room, leaning his back against a green figure with a blue screen of death in his eyes. Pomni reminded Ragatha when she was glitching, from which jester swallowed and decided to approach him carefully

- wait, Pomni - ragatha wanted to stop her already, but pomni didn't listen

Jester walked up to Caine and shook him a little by the shoulder. He didn 't react

- is-is-is he dead?- gangle whispered with fear, shedding tears

- It doesn't look like it, probably frozen again-shrugged Jax

- Don't panic, guys, we need to... we need to..- ragatha couldn't find words, trying to collect herself

- Need what? We'll leave him until he wakes up and that's it- zooble said irritably- we can't do anything with him anyway. He's coming back for the next game, so we're not wasting anything but time.

- Also true…Well, I'm off to eat

Jax carelessly left the room and zooble followed him. Gradually, kinger and gangle went out, leaving girls alone. Ragatha smiled awkwardly

- listen, I can see that you are worried..but everything will be fine

Ragatha put her hand on Pomni's shoulder, as if trying to support, but to jester it seemed like a doll's attempt to calm herself. Pomni looked at Caine and back at her friend , nodding

- I know,It's just..that it's all weird

- I understand, this is the nature of this circus

- Heh.. yes.. of this circus..

They were walking, but in her thoughts was somewhere far away from here. Even when they all sat down to eat, it seems everyone was thinking about the same thing, in Pomni’s opinion

If Caine dies, we won't have long to live either

#the amazing digital circus #pomni x caine #showtime tadc #tadc fic #tadc jax #tadc ragatha #tadc zooble #tadc gangle #tadc kinger #tadc bubble #tadc caine #pomni tadc #fic

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bunviiebab3 · 6 days

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♡ 57 reasons i found on an old ed blog from 2004 ♡

01. You will be FAT if you eat today, just put it off one more day.

02. You don't NEED food.

03. Fat people can't fit everywhere.

04. Guys will be able to pick you up without struggling.

05. You'll be able to run faster without all that extra weight holding you back.

06. People will remember you as "the beautiful thin one".

07. If someone has to describe you, they'll say "oh she weighs like 90, 100 lbs".

08. Guys will want to get to know you, not laugh at you and walk away.

09. Starving is an example of excellent willpower.

10. You will be able to see your beautiful, beautiful bones.

11. Bones are clean and pure. Fat is dirty and hangs on your bones like a parasite.

12. If you eat then you'll look like those disgusting, fat, ghetto and trailer-trash hookers on Jerry Springer.

13. The models that everyone claims are beautiful, the spitting image of perfection, are any of them fat? NO!

14. Too many people in the world are obese.

15. People who eat are selfish and unrealistic.

16. Only fat people are attracted to fat people. Do you want pigs to like you because you are one of them.

17. Anyone can have "inner beauty" but few can earn real beauty, inside as well as out.

18. You'll be able to move as quietly and skillfully as a spider.

19. Only thin people are graceful.

20. If you slap a fat person you can see a shockwave ripple over their skin. That's disgusting.

21. Do you want people to say "for gods sake get off me you're crushing me!!!" or "you are sooo light" ???

22. Underweight aka perfect body.

23. Ballerina? or beanbag?

24. I want to be light enough so a helium balloon could lift me and carry me to the clouds.

25. I want to walk in the snow and leave no footprints.

26. Starve off the parts you don't need. They're ugly and they drag you down.

27. Nothing cant be fixed with hunger and weight loss.

28. Saying "no thanks" to food is saying "yes please" to THIN!!!

29. Fat people are so huge, yet people look away from them as if they don't exist.

30. The only time people do notice a fat person is when they get in the way of that beautiful thin girl walking by (ok that sounds really horrible i know.)

31. Have you ever seen a person NOT notice a walking skeleton.

32. Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.

33. Is food more important that happiness in life? I think not!

34. Eating is conforming to everyone else's expectations.

35. When you start to get dizzy and weak you're almost there.

36. Hunger is your friend and it won't betray you like food.

37. Food is mean and sneaky. It tricks you into eating it and it works on you from the inside out making you fat, bloated, ugly and unhappy.

38. Think of anorexia as your secret weapon.

39. If you can name one reason to be fat, I'll name a million and one to be thin.

40. Thin people look good in ANY kind of clothes.

41. Food rots your teeth.

42. Puffy cheeks, double chins and thick ankles-- aren't attractive.

43. Fatty areas stretch and sag as you get older.

44. Ever seen the arms of a fat person wave hello or goodbye?

45. Eating little to nothing saves you money!

46. The average (middle class) American wastes OVER $8,000 a year on FOOD ALONE...it goes in one end and out the other. That sure is a lot of fat! No wonder so many Americans are obese and overweight!

47. Fat people make their country look bad.

48. Big people sweat more and they smell bad.

49. Fat people die earlier.

50. You'll be the envy of all the other girls.

51. All of the guys will want you.

52. You're less likely to get food poisoning.

53. You won't be exposed to all the chemicals and pesticides they put in food today.

54. You won't get sweaty on hot days.

55. The word fat will only apply to you in a sarcastic way.

56. No one wants to see a fat person dance.

57. Beauty Queen? or Dairy Queen?

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mable-stitchpunk · 1 year

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How would you do a fanservicey or sexy character in a way that is not in poor taste?

Oh! I got this question before and then wrote up a draft for an answer and never finished it. Whoops. XD

That draft was exceedingly long, so I'll try to shorten it down into something much less ramble.

Firstly, no daddy issues or uncomfortable dynamics. Trying to sexualize a character who is not under their own control brings up some creepy implications that detracts from them as a whole. I'm not saying they can't have some issues, but you should probably pick and choose ones that don't bring up those implications.

Secondly, a functional personality beyond just being sexy for sexy sake. Characters like Toy Chica and Ballora aren't just walking around in coy cloying positions for people to ogle at. They are allowed to be scary and creepy without concern that it'll detract from visual appeal.

Toy Chica and Ballora also have quirks to their behaviors. Both have lines that implicate flirtatiousness, but Toy Chica's is as a guise to lure in victims- she is actually depicted as quite vicious- and Ballora's are more elegant (and threatening) with an edge of enticement. This gives them more defined characters, so even though they might be fanservicey they are still distinct.

Third, designs go a long way. Toy Chica and Ballora's designs are enticing, but are not overly sexualized. Sure, Toy Chica only looks like she's wearing a bib for a toy and Ballora is busty, but they do look like functional animatronics.

Or, specifically, they look like they were designed for more than just sex appeal. Toy Chica looks like a mascot built to be 'the hot one' and Ballora looks like a ballerina. In a meta sense, there's more depth than just 'this character was made as eye candy for the audience'.

In contrast, characters who I frequently get on about being oversexualized- Vanny, Hot Charlie, Baby (I'll touch on later too)- are usually sexy just for sexy sake.

Vanny is a possessed woman being forced against her will to submit, who is possessed by a masculine rabbit ghost. She shouldn't be in a skin tight bodysuit, she should be in a scary rabbit costume. And she shouldn't be doing coy little poses. There was a cut crawling animation that, uh, looked a lil sus to me too. Not only that, but because Vanny leans more towards sexy than scary, she's not actually threatening. She's a (likely) 120 pound woman of average athletic build in a skinsuit, which is very obvious by design.

Hot Charlie, Charlie's overly sexy fourth form (who is also Baby in a weird way) is descripted wearing low cut skintight dresses and makeup, something Charlie never wears. But Baby is supposedly trying to disguise herself as Charlie, so why would she do this? The same reason she's flirtatious and forcibly kisses people- not as a ruse, because it never works, but to depict this sexy character who's sexy because she's evil, because sexy and evil are typically depicted hand in hand. She's the bad girl, so she's doing all this bad stuff. Except there's the daddy issues and the storyline with Charlie infantilization and yeah, you made something unintentionally uncomfortable.

While Toy Chica and Ballora's designs are versatile, there are some that simply are not. To the point where they actually go against the goals of the character they are supposed to be.

Bust and hips and flirtatious words aren't the problem. It is, again, how much a character is worth beyond that. The problem isn't when a character is sexy, it is when they become a sexual object.

ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE VILLAIN.

Finally, one last thing. I would steer clear of Baby.

I've went through it before, but what they've done to Baby- oh my God. It is just downright baffling to me that Baby was suddenly turned into a sexy character.

The idea that someone looked at this seven foot manipulative clown with a tragic backstory, daddy issues, and a child-like design and said, "Oh yeah, let's make her the fanservice character," is a total wtf.

I don't want to beat a dead horse, but oh my God.

Oh my GoooOOOD.

And yes, I know this is Eleanor. But why Eleanor was created to be a skinnier, more human sized Baby is beyond me anyways if she's supposed to be a completely different character.

Okay, so, final point!

How to do a sexy or fanservicey character that is in good taste?

First, come up with a creepy idea for a character. Find a way to make them sexy that doesn't detract from that creepiness. Make sure they have some form of a personality either outside of that sexiness or uses that sexiness to its advantage- I.E. Toy Chica's luring. Try to resist the urge to write in uncomfortable daddy issues.

What you have is a sexy character who will likely still fit into the universe as a functional character.

Or just make another Daycare Attendant. People really seem to like them. 😏

#Fnaf #Five nights at freddy's #sexy character #sexualization #Toy Chica #Ballora #Vanny #Sexy Baby #Hot Charlie #Eleanor #Writing Stuff #Designing Stuff

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rangespacer · 2 years

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guy who took the funny space cartoon too seriously under the cut. unedited because it is almost midnight.

manic pixie space ranger — 11/27/2022 12:43 AM i can go full nuclear now like oh my@god it's 1 am but bear with me i'll try to be coherent and i might revisit this i've gone on and on about how buzz was like. crafted to be the perfect ranger. he was bright and dedicated and talented, but more than that, he was naive, and had poor boundaries. it was easy to push him to and past his limits. he wanted to be the best ranger he could be, so if someone in power told him that that meant neglecting his health, he'd do it. and he held it together and they saw that as confirmation that they were on the right track. like whatever issues he was having did not prevent him from doing what they needed him to do. so he kept going. and going. there's an episode about buzz defecting from the force that i ignore wholesale simply because it's low key copaganda and i really don't want to touch it so it's irrelevant to me.

manic pixie space ranger — 11/27/2022 12:46 AM but buzz in ts3 says he had 'any doubt beaten out of him in the academy' so genuinely if buzz ever did think of leaving they were like. no. if buzz expressed doubts they were squashed. and i think nebula at least knows about the zurg thing and prods it occasionally to keep buzz on track. specifically like. he's like buzz you want to do good right? don't ever slip up be extra careful don't let him convince you otherwise because good people will get hurt. and honestly star command consider what they've done with buzz high risk high reward because they've groomed an INCREDIBLY talented, powerful, capable ranger just to go toe to toe with zurg. like zurg was such a threat that they needed a designated anti-zurg to deal with it. someone who could think like him and stay one step ahead of him. someone smart and intuitive. someone strong and loving. but the issue is making someone think like zurg means making them insane. because zurg is fucking unhinged. like they didn't make buzz ill he was baseline ocd and autistic. but. they had him study everything they had on zurg. for years. so he would know what to do. and told him he was the only one they wanted on it. BECAUSE IT WAS LIKE READING THE NECRONOMICON. IMAGINE THE PATTERNS THAT HAVE TO APPEAR THAT ONLY APPEAR IN ZURG'S STUFF TO LEAD TO THE PEN INCIDENT. THEY TREATED HIS BRAIN LIKE A BALLERINA'S FOOT. IT BROKE AND HEALED IN A NEW POSITION BETTER SUITED TO THE TASK. BUT IT DID. BREAK so you have this guy. junior space ranger as a kid then 18 on he's in the academy. you expose him to thought patterns so maladjusted and rancid and tell him you have to think like this if you don't people will die. and he does it and not only does he do it but you don't lose him to the insanity or zurg! in fact he's a wonderful person. crazy! but so full of love he could single-handedly purify the unimind. and then you say. buzz. we know we warned you about zurg. that we've been very careful and you've been very careful about what contact you have with him and how and when. but we need to send you into the back lines undercover. you need to pretend to work for him. the one thing you know we all fear. the one thing we made you swear never to do. you need to pretend. you need to live like that when someone tries to escape the empire. for their sake you need to put your hand directly onto the psychological stove and hold it there. if your cover is blown we cannot pull you out. (nebula only real chad moment going against this to try and save buzz i give him some points.)

manic pixie space ranger — 11/27/2022 12:57 AM you will die in zurg space. because you'll have to go over to his side so he won't kill you, in which case that's our red flag for you and we will kill you. you have no options so do not get caught. you can't tell your partner, the love of your life. by the way he did this but for real. he actually double crossed you. you still need to be shiv katall. even if it means working with him. you can't tell your new team. no one can ever know you are going to the grave with this secret. if you blow it those people trying to escape zurg to find a better life? will die. and that will be on you. if it goes smoothly you will be doing something incredible. any misstep and you're cosmic dust. so make sure zurg trusts you. but don't do anything that would make us not trust you. and that's when buzz starts to see 'buzz lightyear' as something other than himself. he's forced to go away inside of shiv to do good in the galaxy, and the abstract image of buzz lightyear has to be preserved and cannot be impacted by what the actual human being is going through.

manic pixie space ranger — 11/27/2022 1:04 AM JUST THE FUCKING THE. IT'S SCI FI. AND YET. THE ESSENTIAL ASTRONAUT THEME OF. I MAY BE GOING ON A ONE WAY TRIP. EVEN IN A PURE SPACE SETTING BUZZ IS THE ASTRONAUT TO ME. You develop an instant global consciousness, a people orientation, an intense dissatisfaction with the state of the world, and a compulsion to do something about it. From out there on the moon, international politics look so petty. You want to grab a politician by the scruff of the neck and drag him a quarter of a million miles out and say, ‘Look at that, you son of a bitch.' Buzz is such a kind person He has such a capacity for love He's a stickler for rules he's brainwashed within what is yes a police state But the core of him to me is the astronaut someone who goes on a one way trip to push the boundaries for everyone behind them and who looks back on the planet from far above and watches every border every stupid conflict melt away as they realize that there is nothing more important to them than that miraculous rock

manic pixie space ranger — 11/27/2022 1:16 AM LIKE THE CARTOON IS SILLY AND I LOVE THAT ITS SILLY AND IM NOT ARGUING THAT IT SHOULD BE GRIMDARK BUT IM IN MY SAUCE AND SO CHARMED BY BUZZ'S FAITH IN WARP AND TBE WAY HE TALKS TO XL

#⭑ ready the mega head cannon! ( headcanons & blosc )

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redhairedlesbians · 5 months

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arm and arm, hand in hand, a brush on the cheek, a check on the shoulder.

i have never been loved without pain. even in the hands of my best friend, she was phoenix from ashes rather than a planted garden. the type of love that springs dandelions from concrete that is watered by love and small schoolchildren on their walks home.

i want to know what it is to feel the sweetness. i want to love without fear, i want to desire without ache. i want to live in a body im proud of, i want to be known deeply and loved anyways for it.

my love has always been the thing with teeth. a bad dog. i bite when im nervous. a deer sticking out its antlers to keep you at a safe distance.

i want to be loved in a way that feels like rushing water. i want you to sweep me off my feet and trust that you’ll carry me home.

i’ve spent nights romanticizing a lover who does not exist. there is no soft boy with long hair. there is a man who kicked my dog and yelled in the face of my father. who locked me in cages and screamed at me to get out.

i’ve never been loved without danger. i’ve never been wanted without an expectation. i get on my knees before im asked because i think it will make them stay. if they can take from my body, they will need me, and they will stick around. they will use me until i am dry, and i let them, because it feels good to be wanted.

ive never truly felt pretty. too much of this, too little of that. i pick at my skin and bite my nails and pull on my hair. i place myself in costumed makeup to see if it will make anyone like me. i twirl, naked ballerina, to ask if anyone wants me.

prey animal turned wolf turned back again. i am nothing without my sadness, i am little without my poetry. art inspired by pain hung on my walls. everything hurts forever and ever.

my brain is an entity i cannot escape. i am doomed to cycle, i am doomed to becoming complacent in my being. to drag my body and see where i can take me. to be up and down and back down again, forever into oblivion.

i think i want someone to love me to prove to myself i am lovable. that if someone can see me, flaws and all, then it will be proof i deserve to exist.

i romanticize my art as a creative to make sure i am remain special. if i can give to the world through art, i will be worth something.

im not sure if what im doing is what im meant to do. i don’t know if being a doctor is where my heart is. the little girl inside of me is screaming, a fig tree full of possibilities and they all are rotting without me making a choice.

i mourn for who i was five years ago. something was taken from me that i will never get back. explosive and angry, i will cry for the kid i used to be.

i settled for less because i didn’t know any better. god, it felt so good to be loved, and i used to think id give anything to get it back. he fell back into my palms, heart and all, and i turned him away for the sake of my safety.

i’ve had so much taken from me i don’t know how else i could give. i build pieces of myself, attach to my identity and make attributions. assignment of guilt and blame and speech, give myself time to breathe and do it again.

i hope it will stop hurting someday. something in me turned numb. a place i can retreat when things get hard, a moment of solace in a huge world. billowing smoke in a clear field.

i want to be better. i want to love myself in ways i never have. i want to love because i deserve it, but i am so unbelievably lonely. i am surrounded by people, i am loved deeply. and yet, i never seem to let my walls down enough to accept it.

to be known is to be vulnerable. to be vulnerable is to put your heart out on a platter and hope the other person does not take a bite.

i wonder who i would have become if i had remained whole. i wonder if i was born that way, or if i was doomed from the start.

my body has been of constant use for my entire life. it’s something that is not entirely mine. i build myself a shield of fat armor so no one wants to touch it, and the worst part of it is that it works. i feel like if i keep my body unwantable, no one will take from me what they already have.

damn (lmao, fourth wall break)

i am funny, i am fat, i am beautiful. i am an artist. i have a big ass. i love music. boys like me. girls like me. i hate myself. i write poetry. i make things. i like to sew but never really learned how. my parents love me in a more tangible way now than they did before. my mother loves me to death.

my father wants me to draw him a tattoo for us to get matching. it will be a rocket and a moon, with the words “i love you to the moon and back.” it’s something my grandmother used to say every time before she left or hung up the phone.

my father mourns for his mother in ways i could never imagine. i miss my mother in every room she’s not in. i cannot imagine her cold.

how can we be mad at the dead? how can we atone for the sins of our parents? how can we not feel the pain after they leave?

i wonder if it will ever stop hurting. i grow around my grief, years worth of experience that huddles around it. however, inside me lays versions of myself i can only feel and not touch.

i wonder if it will ever stop hurting. will the pieces of me i lost ever grow back? are they like limbs or skin? are they gone forever? will there be parts of me you can see through for the rest of my life?

i want to be better. i really do. i want to experience life. i want to life without the fear. it follows me like a ghost. i want to be better, i want the ache to go away

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rustedhearts · 2 years

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Severed Lamb Part I: Blessed Be (Pastor!Steve x Fem!reader)

summary: your visit home for the summer comes with a handsome new preacher, who takes a special liking to you.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♰ the steve collection ♰

♰ part ii: poor thing ♰

warnings: religious imagery/trauma, manipulation, abuse of power, age-gap (reader is 19, steve is 35), allusions to child abuse (you gotta squint, but the mom does some icky shit), mention of death/parent loss.

author's note: some dark stuff happening in this series, y'all, so read the warnings and take them seriously! i’m not responsible for your internet-intake. for the sake of this fic, i’ve given you (the reader) the name delilah (because 'y/n' just looks ugly and ruins my vibe). also delilah is a ballerina.

♰ Wyndgate, Georgia June 1981 ♰

The Georgian heat was insufferable.

A stiff, sticky heat that swells in your hair and bloats your cheeks. It made wading through the overgrown field of your childhood backyard a miserable task. But your mother requested fresh cherries from the tree, and you weren't one to deny your mother of her needs. You carried the old porcelain bowl, hand-painted with delicate lilacs, toward the tree in the distance, smacking off mosquitos and shooing away flies as you went.

When you reached the tree, you set the bowl on the ground and began to climb. The bark of the trunk felt just as it did when you were a child: solid, rough, mossy sandpaper against your palms. You wiped off the bark fragments on your denim shorts and began to pluck. Years of picking cherries gave you a keen eye for the ripest selections: plump, gleaming swells of red. You shoved a few into your cheeks before sliding down to fill the bowl.

The bowl was half-full and your stomach was full of cherry stem knots by the time you headed back toward the house. Birds chirped their evening goodbyes in the trees chasing the horizon line. Cicadas shook their wings and crickets rubbed their legs to make a chittering symphony. Just beyond the looming oak trees, the sun began to fade into a blur of gold and pink. The clouds looked like they were delicately etched by hand.

"Those for anybody?"

You jumped, hands slipping around the porcelain bowl clutched against your stomach at the sound of a deep voice before you. You steadied, tightened your grip, and settled your gaze upon the figure standing in front of you—a man. A handsome man. A crop of fluffy chestnut hair, a set of round copper eyes, a perfectly-sloped, straight nose, and a set of properly pink lips. Around his neck, he wore an intricate silver chain. Within the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, you spotted the glint of a small cross.

The man raised his brows, and you licked over your cherry-stained lips.

"N-No, sir, these are...these are for my mother. I got them from our tree, just there," you explained, turning to point toward your tree a few feet back.

The man followed your direction, hands tucked into the pockets of his brown slacks. Your throat bobbed with a swallow when his eyes roamed back toward you—your cheeks burned at the way they rolled over your skim-clothed body.

You weren't expecting company today, and usually the field behind your house was empty, seeing as it was private property. Nobody ventured into each other's properties...except him. Your denim shorts and thin-strapped camisole gave way to the shapes and curves of your body not suited for a man's eye. But what really caught this man's eye was not the way your breasts spilled from your top, or the way your thighs strained against the denim squeezed around them—but the cross resting below the dip in your collarbone. Gold, elegant, clearly hand-crafted for you.

A child of God. A beautiful lamb.

"Surely you can spare one for a lonesome stranger? I've traveled a long way," he cooed.

His voice was smooth and sweet. He had a way of talking and tipping his head all at once that made you feel like he was telling you a bedtime story. You found your fingers dipping into the bowl and plucking two cherries before your mind could catch up. Your hand brushed his as he collected them in his palm, and you followed his fingers as they approached his mouth.

"Mmm," he hummed around the sweet juices in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth and the inside of his cheek. "Sweet."

But his eyes were on you. They twinkled against the low-setting sun, golden light washing over him. You weren't entirely sure he was real, in that moment.

"I'll see you around." He passed by, curling two fingers gently around your elbow before he walked off toward the property next door.

♰ ♰

But that Sunday, you knew for a fact he was real.

The man from the field, the man that left you two cherries short and the recipient of a scolding from your mother, was standing just below the podium at the old evangelical church on Mulberry. Clasping the hands of bright-eyed women bearing crosses, bending into a gentle, respectful bow. Firmly returning the shake of balding men that were already sweating through their nicest shirts, still greased from a day's work at the auto shop. Crouching to cast a straight-toothed, dazzling smile at children not yet tall enough to reach the pews without climbing.

All the air in your lungs seemed to get caught in your throat as you approached him, arm looped through your mother's. Your Mary Janes clunked against the floor of the aisle, and your eyes sought something, anything, other than his handsome face waiting for you ahead.

"Ah, you must be Loraine."

His voice. It sounded just as it did that day in the field—sweet, smooth, like honey from the comb.

"Well now, how did you know that?" your mother giggled, reaching up to fluff her hair beneath her elaborately atrocious hat.

You curled your fingers into a fist behind your back, blunt nails digging into your palm. Your dress, pale yellow and dappled with embroidered daisies, suddenly felt too tight around your waist. Your mother tied it herself in the mirror this morning, pulling until it cinched so tightly that you could practically see the waistband of your underwear. There, now you look like a young lady.

"I've heard such wonderful things about your fashionable hats." He didn't have an accent. At least, not like the Georgians did.

He sounded more like they did in Pennsylvania, where you went to school. They had a certain way about over-pronouncing their vowels that made it clear they were Yankees—

"And this must be your daughter."

His eyes set upon you, and a full-bodied shiver ran down your spine. Your stomach clenched, and your mother squeezed her arm around yours a little tighter until you turned to meet his eye. She grinned toothily beside you, leaning to press your heads together. Her soft, fluffy hair tickled your cheek. You could smell the cigarettes still on her teeth from the car ride over. The man was looking at you with a half-mouthed smile that made you swallow.

He was so handsome. Too handsome for a preacher. Too handsome for Wyndgate.

"This is my baby girl, Delilah. Ain't she pretty?" Your mother reached behind your neck to tuck your hair behind your ear. Her pink nails scraped against the nape of your neck like a chalkboard.

"She's a ballerina, up in Pennsylvania. Came back to visit her Mama for the summer. Ain't that right, Lilah?"

You let your eyes touch the man's chin. The faintest collection of stubble gathered around his jaw. A mocha-colored mole kissed his neck. He watched you intently, hands suddenly returning to his black slacks like they did that day in the field. He donned all black today, and it made his eyes look golden. Under the fluorescents of the church, he glowed like something divine. He looked so young.

"Yes," you whispered.

His hand slipped from his pocket, a gentle whooshing sound. First, he clasped your mother's hand, giving it a delicate bob—and then he reached for yours. You didn't wait for your mother to nudge you, reaching out and slipping your fingers along his palm. His thumb brushed along your knuckles and your spine straightened. A terrible ache gathered between your thighs. You hadn't felt an ache like that since prom night, when Tommy Baker kissed you against his truck in the gymnasium parking lot.

"It's lovely to meet the both of you. Everyone's been so lovely to me, welcoming me into your congregation."

He spread his arms, palms upended, and motioned toward the church. Everyone was getting seated, shuffling about in the rickety old pews, murmuring amongst themselves about the handsome new preacher and his funny voice. In your periphery, you could see the young girls fanning themselves with pamphlets frantically. Mid-morning light blared through the stained glass and cast a violet rainbow over his cheek.

A kiss from God. Wyndgate talked for weeks about how God delivered His handsomest angel to them by hand.

You slipped away from the preacher and wandered toward your designated pew, sliding in beside your mother, tucked against the end. You carefully placed your bible on your knees and adjusted your dress, just as the podium creaked against the man's weight. He spread his arms again, like he was waiting to ascend and welcome in Heaven.

"Welcome, all, I'm Pastor Steve. What a beautiful day to celebrate our Lord, isn't it, church?"

And as the pews murmured their joyous agreement, Pastor Steve's eyes cut over to you. He grinned a half-cocked grin. You didn't know, if standing there behind the podium, was a gift sent from God, or a trick from the devil.

♰ ♰

Before he died, your Daddy converted the old hay barn in the backyard into a dance studio. Floor length mirrors covered nearly every inch of the wooden walls, hand-sawed lengths of log through their middle for balance bars. He hand-crafted all of it for you as a birthday gift just before you went to high school.

When he died, it became your only solace. A place of solitude, of lulling quiet—it was the only place you could think. Twirling on the top of your pointe shoe, watching the room spin and blur while you snatched armfuls of air, fingers delicately tapped together—it was your form of relaxation.

You left the barn door open today, letting the sticky heat billow in. It breezed over your bare arms and legs like a gentle whisper as you rotated and pranced around the room. Your elegant gold cross, a permanent token fixed around your neck, swinging in the air with every turnout.

"You always dance like this?"

A shriek left your mouth like a siren. You shot your foot out to put you at a hard stop, heaving for air and staring Pastor Steve straight in the face. He was leaning on the barn door, arms crossed, the toe of his leather loafer pressed to the shiny wooden floor. His church clothes abandoned, he donned a pair of brown slacks and a blue button down—crisp, pleated, rolled at the elbows. His silver chain glimmered in the soft glow of the evening light behind him.

"You alright?" he asked.

You blinked, hands finding your hips, cheeks burning. You swallowed, bobbing your head. Wisps of hair flounced against your forehead. From across the barn, Steve's eyes licked over your pale pink attire, your sweat-slick limbs, naked and bared for him. He found the cross resting above your breast and tipped his head to admire it.

“Y-yeah, m’ alright. Can I…what are you doin’ here?”

Steve took his lip between his teeth. His chin tipped down, eyes blaring through thick lashes to watch you reach for a water bottle on the floor. Your gold cross caught the sun like a beacon. He couldn’t look away from it. It glowed around your neck. You were divine beauty, a perfect little lamb. He knew it the moment he saw you scaling that cherry tree the other day. He knew it the moment he saw you floating down the church aisle like a bride. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

God sent him to Georgia for you.

“Your mother,” Steve said, straightening up. He’d been staring too long. “I heard she’s the only woman in town that knows how to fix my robe the right way.”

You nodded along in agreement. Your mother was a talented seamstress—she could fix even the worst tear and make it look brand new. But you didn’t see a robe with him, and as your eyes flickered around to find it, Pastor Steve cracked a smile.

“It’s in my car,” he said.

You flashed a small, tight-lipped smile. Your cheeks swelled with more heat. His voice was so smooth and soft. It tickled your ears like a melody.

“Oh,” you murmured meekly.

Silence filled the barn. In the yard, birds twittered, and the chickens in your neighbor’s pen a few yards down clucked nosily. Steve continued to tip his head and inspect you. You swallowed again, bringing your hands to clasp together behind your back, and tapped your ratty pointe shoes together on the floor. Your good shoes were back at school, on rental for the semester. You scrubbed floors and cleaned the mirrors every night after class just to afford to keep them. Without the scholarship you earned, you wouldn’t be able to afford to dance at all.

“Um, I should probably head inside,” you piped up, rising to the tops of your toes only to press back down again.

Steve watched you closely for another moment. Everything about the way you moved made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was thrilling, the way you spun and twirled, the way you walked like you were airless. You were graceful, just like a swan.

You clutched your water to your chest and shuffled toward the corner where your sneakers waited. You opted to hook your fingers in their soles instead of changing—something about the way Pastor Steve followed your every move made you tremble and squirm, and you were desperate to get into the cool confines of your room and avoid his pretty stare.

You lifted your head and cast another small smile that had him clenching.

“Have a nice day, Pastor.”

Oh and your voice. Hushed, delicate, meek. You always sounded like you were delivering a line written by Shakespeare himself. It sent shivers down Steve’s spine, that voice.

You brushed past him in a breeze—a whiff of sweet sweat and rose soap—and Steve broke out of his daydream to catch a glimpse of the nape of your neck. With your hair pulled away from it, your neck looked enticing—a patch of clammy skin, braced with the fragile, glimmering golden rope of your necklace.

“Mhm,” Steve hurriedly hummed, lifting off the door of the barn as you sweepingly turned the corner toward the house. “See you inside.”

And as hard as you tried to avoid it, you did see him inside.

You hurriedly showered and scurried into your room as your mother extended her southern hospitality—soon, the lace dining cloth was covered in glasses of freshly-brewed sweet tea and bowls of cherries.

You sat down at the cushioned stool of your vanity and smoothed cream over your damp face, listening carefully to the murmur of your mother and Pastor Steve’s voices on the other side of the wall. Her laugh was over-joyous and sickeningly sweet, and you heard your name mentioned far too frequently for your liking.

Dressed in a breezy sundress, you settled down on your bed beside the open window, letting in a warm wind that fluttered your drapes, and cracked open an old favorite from your tiny shelf—Anne of Green Gables. You turned to the bookmarked page, letting the breeze from the window and the wind from the ceiling fan cool down your skin, still buzzing with thrumming warmth from your spinning in the barn and Pastor Steve’s heavy gaze.

But every turn of the page came with a glimpse of his eyes in your mind. A hazel color, big and round and penetrative. They followed you like they were pinned to the back of your head. You felt the weight of that gaze all through Sunday’s sermon, and again while you fidgeted in the barn. He was always watching. And something about the way he looked at you made you feel…special. Special in a way you didn’t feel back at school, or anywhere previously in Wyndgate where all the girls who got attention were slender and blonde and giggly.

But to Pastor Steve, you were something worth looking at. And a man of God’s approval, his praise, mattered most of all.

“Lilah! Lilah, come set Pastor Steve a place for dinner!”

Your mother’s voice washed over you like a cold drip, and your book fell from your hands to your floral quilt. Your cheeks bloomed with heat again, cursing under your breath as you shuffled toward the edge of the mattress. Bare legs dangling over, your hand flew to your chest to rub the cross between your knuckles in search of comfort. In the living room, the deep rumble of Pastor Steve’s voice made your stomach squirm.

“Oh, Lord,” you whispered pleadingly, eyes turning toward the portrait of Jesus in a frame above your bed. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me.”

Don’t make me go out there. He’s so handsome.

“Lilah Anne! I’m not callin’ you again,” your mother’s voice was just on the other side of the door, and a harsh knock followed after.

The door flew open, and you bounced off the bed. Flustered, you watched your mother sigh and ease the door into a crack behind her. She tiptoed toward you, checking over your appearance as she went.

“Lilah, he’s a very important man. I want you to use our nice plates. The ones with the bluebells, alright?”

You bobbed your head furiously. The back of your dress started to cling to your spine. You reached behind to pluck it away, give your skin some air to breathe, and your mother grabbed your arm. She leaned in close, and you knew by the purse of her lips what was coming next:

“Make yourself real pretty, alright? Pastor Steve is such a nice man,” she gushed.

She pinched your cheek and patted the skin, and your chest tightened as the back of her head disappeared through the door. When it closed, you spun around and walked toward the mirror, standing tall in the corner of your room. There you stood, pulling at your pale blue dress, frowning at your bare arms and legs. But Mama would want them like that, on display for Pastor Steve to see. Just like all those times when her friends came over. She’d bring them home from the bar and introduce you in the living room, and you always sat in a chair in the corner, pretending not to understand what it meant when they kept calling you “a sure thing.”

But Pastor Steve was different. Pastor Steve was a man of God. He’d never stray from God’s guidance.

So, you neatly plaited your hair and swept it over your shoulder. You rubbed strawberry chapstick over your lips and nose, and delicately placed your unfinished book on the nightstand for later. The ceiling fan hummed absently over your empty bed.

You gathered the plates—the gleaming porcelain with the hand-painted bluebells—from the china cabinet, and cleared the clutter from the table to fix it for dinner. All the while, as you bent to place silverware beside each place, you gazed beneath your arm over toward the living room. Pastor Steve stood, arms out, in the center of the wood-paneled room. Your mother knelt before him, working her needle through the hole in his deep, swampy green robe. The crosses embroidered on the fabric were golden and shiny.

His head turned, a strand of hair catching over his eye, and you ducked away toward the fridge. Yanking it open, you relished in the cool air blowing from the vent in the buzzing white light of its confinement.

"...should be all ready to—Lilah Anne, what on earth are you doin' in there?"

You hurriedly slammed the fridge closed, rattling the bread box on top and the glass condiments on the inside shelf—and standing on the other side of the table, was a furrow-browed mother and a perfectly well-stitched Pastor Steve. The latter flashed you a boyish grin, and your cheek burned as you looped your fingers together behind your back.

"I set the table like you said, Mama," you murmured softly, tipping your head toward the wooden table, adorned with its white lace cloth and bluebell plates.

Steve followed your gaze, admiring your organized layout. Your mother merely glanced, otherwise focused on the neatness of your braid. She swept the end of it over your shoulder to drape down your arm as she passed by, heading toward the fridge to grab yesterday’s chicken.

"I was just gonna heat up some of this chicken, is that alright, Pastor?"

You turned to the man anxiously, teeth pulling at the loose skin of your bottom lip. His loafers clunked against the tiled floor sharply, and you followed them all the way to the chair at the head of the table, a place set just for him. He placed his hand on the back of the chair—your Daddy's old chair—and set his eyes on you: neck bent, arms tucked behind your back, a picture of obedience and grace.

"That sounds wonderful, Loraine."

The chicken plate clattered on the counter. The tinfoil rustled and crinkled. The stovetop clicked, the pan sizzled. The kitchen became stiff with hot air, and the window squealed when your mother pushed it open. Outside, the cicadas were still chittering furiously. And you stood, exactly where you were, staring at the tops of your bare toes against the linoleum tile.

"Delilah, come sit with me."

Your head snapped up. Pastor Steve stood from the table and stepped to the left, pulling the chair from the table. He motioned toward it with a sweeping hand, and with a glance over your shoulder toward your nodding mother, you took small, timid steps over. You sank down, breath hitching when Pastor Steve came behind you to push the chair back in. His stomach firm against the back of your head, his hands big and warm on either side of your shoulders. They grazed your shoulder blades before he sat back down, and your body tingled with shivers.

A mere foot away from you, Pastor Steve was the closest he'd ever been. He placed his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. The round face of his watch glinted in the low-setting sun, a warm yellow light. The band of it was brown leather, like his shoes, and fit him well. His robe was gone now, folded neatly and placed on the stool beside the door where you sat to take your shoes off. But he didn't seem concerned about it—his eyes were set on you.

"Your mother tells me your father passed a few years ago."

Your heart squeezed. You paused, eyes turning toward your mother's figure at the stove. She didn't like to talk about your Daddy very much. When she did, her words were usually biting and cruel. To her, he was a "lazy, no-good son-of-a-bitch." But to you, your Daddy was the sun and moon.

You nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. When I was fifteen."

Pastor Steve hummed.

"That musta been hard, especially at that age. I lost my father, too."

Your head tipped up. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of your eyes, peeking through your lashes, blinking up at him. Your cheeks were the loveliest shade of pink.

"Really?"

He nodded. "Mhm. I was twelve."

Your lips instinctually pulled into a frown. Before you could reply, your mother squawked from the stove:

"Oh, Pastor, I'm so sorry for your loss," she drawled.

But Pastor Steve's eyes never left yours. In fact, they were glued to you. And his hand, cupped around his jaw, fell to the table with a quiet thump. Your eyes flittered toward it, watching it slither across white lace. It came to a stop beside your plate, flipping to place his knuckles against the table, palm upended.

"I understand your pain, Delilah," he murmured.

Taking a deep breath in, you slipped your fingers into his waiting hand. It closed around your knuckles, holding your fingers to his palm in a soothing embrace. You met his gaze cautiously, heart thumping in your throat. Pastor Steve's eyes were soft and round like a puppy-dog's, brows furrowed in shared sympathy.

"God understands your pain. And though loss may lead us astray, we must stay strong, and put our trust in the Lord," he preached, voice smooth like whiskey. When a small smile touched your face, Pastor Steve mirrored it. "He'll take us exactly where we need to be."

The last sentiment was whispered, a shared secret between the two of you. His smile slipped sideways, another boyish image of the man before you, and a burst of endearment flooded your chest at the sight of him in your father's chair. You found yourself clinging to his words, replaying them in your head, etching them into your memory to grasp onto forever. And while you pondered, wading in the charming ease of his demeanor, Steve brought his hand under the table, and ran the length of his knuckles across your knee.

During dinner, he conversed with your mother about the historical society, the women's church group, the annual fundraiser at the end of the summer. Every few moments, his hand would brush your knee beneath the table. Each time your head turned to question it, he passed you a lopsided smile. It was comforting, that handsome smile. God will take you exactly where you need to be, Delilah.

Your mother packed him a Tupperware container of cherry pie to take home, and he gathered it atop his sewn robe as he headed toward the door.

"Thank you again," he cooed to your mother, whose smile was blinding.

"Oh, don't mention it, Pastor, we're lucky to have you. Lilah, why don't you walk Pastor Steve out, it gets real dark out back this time a' night."

Your mother pinched the back of your arm when you turned to protest, and you hurriedly stepped toward the door to obey. Pastor Steve flashed a tight-lipped smile at your mother, and swung the door open. The screen door groaned on its rusty hinges when he pushed it, and the sticky heat instantly sought home in the kitchen. You floated through the open doorway past his waiting figure, hands clasped behind your back once more, bare feet scuffing over the chipped paint of the porch.

You walked languidly, but with a refinement to your posture and an upturn of your nose that Steve adored. He watched you as you trailed along beside him, rustling through the grass like rabbit, quiet and small. His car was waiting in the drive around the barn. The license plate was from Indiana.

"Why'd you move away from Indiana?"

You don't know why you asked. The words came tumbling from your mouth like they were exorcised, wretched from somewhere deep inside. It must’ve been the Southern meddler swarming inside you. But Pastor Steve just smiled that boyish, sideways smile, and shrugged.

"I wanted a change of scenery."

You nodded approvingly, coming to a stop at the hood of the car. Pastor Steve scuffled to a halt right after, turning to gaze down at you, still clasping his chicken and green robe. You swallowed, and he watched your face twist with worry. He frowned, brows furrowing.

"What's wrong, Delilah?"

You chewed on the inside of your lip, gazing down at the tops of his shoes.

"Mama...did she say anything cruel about my daddy? They...didn't always get along."

Steve inhaled deeply. Your father. That was your soft spot. Like every fruit, you had a bruise—a soft spot, where he knew, if he pushed with just the right amount of pressure, you would burst.

Pastor Steve took a step closer.

"Don't worry, Delilah, I don't believe a word. I can see how much you loved him."

You nodded, tipping your head back to find his gaze again. His lips were plump and red from the pie.

"You know," he said, cocking his head again. "If you ever need to talk or just get out of the house, you can always come visit me at the church. I'm a great listener."

You grinned shyly. "Thank you, Pastor. I...haven't been to confession in...too long," you admitted lightly.

Steve shrugged airily.

"Oh, that's alright. God leads us exactly where we need to be, remember?"

You nodded quickly. "Right."

The sky had darkened to an inky indigo. In this great big clearing, flanked with bushels of dense oak trees, the stars were on full display. Steve could take count of every single one if he wanted to. But all he could do, in this great Southern expanse, was look at you.

His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and your eyes followed.

"You're a beautiful dancer," he mused.

You flushed, ducking bashfully. In the back of your head, your mother's voice rang: men like weak and fragile. Men like women that bend to their will. Maybe if you bent, if you weakened, Pastor Steve would see how good you are, and in the eyes of the Lord, that was all that mattered.

All that mattered was that you were good, and kind, and lovable. That's all you wanted.

"Thank you, Pastor."

Pastor Steve's watch caught the moonlight as he brought his hand to your forehead. There, he swiped a stray wisp of hair from your lashes, shaken loose from your braid. He guided it behind your ear, where his hand slipped to fondle your delicate braid. The length of it glided through his palm like a snake. He watched it fall through his grasp while your breath became shallow.

"God's finest work."

Your heart pounded wildly in your ears. You beamed at the praise, glowing beneath his approving gaze. Steve, noticing the way you perked at his gentle, murmured tone, how you leaned into his coaxing validations, gave it a little push. His hand came to your chin, which he cupped in a gentle hold to pull you up. You allowed him to guide you, bringing your forehead to his mouth. There, he placed a gentle kiss.

When you settled back down on your heels, you gazed up at him dazedly.

"You are blessed, Delilah. God has a very special place for you in his heart."

Your throat bobbed with another swallow. His thumb pressed into your chin. His eyes roamed your parted lips.

"And I think," Steve whispered, chest heaving, "he sent me here to make sure of it."

♰ ♰

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yes-this-account-is-alive · 3 years

Note

Cypher x a quiet/secretive reader (She/her)

Like maybe he was first interested in her because of how secretive she was even if it did frustrate the hell out of him. I don’t know, I just love your writings and there is very little cypher content out there. Thank you.

aww that's so sweet! i'm flattered ^^ if you really like cypher content ii highly suggest you check out @agentgumsh0e! she loves cypher and writes for him a lot too!

You weren't a new agent, people just knew so little about you that you were practically one. Sova, with a lot of difficulty managed to track you down and invite you to the protocol. You both used to work together you see, but after you parted ways he lost all contact. Thankfully, he remembered the one piece of information you let him have: every year, you would be in Kiruna watching the northern lights during September.

Safe to say that he was shocked that you, save for your face and physique, looked completely different from the last time he saw you. But, considering how you were he couldn't say that he wasn't expecting it. As you watched the colors in the sky dance that mid-September night, you felt a familiar hand place itself onto your shoulder. You greeted him warmly and offered him marshmallows you had been roasting. He accepted them with a smile and started to converse, recruiting you in the process.

When you first came in, Cypher was already on the case. Hell, he was on the case way before that but what had him drop it for a while was the distinct lack of information there was on you. Now that he had the subject in proximity, he could do a little field work.

He approached you as you were cooking brunch for Sova and yourself, potatoey goodness sizzling on the pan and freshly made ones sitting on the ivory plate beside the stove. He started to make small talk as he brewed some coffee, trying to see what he could get from you. Unfortunate for him, you answered in short phrases and most of your answers were generic.

"So what's your favorite food, [Agent Name]?"

"I like everything."

Then a minute of silence until he asks another question.

The air was so god damn dry and he was losing it. How can someone have nothing interesting to share about themselves? If you were lying, he couldn't even tell! Nothing gave it away and you were very focused on cooking those damn pancakes. A few moments passed before you waved the man goodbye and went to sit down with Sova in the dining room.

Seeing as you weren't answering much, he decided to have a chat with Sova after you left to train in the range instead. To his disappointment, the initiator didn't have much to say about you either other than you loved travelling and could deliver insane punches. He took note of that and went back to his workshop.

Weeks passed by of this variation of Vogue's 100 questions and to his surprise (and thankfully to cease his frustration), he got SOMETHING. It was after he had helped you fix your intricately designed prosthetic legs.

"How is it?"

"Good."

You paced around the room, testing them out. He looked on in interest as you stood up on your toes as a ballerina would and held your leg straight up. A needle.

"I used to do ballet when I lived in France, shame I can't dance like I used to."

You waved him goodbye and exited his workshop. It wasn't the intel he wanted, but it shifted his interest in you for the sake of knowing everything to slight curiosity as you would with meeting someone new.

The second time you said something about yourself, he was listening intently. The two of you were just lounging around on the soft sofas in the living room. Most of the other agents had returned to their quarters or were practicing in the range so it was empty, save for you both.

You were drinking your own blend of coffee, Aamir had not seen anybody else drinking the same so he decided to try his luck and ask about it.

"Oh, I worked at a fairly bougie roastery when I was in Vietnam. Coffee there was perfect in quality and ever since I had a taste, I couldn't drink normal coffee anymore! I've spoiled myself quite a bit, haha."

It was the longest you had spoken at a time that day, he was all ears and when he heard you laugh? His heart, for the first time in a while skipped with joy. He was so enraptured by the little emotion you let ooze through your voice that he was stunned for a few seconds, before giving a quip in response upon seeing your gaze staring into his.

With each following conversation, you unveiled more snipets of your life. The info broker was hooked on each word. And, with each smile and giggle you sent his way, he found himself wanting to see them more and burn it into his memory.

Safe to say, you captured this man's heart without even trying. He'd sit down next to you during break and you'd tell him about the wonders you've seen. Off-handedly, you said you'd take him to see some of your favorite spots and honestly you nearly killed the man. He was blushing under that mask so hard, even Raze's most vibrant red spray paint couldn't compete.

He was in love, very much so.

Extras!

Oh, and don't tell him this: but you definitely saw the stink eyes he gave Sova. You'd just be talking to the initiator, reminiscing the good times you both had and Cypher--jealousy written all over that mask of his--would burn holes through Sova's back. He'd then drag you away to his workshop to ask for your opinion on something he was working on.

Sova noticed his actions as well but decided he wouldn't interfere for a while. He and the sentinel don't have the best of relationships but he trusted your judgement in people so he let it be. Brother figure Sova is looking out for you. He'd definitely murk the man if he did anything bad to you.

#.request #valorant #valorant x reader #valorant cypher x reader #valorant cypher #cypher #cypher x reader

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t-o-m-hollands · 3 years

Text

Summary: You travel to meet Tom who is away filming. Since he is sharing a house with Harrison who is expected back at any second you have to make a decision; be quick - or quiet?

Pairing: Tom x female reader

Word count: 2,3 k

Warnings: Extended warnings under read more - but this is smut and strictly +18.

Notes: This is sort of set in the same universe as The Bet just a few months later - BUT you do not have to have read that story to read this one, since there is literally zero plot in this. PWP, like truly. There isn’t even a hint of plot. A liiittle bit corny/fluffy. Also, they are both idiots, like I cannot stress this enough, they are both so dumb.

Also I am once again staying up too late to write smut while tipsy. It is what it is.

Extended warnings: Unprotected sex in established relationship. Little bit of stripping from Tom. Some teasing. Talk about bondage but no actual bondage in this. Spanking. Hand around throat; though no choking. Derogatory language.

You fall through the door and into each other’s arms and it would have been romantic if he had managed to catch you as you lounge at him and remain standing on his feet. As it is, you both tumble over and fall to the ground.

“Tom, for god’s sake!”

“Oh hush! At least you landed softly on my chest! I took the hard hit!”

“Babe, there’s nothing soft about your chest and we both know it”.

But by this point his lips have been removed from yours for too long and so instead of arguing he pulls you in for a kiss, deep and raw and hungry, his hands in your hair pulling you closer towards himself; closer, closer and closer still. Your hair is loose and your lips are bitten and wet from his kisses and his jeans feel uncomfortable tight over the crotch. Your so fucking beautiful and for a moment he thinks about just fucking you right here and now; on the hard wooden floor of the hallway, surrounded by a mess sneakers, umbrellas and Wellington boots. He’d fuck you quick and hard and fueled up on lust Or perhaps make it to the dining room table and bend you over that; your beautiful ass in the air and his fist in your hair. Or maybe up against the hall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks into you.

But the threat of Harrison returning any moment feels very real indeed, even as you’re on top of him, rubbing yourself against him like a cat in heat. Groaning at what he has to do he lays his hands on the sides of your hips, making you stop your grinding. Pushing you upward you soon take the hint and stand up, pulling you with him and honestly, he was going to lead you into the bedroom - honestly, he was. But you look at him and bite your swollen lip, still wet from kisses and suddenly you’re pushed up against the wall, your lips back where they should always be; on him.

He’s hard as a rock; has been since he picked you up at the airport. On the drive back to the house the studio has rented for him and Haz while they’re filming your hand never left his lap, just kept stroking and stroking his dick. You had offered to give him a blowjob and honestly, he’d lie if he said he wasn’t considering it. But just the thought of your mouth around his dick after months spent apart has him seeing stars. He would never have been able to concentrate on the road if that happened. That and the fact that he had been able to think about nothing else than coming inside your warm cunt for weeks now.

“We gotta be quiet babe, Haz will be back soon” he says, in between urgent kisses, his hand over your breast; playing with your nipple through the fabric. “Think you can be quick?”

“Honey, I didn’t travel for eight hours to be quick.”

“Fine, then you’ll have to be quiet” and before you have time to respond he takes hold of your thighs and he lifts you up in the air. You fall forward, bending over his shoulder, and he slaps your ass as he walks over to the bedroom. Somewhere on the way you drop your ballerina flats but he keeps walking. You half-laugh, half-protes the entire way there, kicking your legs and ordering him to put you down. When he reaches the bed he does and you fall down on it; landing with your back against the soft mattress.

Your gorgeous legs are spread and so much skin visible in your short jeans shorts; his white dress shirt that you have burrowed tucked into the hem. You bite your lip again and look up at him through your lashes, knowing very well the effect it has on him.

Well, two can play that game.

Looking you right in the eye he brings his hands to the hem of his shirt and slowly lifts it, revealing the muscles underneath. Pulling it over his head he throws it on the clean ground; having taken the time yesterday to clean up the mess of the house before your visit. He kicks off his shoes and then, smiling wickedly at your wide eyes, he places his hands on his belt, slowly unfastening it.

You reach out to touch him but he reprimands you. “Nah-ah, don’t think so darling. Take off your shirt.”

To his endless surprise; you do what you're told. Unbuttoning your shirt and discarding it on the floor you smile up at him. You aren’t wearing a bra.

“You traveled all the way here like that?” He asks in disbelief; and now it is he who wants to reach out his hands and touch you.

“I don’t like the thought of them seeing my bra in those scanner things at the airport” you shrug.

“So…” and he rubs his forehead, not knowing what else to do with himself “so you decided it was better to just not wear anything?”

You shrug again, unfaced. “Look, I’m not saying my logic makes sense but-”

“Seems a stretch to call it logic then, doesn’t it?”

“Tom” you whine, “I love you, but just remove your fucking pants and shove your dick in me already!”

And so he moves his hands to the zipper of his jeans, where a bulge is clear to see. Still smiling he slowly drags it down before shoving his trousers over his hips, letting them fall to the ground. Stepping out of them he kicks them to the side; leaving him just in his boxers which he swiftly removes as well.

Standing in front of you, completely naked, as you stare at his body with fervent hunger and blazing need makes him feel almost invincible.

“Take off your shorts” he orders and it surprises him how low and lustful his voice sounds, even to his own ears.

Again you do as he says and he stares at you as you slowly reveal more of the beautiful skin of your body. He wonders if you feel as adored when he looks at you as he does when you look at him. He hopes you do.

You remove your underwear as well, laying back against the bed to shimmy out of them. He takes a step forward, grabs hold of your ankles as you dangle them in the air. Placing himself in between them he takes one of your uplifted legs and he kisses the soft inside of your calf.

“Gonna tie these up one day” he says and kisses your skin again. “Tie them up and tease you for hours. Really take my time and drag it out until you’re shaking and breathless and so desperate to come all you can say is ‘please, Tom’”.

He hears how your breath picks up, and can practically sense you growing wetter. Your eyes are glossy with want already.

Reaching down to your core he slips a finger in you with ease. He snickers. “I’ve barerly even touched you and you’re already this wet?”

Since you can’t deny it you buck your hips up for more instead. He bends down and kisses the tender skin above your ribs with an open mouth. It’s soft and sweet and in sharp contrast from the finger moving inside you; that is all rough and quick movements.

Moving up he places his wet mouth around one of your nipples and you writhe underneath him, your legs hugging onto his waist. Sucking on the sensitive flesh, gently nippling down on it, he then blows cold air on the wet spot and you moan, bucking up against his hand; that is still moving in and out of you.

“More” you demand in another moan, and you lift your hips up, holding yourself up by your legs around his waist, pressing yourself against him

“This is why you should be tied up,” he says, biting your nipple again. You moan and continue to push yourself against him.

He leans back, grabs a hold of your hips, and twists you until you fall over on your stomach. He spanks your ass, hard; one time, two times, three times, four times. Two on each side. It only has you writhing all the more underneath him.

He squeezes the soft flesh of your ass in his hands and groans. Moving his hands over your lower back, pressing his palms in almost as if massaging you. Your body is tense, but he knows your body well, knows its because of anticipation for what’s to come. Slowly he removes his big hands from your back, instead slowly dragging his short-nailed finger up over your spine. He watches in fascination as you shower beneath him.

While he was away filming he had bought a guitar. Had practised the instrument for hours trying to make it play him the perfect sound. But as he drags his finger up your spine again and you whimper he knows that your body is the only instrument he wants to perfect.

“Ready?” He asks.

“Yes” you say, a little breathlessly.

And again his palm connects with your skin, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud in the empty house. Again and again and again he does it. You squirm beneath him, gasping and moaning and clasping at the sheets; pushing back against his palm, eager for more. He spanks you until your skin feels warm, so he moves his hand in soothing circles over the tender place as you breathe out a sigh.

“Come here” he says, and his voice is gruff and tender with need for you. Pulling you up towards him until you back is pressed against his chest, your legs widely spread so your thighs are outlining his and your glistening wet cunt is pressed against his dick.

Playing with the tip of his cock, teasing it against your entrance he whispers rasperly in your ear, “think you can be quiet?”

You look over your shoulder, meeting his eyes, and nod eagerly.

“You sure?” he asks, continuing to tease you. “You see, Haz could come back any second now and we wouldn’t want him to hear you, would we?”

You shake your head, and god, you really must want this because you waste no time arguing with him. So he decides to reward you and slips himself into you; pulls your body even closer to yours.

You bite your lip to hold back the moan but it slips through your lips anyway.

He moves a hand up to your throat, places his Rolex clad wrist around it, and the other hand around your waist; guiding you up and down over his cock, as if you were bouncing in his lap. Your breasts move up and down with the movement and honestly he wishes he had more arms so that he could touch you everywhere at once.

When another moan falls from your lips he shushes you gently in your ear, “ now, now” he warns.

He lifts you higher up and higher up by each movement, before pressing you down harder and deeper against him

And then you both hear it. A car driving up the driveway.

Haz is home.

He slams you down against him again and the ecstatic sound that leaves you is positively animalistic. He reaches for your panties, discarded on the side of the bed. Balling them up he moves it to your mouth and obligingly you open it. He shoves them in before tenderly kissing the side of your lips. Your eyes are tight shut in concentration, trying with all your might not to make a sound as you hear footsteps walking by outside.

“Remember, quiet now” he warns, mouth pressed against your ear.

Yet you make a deep, wanton moan and he fuck up into you even harder, grinds your hips against his until your eyes roll back in pleasure.

“Think you like this darling” he whispers again against your ear. “Think you like the thought of maybe getting caught. Think you like knowing that this is what I’ll think of for those months we spend apart and I gotta take care of myself.”

He pushes you up and forward, until you’re on your hands and knees for him and with one swift movement he’s inside you agains; the angle so perfect it has him seeing stars.

“Almost made me come before I was ready there” he says and spanks your ass, though not as hard as last time.

You're slick and wet and he can see it running down your thigh and he wants to groan in pleasure but outside he’s pretty sure Harrison is talking to the neighbor, looking for his keys.

He pulls you up closer to him and slams into you until you're clenching around him, your skin so hot against his thighs it feels like they are on fire. He knows you love this position and its clear in your tense, arched body.

He leans down and to out of breath now to whisper he says in a hushed voice, “he’ll be inside the house soon, you gonna be quiet? Or is Haz about to find out just how slutty you are?”

Your answer is yet another moan, muffled against your panties.

So he fucks into you; hard and fast and deep and it’s like the pleasure is everywhere; clouding his eyes from seeing clearly and stopping his lungs from breathing freely. Your toes are curled and your back is arched and it all feels so overwhelmingly and blissfully intense; so fragile and vivid and frantic it’s like neither of your body quite knows what to do with all the pleasure. Like you are both about to combust from it.

His arms and legs are shaking with the effort and he feels sweat running down his back. But then you shake as well and he feels you convulse around him and god - it’s heaven.

It takes a while before you both return to reality. He removes your underwear from your mouth and gently kisses your lips; pulling you in close against him.

“Love you” he says and kisses the tip of your nose. “Thank you for visiting.”

#tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland fanfic

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erensproudsimp · 3 years

Text

One Night Stand

Gojo Satoru x reader

⚠ Sexual Content Ahead ⚠

Summary : Working as a stripper, it was your job to please men for your daily bread until the day you met a handsome man offering to give you a ride back home, naughty things happening along the way.

Word count : 2.4 k

Looking at yourself in the mirror in the changing room all decked up in your glittery lingerie, ready to put on a show for disgusting men. Painting your lips a bright red, you smacked them together to spread the colour. Being a stripper sure brought a lot of money in which made you so happy but the fact that you had to please men for it didn't sit right in you. Taking a deep breath, you exited the room, your five inch heels clacking the surface with your each step. Gesturing your colleagues a 'hi' by waving your hand, you entered the area where the clientele would be.

Electronic music echoing around the entire room, gracefully you walked to your respective pole with the other stripers going to theirs. Prepping yourself up and warming up a little, you made sure you were perfect to earn more money. Led lights falling on your being as you were made among the centres of attraction for people to feed their eyes on your show. Placing your manicured hand on the cold pole, the other on your hip, you waited for people to enter the club so that you could start dancing. Your golden lingerie really brought out your curves and your sex appeal. Sparkling under the stage light, feeling like the bad bitch you are, you could bet your ass that money would be flying like nothing in your pockets.

Once people started entering the club, you started your performance to attract them to you. Gliding your heels on the floor, you split your legs, synchronizing your movements to the beat of the song currently being played, your sensuality bursting into the most vibrant dance. Your legs extended like a primal ballerina as you stood up, brushing your hair off your face before dragging it down your chest to finally grab your pole.

For the most part, you felt as though the front people were your main audience unaware of two bright blue eyes analyzing your every move. As you turned your body, your eyes caught caught a man sitting not far away in the back, him less adept at hiding his gaze than you. He had the kind of face that made you stop in your tracks. One glance at him was enough to make you fall on your knees for him. He dropped his eyes momentarily before looking away, his head tilted on one side supported by his arm placed on the couch, a hopeful smile playing on his lips as he pushed his dark glasses back.

Ignoring him, of course, you continued dancing making old men's pocket hurt. At some point, you became bored with staying on the stage and got off to approach your clients closer. Catwalking nearer to the man who caught your attention, you halted to the couch beside him where a blond man wearing glasses was drinking what seemed to be a glass of whiskey. Licking your lower lip, bending down to drag your index finger on his cheeks, you saw in the corner of your eye, the white haired man staring at you with a frown. More money thrown you, you sat on the man still sneaking peaks at your main interest for the night to see if your actions were affecting him.

Not so long later, you got bored of the blond guy, blowing a kiss at him, you finally went over to your target. Oh lord, to say he was just handsome was an understatement of his true attractiveness. He was beyond gorgeous, having the beauty equivalence of probably a god, he was radiating so much power. Dressed in a tight white shirt half buttoned, his abbs see through, with black pants, he laid on the furniture with crossed arms. However, upon seeing you approaching him, he opened them, placing them on the couch beside his shoulders.

Sitting next to him, you inclined yourself towards him, your hand on his thigh.

"Enjoying this night?"

"Now that you're close to me I sure am enjoying it more," he flirted.

"Oh really, is there any other thing I can do to make your night even better handsome?" you cooed in his ear.

"Hoooo? you'd do anything?"

"A n y t h i n g."

"Well then if you're insisting, please yourself on me, that would make me happy", he smugged.

Something about him was so alluring, from his appearance to his melodious voice, it made you want to know how his lips move in a kiss, how his hands move around your curves.

"As you wish dear sir."

Wasting no time, you hopped on his lap, your legs spread on his each side. Your hands resting on his shoulder playing with his hair from the back, you gazed into his eyes, his glasses falling his nose bridge. Irises so blue, as though containing all the blues of the sky to the ocean spanning the galaxy. Hell, they might even be the definition of a black hole due to their insane gravitational pull though which anyone could be sucked into.

Straddling his thighs, you rocked your hips back and forth, you grinded on him.

Just swaying to the music in the background, you traced his jawline with your tongue. Not even once did the man touch you as he just watched you do whatever you wanted. His smirk was like liquid adrenaline was being injected into your blood stream making your body tingle.

"Look at you, ignoring your work to grind on me, what a dirty slut you are", whispering in your ear he grabbed your hips to lift you and turn you so that your ass was right on his growing bulge.

Raising yourself up and down, you bounced on him. Intoxicated by the alcohol and cigarettes in the air, your vision blurry, hands moving down your boobs to your waist. Twerking on him, you felt him growing bigger. You bent back, your head placed on his shoulder, giving him a subtle smile. His hot breath fanned on your face, he smelt like booze with a faint vanilla. Cupping your breasts with his big hands, you slapped them away as you stood up to sit next to him. Kissing his cheek with your one hand on his other side of his face, you felt something entering your bra; the man was stuffing a bundle of money in.

Wingling your fingers, you waved him bye as you were going in the changing room to freshen up yourself. That was a lot of money he gave you, you thought while counting but there was one odd thing in it.

There was his business card in it. There was his phone number in it. Was this his way of telling you to contact him?

Shrugging your thoughts off, you typed him a message.

You : Hey handsome, so what's up with the business card?

Him: When does your shift ends?

You: Midnight.

Him: Great. You'll see a white limousine outside. Wanna come in for a ride at home?

A gorgeous man offering to give you a lift? Damn you couldn't miss this opportunity.

You: Sure thing, see you later.

After fixing your makeup and adjusting your clothes, you went out to slay the night until your little date. You couldn't wait until then.

When your shift was finally over, you rushed to change into your black mini satin dress you wore coming to work as well as ensuring you looked charming.

Your black handbag over your shoulder, you went outside, the fresh air of the cold night hitting your face. Lungs feeling so fresh, you were excited to see him again.

Indeed there was a white limousine parked at the entrance of the club. Upon seeing you arrive, the man asked the driver to unlock the doors so as to let you inside.

"Thank you so much for this offer, Mr?

" Oh please, name's Gojo Satoru but you can just call me Gojo", he said loosening his tie to remove it. Goodness, that was hotter than the core of the earth mixed with the sun's heat.

"Sure thing, Gojo~", seductively you said while you took a place on a seat beside him.

"Care for some wine?" he demanded while pouring a glass.

"Why not?"

"So, where do you live?" Gojo asked handing you the glass.

After telling him your address, he signaled the driver who understood the message and pulled up the black windshield to leave both of you in private.

The bitter yet sweet liquid warmed your body making you feel more relaxed after a long work. Throwing your head back, you let the wine disperse in all your veins, Gojo watching you while drinking his.

"I loved your lapdance, it was so erotic and you looked so...hot," he complimented scooching closer to you.

Tucking your hair behind your ear, he removed his glasses to place on the counter nearby. He stroke a finger down your throat, making you shiver. Holy shit that felt good.

"Not going to lie but you caught my attention the moment I saw you dancing on the stage. That golden lingerie hugging your perfect curves was enough to make me drool for you", whispering in your ear while his hand was sliding the strap of your dress off your shoulder.

More shivers down your spine.

Leaning in his touch, your hands reached to unbutton his shirt. Lips on your neck. Hot. Sinful. Goosebumps rose up your flesh. Gojo's shirt was on the floor, his chest threatening to make you swoon. It was so hard not to stare at the most beautiful male body you've ever seen.

"Love what you're seeing?" his voice came out husky.

"Very much", you replied before colliding your lips with his.

Big, warm hands stroke up your torso to cup your breasts. You jerked at the bold move, moaned in his mouth.

Feeling his smirk, he pulled back trailing his tongue down your neck to your collarbone before drawing back. As you straightened your back, his hands unzipping your dress.

His eyes went big when he saw that you weren't wearing a bra. His gaze caressed your plump boobs. Wasting no more seconds, he attacked the area with his mouth making you yelp.

"Fuck's sake, you're so gorgeous", he complimented in between sucking your nipple.

Your stomach clenched. Never had you craved a man with such hunger, never had you been more aware of your own femininity so much.

Pulling away, Gojo turned to take something from the table counter behind him. Taking this moment to take a deep breath to calm your quick heartbeats, you removed your hair from your face. Curious to know what he was doing, you tried to sneak a peak until he turned around to face you, in his hand, an orange slice.

Your head was filled with questions.

"Open your mouth", he ordered and you obeyed, of course.

"stick your tongue out."

Doing as he asked, you took it out as he pressed the fruit on it making its juices spreading throughout your mouth, even spilling down your jaw to your neck. The citric acid running down your skin so slowly as Gojo trailed his tongue down chasing all the droplets, his other hand holding your head by your hair.

"Hmmmm"

"You really like me licking you huh?" Gojo smirked.

"Ooooooohhh"

Unbuckling his pants, he slid them down leaving him in his boxers, his hardened dick pressed, like you were in your soaked panties. Unable to resist the temptation, you pulled them down releasing it from its trap. His dick sprung free, Gojo could no longer contain the heat he felt inside of him to bury himself deep in you.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked before taking off your underwear.

"Why would I after how wet I am for you?"

Loving your answer the man tore the cloth from you revealing your soft folds to him.

"I hope you can handle me, I'm not going to go easy on you~", Gojo warned teasingly placing his member at your entrance.

"Go ahead, let's see if you can wreck me because I'm pretty sure I can handle you", you sneered.

"Heh~ well, we'll see about that in a few", he said before thrusting into you without any warnings.

"Ah!"

Throwing your one leg on his shoulder to gain a better position to fuck you, Gojo was not slow into gaining speed. This man was like an animal, so violently pushing and pulling in and out of you.

Your moans and heavy breaths was so loud, you were sure that the driver was hearing everything but Gojo didn't care about it one single bit. All that mattered to him at that moment was to fuck you into oblivion.

Right before either of you could come, Gojo pulled out to turn your body on the car couch, your boobs pressed against the leather, your ass lifted up as Gojo inserted himself again in you. This time you couldn't help it but let out whimpers.

"What's with the whimpers? I thought you could handle it, didn't you say so?" he ridiculed you.

Lost in a haze, you could barely hear his words, only feel his thrusts deep in you. He didn't seem to be stopping any time soon.

He grabbed your hand and pressed it against your stomach.

"Can you feel how deep I am into you right now? You like it don't you? Being fucked like the shameless whore you are?"

"Ahhh-yes I do, I do."

Feeling your climax getting closer and closer, you gripped the couch for dear life as you were going crazy with this insane anount of pleasure.

"Ah- Gojo-I-I'm-"

"It's okay my love, you can release it, I'm close too."

It wasn't long before you were screaming his name as he filled your insides with his hot fluid. Pulling your hair as he did so, he collapsed on the couch beside with you laying on top of him rubbing circles on his chest.

Remembering that you had to get off to go home, you took your clothes from the floor and wore them while Gojo was admiring you.

You wished that this could last forever but alas it was just a one night stand as Gojo left you at your home saying a final goodbye to never meet again.

End.

Thank you for reading this. :)

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death-fears-by-deaf-ears · 3 years

Text

swan lake || t.h.

pairing: tom holland x reader

summary: you can't stand tom holland, the guy in your ballet ensemble. But when you two get the roles of Odette and the prince, you two will have to put your differences aside and learn to work with each other.

word count: 2.5k

warnings: language

chapter one

Not again.

This was starting to become a recurring theme - it was Monday and your bus had just left without you. You mumbled profanities under your breath, your duffle bag slung across your shoulder. Frustrated you slumped against a street lantern, when you felt the first drops of rain on your skin. You let out a groan of anger and pulled your hood up over your head, cursing yourself for staying up too late last night. But because you anticipated this, you had already put on your leotard and tights on at home, so when you got to class you’d only have to strip your clothes and start your warm up.

Last week you had gotten whacked on the head with a newspaper for being that late, but with a little bit of luck you wouldn’t have to endure that today.

When you arrived in the ballet studio almost an hour later you were soaked and freezing. You ran through the halls of the studio, already in the process of taking off your jacket and shirt, revealing your dancing clothes underneath. Three minutes left to go.

Your usual locker was already occupied, making you rush to the next best one, ripping the door open, throwing all your clothes in there and only taking your training ballerinas out and slamming the door shut. You had done your hair in the bus already, so it was in a low tight knot. You put your shoes on, running toward the door. One minute left.

“How kind of you to join us today on time,” Sophie, your dance teacher said, following you with her eyes as you took your position. Everyone in the room was staring at you and you could feel their looks drilling in your back. Tom next to you was bowing his head down, obviously trying to hide his laughter. You shot him a poisonous look, rage as well as embarrassment burned inside you. Tom had a special power of making your anger levels go from 0 to 100.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” you said, your face running hot.

“Let’s start with the warm up, shall we?”

“Why is everyone whispering and staring at me,” you whispered through gritted teeth to your friend Hannah, who was helping you stretch. “Ouch!”

“Loosen up,” Hannah whispered, pulling you even closer to her. You were sitting in front of each other on the floor, pushing the others’ legs out. “Haven’t you seen the role sheet today?”

“Fuck,” you whispered, partially because of the stretch, but also because you had forgotten that today the roles for the upcoming show were published. You must’ve not seen the sheet in the locker rooms. “What role did I get?”

Hannah shook her head as you pulled her towards you, adjusting her pose. “You got the role of Odette.”

You immediately let go of Hannah, slapping your hand on your mouth, making her fall forward. You grabbed her shoulders. “I got the main role?” You whisper-screamed, trying your hardest not to get caught by Sophie. “Well, who is playing the prince?”

Hannah cringed and turned her gaze to the side, where a few of your colleagues were standing. Instead of stretching they were very obviously flirting with… Tom. He must’ve noticed you staring at him, as he turned his head and met your gaze. Both of you rolled your eyes as you turned away from each other. “You can’t be serious,” you said.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah huffed, sweat pearling on her dark forehead. “But hey, congrats on the role?”

You finished stretching and continued with your training, going through forms and positions, polishing your moves and getting scolded for flailing your arms too much. As you were approaching your first break, Sophie stepped towards you.

“We will begin with your training for Swan Lake today at 3, make sure to bring your pointe shoes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you said, your heart fluttering at the idea of dancing to your favourite show. The fluttering quickly vanished when you noticed Sophie walking up towards Tom, telling him the same. So you’d already dance with him today.

You tried to shake the bad feeling and it mostly worked, since focusing on your dream always made things easier. Dancing and performing was a way for you to let go, to get completely lost in the story and think about nothing else. There wasn’t much in the world that could ruin that for you.

Oh how wrong you had been.

“I have never seen people with less chemistry than you two,” Sophie sighed. You have never heard her be this exasperated and desperate. “Do you two even dance? Are you really professional dancers? Where did your grace go, where did the love for dance go! Look each other in the eyes for God’s sake!”

“It’d be easier if you didn’t squeeze the hell out of me,” you spat through gritted teeth.

“It’d be easier if you weren’t this heavy,” Tom spat back, his face falling immediately after he realized what he had said.

You jumped out of his grip, staring in disbelief. “Well-” you stammered, not knowing what to retort. “How about you get a little stronger…”

Sophie whacked him with her newspaper over the head. “That is NOT something you say to a lady!” Tiny strands of hair were escaping her neat bun, making her look even more stressed than she was. “We’re finishing this part today and then you two can go home.”

“Sorry,” Tom mumbled under his breath.

“Save it,” you said, taking your start position. Kneeling down on the floor, Odette would wait for the prince to come and lift her up to start the dance with her. In the original the two would fall in love the minute they laid eyes on each other. You tried to do the choreography justice, although your dance partner made it incredibly difficult for you.

“Smile!” Sophie shouted, making you two put on fake plastic grins.

“I’ll spit on your face on stage,” you said through your grin as Tom lifted you up, making you look down on him.

"Do that and I'll rip your lashes off," he said softly while lowering you on the ground again.

You tried to continue the choreography without any incidents but you couldn't help but feel every step, every nudge to be executed with a hint of passive aggression. Tom basically let you fall on the ground instead of putting you down, you avoided each other's eyes, grabbed too harshly, turned too sharply.

"Alright," Sophie said after about four hours of it. "I can't watch this any longer. You both know the choreography, and that's all I can teach you for now. If you don't know how to be nice to each other, don't bother coming to me for help until you do. We'll work on the solos and the other dances first, until you two calmed down. Dismissed."

You slumped down on the floor, rubbing your face. You untied your shoes and took them off, throwing them in your bag. This was going to be hard.

“So how was it?” Hannah asked while the two of you sat on the studio floor.

As an answer you slammed your pointe shoes on the ground several times, breaking them in a way that made them comfortable for your foot. “Take a wild guess.”

She raised her eyebrows as she was sewing the elastic band into her shoe. “What did Sophie say?”

“She refuses to work with us anymore until we get it together,” you grumbled. You slammed your fist on the top of your shoe, softening the box. Suddenly the door opened, making you and Hannah turn your heads.

Tom was marching in the room, directly towards you.

“What the hell,” you mumbled, putting your shoe down and looking up at him as he stopped in front of you. “Can I help you?”

“Are you free today after class?”

You raised an eyebrow, looking at him up and down and smirked. “Are you asking me out?”

Tom crossed his arms, not saying anything. His foot was tapping impatiently on the floor which was tiled with dancing tiles.

“Yeah, I am. See you then,” you said, rolling your eyes. You waved as a good bye, signalling him to leave you alone. You turned to Hannah. “He told me I was too heavy to lift.” “Excuse me?” You shrugged, taking the thread and the needle. Your friend slapped her hands on her thighs in exasperation. “What an ass.”

You finished sewing and breaking in your shoes while talking about anything other than Tom - mostly Hannah’s new date she was going to see that very day. It was nice talking about something else, preparing yourself for class. You could feel that today was going to be a slow one - you eased into your shoes, then into your stretches, and finally into your training, testing out the waters with your new footwear and getting more comfortable as the day progressed. Your mind was empty, completely free of oppressive and depressing thoughts. Your body moved in unison with the music, following the tides of the melody, back and forth seemingly weightless and freed of gravity.

Before you knew it afternoon rolled around and class finished. You packed your stuff, and settled down in the locker room to have some lunch and lie down, coming down from your training.

As always your lunch break went by way too fast. You stood up, shaking your limbs and grabbing your things to go back to the now empty studio. Tom was nowhere to be found, so you warmed quickly up on your own. Your body had cooled down a bit, and you didn’t want to pull a muscle or something, so you did a few squats, jumping jacks and push ups to get moving again. You took your position at the railing in front of the mirror, practicing positions and movements, taking your sweet time. The clock ticked in the back of the room, showing 3.16pm. Where the hell was Tom?

At that moment the door swung open.

“Took you long enough,” you said in an arabesque pose.

“Sorry,” he said, getting in and throwing his duffle bag in the corner of the room.

You put your foot down, looking at him properly. You raised your eyebrows at his childish demeanor. You were already annoyed by him. “Bad day?”

He plonked down on the floor and began to put on his shoes. “I just want this day to be over.”

“Well then cheer up, do you expect me to dance with an energy as bad as yours?”

He looked at you incredulously. “Can’t I be in a bad mood? Do I have to be all sunshine and daisies all the time?” His voice rose now, making you back away a little, but you weren’t having none of that. You had an idea.

“I just said to lose the fucking attitude,” you said, getting louder now as well.

“What if i don’t want to?! God, you’re annoying!”

You took a deep breath putting force in your voice. “Then scream it out, because I don’t want to deal with this!” His hands turned into fists, his eyes lighting up a tiny little bit at the memory your words just triggered. But he was still angry. “Fuck you!”

“No, fuck YOU!”

And without a cue you two just started wordlessly screaming in the other’s face, a prolonged and agonizing scream, throwing it all out. Dancing didn’t require vocal chords, so you had no qualms absolutely shredding yours. You didn’t know if anyone else was in the building, but you didn’t care.

As you two ran out of breath your shoulders slumped, moving heavily up and down as you gasped for air. The room was awfully quiet except for your breathing. Your bodies seemed to mirror each other, more in sync than when you tried to be. Destruction seemed to be more constructive to the relationship between you two than anything else.

You swallowed, standing up straight. “Can we start now?”

Again you were on the floor, folded over in your starting position. You had decided to train without music, so you jumped a little as Tom’s hands touched your wrists, softer than usual. He lifted you up off the floor, placing his hands on your waist. This dance wasn’t particularly difficult or demanding, but for it to work you need a prince who guides Odette just enough without gripping her too tight, and an Odette who knows how much to rely on the prince and how much on herself. There were a few hang ups here and there, but you danced through the whole routine without saying anything once, enjoying the flow of your movements. The dance was still clinical, mostly about getting the order of the moves right. It ended with Tom lifting you up, and slowly lowering you down, and bringing your faces together, hinting at a kiss between you two. You still needed to work on that part.

“So,” he said as you jumped away as the dance ended. “With music this time?”

You nodded. “Maybe don’t grip me this tight when I do the pirouettes,” you said. You took a sip of water and put the bottle away. “I can basically do them on my own, just give me a quick spin and I’ll be able to do them faster.”

“Alright,” he said, getting into position. “But try to do your moves independently from me. It’ll make them look better.”

You folded over on the floor and waited for the music to start. When it started you closed your eyes for a second anticipating the touch on your wrists. Still it sent a jolt through you. “Softer,” you said as you did your pirouette, and the grip on your waist turned to a fleeting touch every few moments, accelerating your turns.

“Lean in properly,” Tom said as you leaned in his hands to the side to lift your leg. You did as told and managed to lift your leg even higher and with less effort. He lifted you by the waist, brows furrowed the slightest in concentration, turning in a circle. Your hands rested on his shoulders, eyes trained on him. You wondered if Odette really fell in love with the prince on sight.

The routine went smoother with each time you tried it, your movements dynamic and easy like a well oiled machine.

After a while you decided to call it a day, and after you awkwardly said your goodbyes, you went home. Suddenly you didn’t know how to act around him, everything you did felt clumsy and weird. You were used to being annoyed by him and just being generally mad at him. But now that you had to cooperate and put those things aside, what was left?

a.n.: this is the first chapter of maybe two or three, lmk what you think! this is the first time i post to tungle, be kind lmfao

#tom holland #tomholland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fanfic #tom holland one shot #tom holland smut #tom holland fandom #mcufam #tom holland x you #tom holland x fem #tom holland x reader

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cagestark · 4 years

Text

The Rest it Kills

About this: ballerina!peter and mobster!tony. Starker. Physical and emotional between established quentin beck/peter parker.

THIS IS UNFINISHED. Anyone is welcome to continue it.

“FRIDAY, baby? Do you have the shot?”

It’s a celebration, which does nothing to explain why the room gets quiet as soon as Tony enters it. Around the table are four of his best and brightest, the handful of underlings that were instrumental in helping Tony execute his vision of how to repay Adrian Toomes for encroaching upon his weapons market. For a job well done, he’d invited them up to the penthouse to have at his expensive collection of spirits.

He’d left them alone for only a half hour to make a few calls, but now upon his return they were shifty eyed and babbling about something inconsequential, a sure sign that they had hastily changed the subject.

“Alright,” Tony says, pouring himself a glass of scotch. “Out with it. I’m a paranoid bastard at best. At worst?—well. Ask Toomes.”

“It’s nothing bad, Tony,” Rogers says. If the fact that Rogers hadn’t told a lie his entire life didn’t put Tony at ease, then his clear eyes and voice did. Rogers was his number two, and they got on thick as thieves. He’s about as likely to lie to Tony as the sun is not to rise.

“Then I’m not angry,” Tony says, taking the empty seat. “But now I’m curious. Which is worse?”

“Angry,” Wilson says in that deadpan way that Tony just adores.

“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Tony says, finishing his scotch with a single gulp. He pours himself another.

It’s Romanov who—doesn’t break, per say. Tony isn’t convinced that there’s anything that could break Natasha, though if they were on opposite sides, he might have a few places he’d be willing to start. She must weigh the pros and cons and decide that letting Tony in on their little secret is the best move. Whether it’s best for her, for them, or for someone else, Tony can’t say.

She shifts and pulls out a piece of paper folded in half and tosses it across the table. Barnes and Rogers groan.

“Nat, you rat,” Barnes says.

“Wow,” she says, eyes glittering. “That rhymed, Bucky. It was beautiful.”

“What the fuck is this?” Tony wonders out loud as he unfolds the paper. It turns out to be nothing extraordinary. It’s a program for the New York City Ballet. The ballet is something new by Ratmansky, with principal dancers MAXIMOFF/PARKER. “Ballet? Taking up a new hobby, Barnes?”

“I thought I’d look great in the tights,” is all Barnes says. A deflection if Tony’s ever heard one.

“Their boy toy is the lead,” Romanov admits (to fresh groaning from around the table).

Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Boy toy? All three of you?”

“We are in the process of wooing him, so to speak,” Wilson admits, taking a swig from the bottle in front of him. “Barnes and Rogers might be willing to tag team him, but I want him all for myself.”

Rogers’s eyes flash, cold steel in the overhead lights. “Watch the way you’re talking about Peter. He’s not a piece of meat to be shared.”

“This is a goddamn episode of the Bachelor,” Tony laughs. “Which one is Peter: Maximoff or Parker?”

“Parker,” all four chime together.

“I feel like a father whose kids are going out on their first date. Are you buying him flowers? Are you opening the car door for him? Are you being safe?” Tony jests. He leans back in his chair feeling the warm thrum of the scotch in his stomach, glancing from one besotted man to the next.

“All that and more,” Barnes says. Then, with more than a little bitterness: “It’s the way he deserves to be treated.”

Tony lifts his brows. Natasha slides him the deck of cards so that he can shuffle. He’ll lose, especially once he’s as drunk as he hopes to be, but there’s no amount of money he could lose to them that wouldn’t amount to pocket change in his book. Consider it their bonus. As he deals, he asks, “Trouble in paradise?”

“You could say that,” Wilson mutters. “He’s not exactly on the market.”

“Never took you for a homewrecker, Rogers. Barnes maybe—“

“Hardly a home to wreck,” Barnes admits. “Not a happy one, at least. Pete’s boyfriend is a perverted, abusive low life.”

Tony goes stiff. The buzzing in his gut transfers to his brain, raw as the sizzle of electricity. In his mind, he sees himself as a young boy sitting cross-legged by the vanity in his mother’s room watching her apply creams and powders to disguise Howard’s abuse. All the heinous crimes Tony commits, that one is not among them. He doesn’t prey on the weak. It’s the only promise to his mother that he’s never broken.

“So, take care of him,” Tony says lowly. “Do you or do you not have certain skills and the balls to use them? You could kill this boyfriend and have it look like a hundred different accidents. What’s the problem here? Do you need daddy’s permission or something? Well, here, I’m giving it.”

Rogers scowls darkly at his hand. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I? Regale me, then! Because it sounds to me like I’m sitting around the table with a bunch of pussies.”

“Peter asked us not to,” Barnes says.

Tony blinks. “Is—is that it? Good God. Definitely a bunch of pussies. Kill the bastard anyway. If you can’t stomach it; if you don’t want your boy toy mad at you, give me a name and I’ll do it. It can be done before we’re four rounds into poker, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s not like we don’t have the stomach for it,” Wilson says. He’s the newest of their crew, but Tony appreciates his fearlessness, the open, unabashed expression he gives Tony when calling him out on perceived bullshit. “It’s about respect, man. We respect Peter’s wishes, and he trusts us because of it.”

The form of respect Tony is most acquainted with is fear. This softness he sees in his men right now translates to nothing short of weakness. Tony has never lived in a fairytale: the world is hard, and it makes hard people.

The rest, it kills.

“It’s complicated,” Rogers says to soothe Tony’s hackles. “If you knew the kid, you’d understand I think.”

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Barnes mutters. There’s movement underneath the table: one person kicking another, everyone jolting to get their legs out of the way. Barnes looks like he’s sucked on a lemon, or taken a shot of Nat’s imported whiskey. “Now he’s gonna go see Pete for himself and none of us will have a chance.”

As it is, Tony doesn’t have to lift a finger to meet Peter because Peter comes to him.

Tony knows the benefit of giving his men a nice long leash.

He doesn’t have to. With them living in the Tower, it’s within his rights to keep surveillance on all of them; except he knows that distrust breeds distrust. Wilson, Romanov, Rogers, and Barnes have earned his trust. For that reason alone, he removed the wiretaps and cameras in their rooms upon their arrivals.

But it’s still his home, and he watches it. Closely. Tony has just poured his third glass of scotch when FRIDAY alerts him that there’s an unauthorized presence in the Tower.

“Unescorted?” Tony asks. His blood thrums—this is the most exciting thing to happen all day.

“Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes are the ones who granted him entrance using Mr. Roger’s passcode, and they appear to be returning to Mr. Rogers apartment, judging by the floor number selected in the private elevator.”

Tony rolls his eyes, relaxing back in his chair. “A fuck, baby?”

Tony has asked them not to entertain guests at the Tower without his authorization, but Tony was young once. He knew the thrill of breaking rules, how good forbidden, casual sex could feel. He wouldn’t put it past Rogers and Barnes to have grown bored, considering they’ve been dicking each other down since they were teens. Just thinking about twenty years of monogamy has his cock shriveling. If they’re just bringing home someone to bend between them and spitroast, Tony’s not going to bother abandoning his scotch.

“Judging by the young man’s level of inebriation, I would hope not.”

Groaning, Tony sets his scotch aside. He gives it a mournful glance while he steps into a pair of jeans and straps up. “I’m coming back for you, baby,” he whispers. “Wait for me. Take no other lover. Fuck, I hate wasting my humor on an empty room.”

“I’m here, boss,” FRI offers.

Tony rolls his eyes.

When he knocks on Steve’s (Steve and Bucky’s apartment, considering how much time Bucky spends there) at fifteen minutes ‘til midnight on a Thursday, he would usually expect a bleary-eyed blonde to crack the door open, a dark apartment the backdrop behind him. Instead, the door opens and light floods out into the hallway. Steve is dressed in his pajamas, that is to say that he’s wearing only a pair of pajama pants that cling to his hipbones for dear fucking life.

“FRI said there’s someone in my building and they’re drunker than I am. Don’t you know that’s a crime?” Tony asks, leaning against the doorframe. The cock of his hip emphasizes where his gun rests, but Steve’s eyes don’t even flicker to it.

Nonplussed, Steve just steps aside to give Tony room to enter.

Slumped on the sofa, bundled underneath a large blanket is a young man. Handsome, his face is a testament to masculinity: cut jaw, straight nose, flat brows and thin lips. The only hint of estrogen is the clear, smooth skin that looks like he’s never grown facial hair in his life. Right away, Tony places his bets that he knows who this kid is.

Peter Parker is resplendent, large brown eyes that blink sluggishly, dragging all over Tony’s figure like his eyes can’t decide where to rest. Sitting up, the blanket falls away and reveals his naked chest which Tony eyes with appreciation. He has the optimal figure for a ballerino, obvious strength that is lean and not bulky.

One of the thin lips is split, bruise blooming like the most tender flower beside his mouth. The wound opens when the kid’s mouth falls open.

“Ohmygod,” he slurs, elbows shaking from lack of strength. He collapses back onto the comfortable couch. “Tony Stark is here.”

Were he not so sobered by the kid’s appearance, the bruises and blood and the red-rimmed eyes and raw mouth, he might be charmed. Bucky appears dressed no more than Steve and Tony, a glass of water in his hand. He helps Peter sit up and coaxes him to drink from the glass. Every other sip, Peter gets distracted, gaping from naked chest to naked chest. At one point, he falls asleep propped up on Bucky’s shoulder.

“He’s not drunk,” Tony says, standing back with Steve while they watch Bucky try to coax the kid into consciousness. “Drugged?”

Steve hums. A muscle in his jaw jumps from how he’s grinding it. “It’s not the first time. Beck and Peter have different tastes in the bedroom. Peter has mentioned before that sometimes after their date nights, he wakes up sore.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. And you haven’t killed this guy, yet?”

Steve looks downright tortured. He does it well; Tony’s always thought of him as a bit of a melodramatic. “Peter would never see us again if we did. We have to decide between being around to support and protect him or not being around at all.”

“If Beck was dead,” Tony says coldly. “There’d be nothing to protect him from.”

“James,” Peter groans, losing and finding purpose again during the middle of the word. “Tony Stark is here!”

“In the flesh, kid,” Tony says, stepping forward. Peter’s eyes trace down Tony’s chest, tracing the matting of scars over his sternum before dipping over his abs (nowhere near as pronounced as Barnes or Rogers’s, but Tony does alright). The kid licks his lips. He can’t help but preen a little, winking at Bucky who is rolling his eyes. “

The curiosity has been planted like a seed deep inside Tony’s mind. It sprouts, soaking up thoughts until it’s the only thing he can think about, Peter Parker, principal dancer, owner of three of his best-men’s hearts.

It leads Tony here, to the best seats money can’t even buy at the Lincoln Center in Manhattan, dressed in his best tuxedo, dark eyes focused on the curtain that glows gold. His heart pounds when it withdraws on a dark, empty stage, though he hardly knows why.

By the end, he has a better idea.

There’s no hiding a single sharp line or sensual curve in the outfits they wear onstage, the pale tights and leotards. There is nothing soft about him save for his curls, but still he leaps and lands silent on his canvas-clad feet. The dance is obviously based around Maximoff’s character with Peter there as her supporting love interest, but even when the red-head bewitches the audience with her fouettés, Tony can’t take his eyes off of Peter’s figure, bowed at the edge of the stage and watching her with the sweetest supplication. When it is time for his own variation, he leaps and bows with a boneless grace that does more than take Tony’s breath away. It makes him hard. It makes him think about those long, strong legs wrapped around his waist while he gives the boy his cock. It makes him think about peeling those tights off and wrapping them around the dainty, pale wrists. It’s a good thing no one can see his erection behind the wall of his box seat when they all stand to give their ovation.

Peter bows and flushes, hand in hand with Maximoff before standing behind her sweetly while the entire place howls for her.

Tony thinks that maybe he’s starting to understand.

No one bothers him where he leans against the wall beside Peter’s dressing room door. Whether it is his reputation or his thunderous expression, he knows not, but he’s grateful for the lack of distractions while he eavesdrops on the conversation taking place inside the dressing room between Peter and a man Peter calls Quent.

—work harder in the gym. Have you been tracking your calories on the app we downloaded together?

Yes, Quent, Peter mumbles, barely audible through the walls.

All of them?

I said yes.

Don’t get defensive, babe. I had three different audience members come to talk to me about your figure tonight. It pisses me off too! If you’re ready to leave the industry—

You know I’m not.

Quentin sighs, the long-suffering sigh of an argument that has been often visited. I know. This is your dream. Poor baby. It must be so tough, loving a job that hurts you so much. But I’m so proud of you for pushing through, Peter, you know that, right? I just wish you were a little more grateful to me for trying to keep you on the right track. You treat me like the bad guy.

Peter doesn’t respond.

Is there anything you need before I go? How’s your back feeling? Your lifts looked a little strained towards the end.

Feels okay. I’ve got everything I need back at my apartment. I’ll go home and put my feet up.

You deserve it. Just don’t forget to use that app okay? There’s a rustle, a struggle, maybe Peter trying to pull away. But Tony’s always had an overactive imagination. Hey. Don’t be like that. I love you.

You too.

Peter. Say it right.

Tony slips away from the door before Quentin can come out. From his place around the corner, Tony still has decent vantage to put eyes on this man for himself. Average height, average weight. Fit enough—for a civilian. Tony’s hands positively ache for a gun. Though he’s carrying, he’s no fool. Now isn’t the time, nor the place.

Once he’s sure the man is gone and not returning, Tony makes his way back to the door. It’s time to meet this young talent from Queens (yeah, Tony read the brochure) for himself. But when Tony goes to lift his hand to knock, the door swings open.

Peter blinks in surprise. He’s dressed in gray leggings that look soft as cashmere, a NYDC hoodie on, sneakers on his feet. Spilling from the sneakers’ tops are black fuzzy socks, meant to keep his toes warm from the cold New York weather.

He’s limping.

And gaping. It never gets old, seeing the way his reputation precedes him. He loves the way the crowds part for him on the street, loves the way waiters and waitresses stammer and struggle to serve him, the way eyes grow wide like Tony is a god in the flesh.

Tony extends a hand. “I’m Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you; you’re a very talented dancer.”

“Hi,” Peter breathes, taking Tony’s hand. Tony grips gently, feeling like he’s liable to break bones, the kid’s so fucking delicate. And cold. But Tony knows the saying: cold hands, warm heart. He wonders what that makes him. Peter works to regain himself, saying, “Trust me, I know who you are. It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you—they didn’t tell me that anyone important was going to be in the audience.”

“They who?” Tony asks. “Your managers, or my men?”

Peter swallows, face draining of blood. As much as Tony likes these games, they aren’t as enjoyable when the worm on his hook is as pretty and polite as Peter is. He puts on his most charming (softest) smile and makes sure to ask, gesturing to the messy dressing room behind him, may I come in?

Nodding, Peter opens the door wider. They both ignore how he was clearly on his way out, a backpack in his hands. He sits it down carefully by the vanity where he applied his stage makeup and seats himself on the chair, nudging his shoes off. When he stretches the arches of his feet, he winces. Tony gives him a moment to settle, stepping around the tiny room and taking in the smells and sights. On one wall is a picture of Peter and Quentin, arms around each other, beaming.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, voice quiet. Tony glances over at him. “Are your—men in trouble?”

“No,” Tony admits. “If they were, I certainly wouldn’t be here watching ballet; I’d be...busy.”

Peter sags in relief. The way his shoulders hunch throw his collar bones into sharp prominence where they peek out from the neck of his sweatshirt. “Oh thank God. They’re so nice, Mr. Stark, and I promise they don’t tell me anything about their—your work. James still insists that he works for some guy named Potts in New Jersey. Who’s Tony Stank, he asked me when I brought you up.”

Tony lets his lips twitch. “James’s middle name is Buchanan. Some call him Bucky. Tell him I said: now we’re even.”

Peter grins and it’s radiant. Tony feels an unsteadiness in his gut, like missing a step on the stairs or hearing a gunshot go off when he’s not been the one to pull the trigger. There’s just the gentlest stirring of jealousy when Peter mouths the name, Bucky, testing the way it tastes and wrinkling his nose in laughter.

“I can’t wait to see the look on his face,” Peter says. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Now might be the time to offer to let the kid use his given name but—Tony’s kind of into it. A few more instances of Mr. Stark rolling off that polished tongue might have Tony hardening in his tux. “Take a picture for me,” Tony suggests, sitting down on the cozy loveseat that is opposite of Peter’s vanity.

“You said—you enjoyed the show?” Peter asks, demure. The sleeves of his sweatshirt pass his wrists and most of his palms, turning his hands into adorable little sweater-paws. When he reaches up to bite at a nail, the sleeve slips down past his tiny wrist. Tony could surely wrap an entire hand around that wrist and have more to spare.

“It was incredible,” Tony admits. “I don’t usually have the attention span to sit through longer shows, but I was hooked from curtain rise to curtain fall, kid.”

Peter flushes, not so much in embarrassment as he does from the pleasure of being complimented. The flush of the drunk, though it seems Peter’s poison of choice is praise. Tony can’t help but want to spread him out on the sheets in his bedroom and say the sweetest, filthiest things to see if he can get the kid hard with just his voice. “I’m so glad. There hasn’t been as much press; new shows are always a little slow to take off. Wanda really is something special, though. She spent a season overseas and came back with so much more grace and growth—”

“Did she do well tonight?” Tony asks, unbuttoning the top button on his jacket to reveal the trim waist and vest beneath. He realizes what he’s doing just as the words are coming out of his mouth. Tony is flirting with Peter, and his flirtation is a force of nature. “I barely noticed her. Couldn’t take my eyes off of you, kid. How the hell you manage to dance that way, I can’t fathom.”

Now the flush hints at being flustered. He soaks in the way Peter’s face darkens, the way he hides behind one of his hands as the praise makes his posture go soft and waxy. His voice is remarkably even when he says, “Lots and lots of practice.”

“Your hard work pays off. I was captivated. I could tell that my men were the same.”

That topic sobers Peter, who sits up straighter. His pretty face twists, the question mark clear, the confusion too genuine for Tony to take it disrespectfully. On the contrary, Tony finds his forthrightness attractive when he asks, “Why did you come tonight, Mr. Stark?”

“I came to see what it was about you that has my men so enthralled,” Tony admits. With the kind of power he has comes the freedom to be honest, even painfully, brutally honest, because repercussions are either minimal or nonexistent.

“Did you figure it out?” Peter asks. Tony can’t help but feel like the kid is asking him for the both of them: what is it so special about me? Yes, this boy is fragile. That can’t be overlooked. But inside of him there’s still a spark of spirit ready to alight at any moment, grateful for any tinder that it’s given. He’s not Maria Stark. Not yet.

“Yes,” Tony says, standing. He rebuttons his jacket. “And I’d like very much to get to know you better, if you’re agreeable.”

“Me?” Peter’s head cocks, squinting up at Tony like he’s trying to see through him, to see what is really being said. “Why?”

Tony is used to letting his baser instincts guide him. He fucks who he wants, goes where he wants, says what he wants, and he owes no one alive an explanation for it. Many people have stopped asking Tony questions like why? Certainly none of Toomes’s men asked Tony why when he was torturing them forty-eight hours ago.

“Because I want to,” Tony says. He reaches down and picks up Peter’s backpack, putting it over his shoulder, the canvas bag downright gauche against his Givenchy tuxedo. “So what do you say, kid? You look dead on your feet, but would you like to be dead on your feet somewhere more private?”

Peter takes a long moment to think about it before tucking his toes into his shoes.

He belongs there amongst the backdrop of Tony’s penthouse. Peter glances around with all the coltish wonder of a newborn, running his fingers across the genuine leather of the sofa, leaning forward to look at the smart-glass table that Tony likes to prop his feet up on at night. Upon entering, Tony removes his tuxedo jacket and takes Peter’s hastily-removed sweatshirt. He appreciates the four inches of skin that appear when his shirt rides up, sticking to his outerwear.

He doesn’t appreciate the yellowing bruises dotting the kid’s biceps. Fingertips, he knows. His mother wore them round her neck like pearls.

“Is it okay if I take my shoes off?” Peter asks. He limped from the theater to the car, from the car to the elevator, and from the elevator to the couch where he collapsed with a sigh of relief. When Tony encourages him to, Peter nudges off his comfortable shoes and brings one foot up into his lap where he firmly presses his knuckles into the sole.

Peter asks for a drink. Tony gives him access to his wine, and the kid chooses for himself: a red, Chateau Margaux that smells of rose petals and hints at citrus and turns Peter’s cheeks pink. He doesn’t ask for a second glass, and Tony doesn’t offer it; the last thing he wants is the kid to think that Tony invited him here to take advantage of him.

“Tell me,” Tony asks, watching with rapt attention the faces Peter makes, like he’s dancing on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. “Tell me how you met my men. They aren’t exactly patrons of the arts.”

Peter’s face smoothes and he smiles. “It was Natalie, actually. She comes to shows every so often; I think her and one of the instructors know each other. Sometimes, she sponsors promising dancers.”

Romanov. Her and this instructor must truly know each other for her to be using a cover name around them. He files all this away in the darkest parts of his mind, should she ever become a problem someday. Tony has places reserved in his brain for all of his closest allies; already, he is making one for Peter too. Trust is earned but ever ephemeral.

“So Nat introduced you?”

“Yes. She sponsored me for a while, so we got to know each other pretty well. Once I mixed up my days and showed up at her condo when I wasn’t supposed to, and I met the others. Sometimes they would come to shows or send me gifts backstage.” Peter frowns. “I asked them to stop though because—Quent would just throw them all away.”

“Quentin Beck.”

“How’d you know?”

Tony just smiles and changes the subject. “You must know that the three of my men are half in love with you.”

Peter groans, pressing both his palms flat to his heated cheeks. “I had a feeling they were...interested. I hope they don’t feel that I’ve led them on, Mr. Stark. Nothing untoward happens at all when we’re together; sometimes I, I meet Steve and James for dinner, or other times Sam comes over to my apartment and we just talk, I promise. They’re so kind and it’s—it’s nice to have people to talk to.”

Peter stops talking abruptly, mouth open. He lets it fall closed with a click. When Tony prods him gently, he admits, “The attention is nice, too. It feels good, feeling wanted. Does that make me bad?”

Tony wonders what kind of miserable asshole would have Peter in his bed at night and not show the kid attention. It takes a special fuck-up to come home to a lover like Peter and not make him feel wanted. “Wanting attention? Not at all, kid. It’s the least of what you deserve.”

“You sound like them,” Peter says, smiling. “James and Steve and Sam. They’re always doing and saying nice things and telling me that I deserve them.”

“Good,” says Tony, one side of his mouth curling upwards. “I feel like a proud father; I’ve taught them well. Should you have those elevated?”

“Sorry?”

“Your feet. Elevation will keep down the swelling.” Tony places one of the expensive throw pillows on his lap and pats it invitingly. Peter stretches out without anymore prompting, toes flexing as his joints pop before curling in. The kid makes for an indecent picture, all long lines, absolutely nothing hidden by the leggings he wears.

“I asked them if I could meet you, you know,” Peter admits. He’s red from far more than the wine, now, judging by the way he has one hand pressed over his eyes to shield him from Tony’s gaze. As if it’s possible to. Peter peaks through his fingers. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Stark, but I’ve had a crush on you for ages.”

A crush. God. Tony doesn’t know what’s more hilarious, the sweet naivete of this boy or how it makes his cold heart flutter. Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Is that so? I’m not exactly crush material for the mentally stable.”

Peter hums. “When I was a kid, I had a lot of bullies. I started dancing when I was four years old, and not a lot of other boys understood. Sometimes, I used to daydream about you coming to protect me from them. To put them all in their place and then whisk me off to that house you gave a tour of on TV once, the one in Malibu.”

“Good taste,” Tony says. “You know, I used to do the same thing when I was young. I dreamed about someone coming to protect me and my mother, to take us both away somewhere where no one could ever hurt us.”

Sitting up on his elbows, Peter fixes Tony with a serious, solemn stare. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Is that what happened?”

“No. I became that someone. What happened to you?”

“I guess I gave up on the idea,” says Peter.

“Look. Maybe you don’t have your crush on me anymore, but I’m not the kind of man who can look away from innocent human suffering. My men told me about your boyfriend.” Peter sags back onto the couch and puts his face in his hands. He shakes his head from side to side, though no words come out. “This is my offer, kid. Let me take care of the problem. Let me be that knight in shining armor you wanted when you were younger.

#starker #cagewrites #unfinished fic #tw: abuse #ballerina!peter #mobster!tony

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