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lordprettyflackotara · 3 months

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chapter eight || hitchhiker || the proxies

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: humiliation like big time please read with discretion, degrading, rough sex, breeding kink, choking, face fucking

Masky knew time was running out.

In his hand sat a scrub brush, his fingers gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles were turning white. He knew they were running out of time. The Operator wanted you. He could see it now. He had been a blind fool to not realize it sooner. Your paranoia. Masky felt like a fool to ever even think that them being around you wouldn't cause this. He gritted his teeth as he scrubbed at your kitchen floor. They needed to do what they did best: disappear.

Toby was keeping The Operator busy, Hoodie occupied with finding Nova. They had agreed to let her live for your sake, so you would have someone while they were gone. Leaving meant one thing for certain: absolutely no traces were to be left behind that they were over there. No fingerprints, items, hairs, or any sign. Masky knew this is what they had to do. It was for your own good. They couldn't let The Operator have you. You didn't deserve this life of imprisonment. It was then your apartment door slammed open, your small figure shaking with rage. Masky's eyes widened, his expression hidden under his mask. You slammed the door behind you, reaching around to your back waistband.

You weren't proud of your decision to steal from Nova. She was your best friend. But as you clutched the metal piece in your hands, you had never felt more alive. You held out the stolen gun, aiming it at Masky's crouched figure.

"Who are you?" You asked coldly. You had never felt more explosive with emotions, your heart racing. "My name is Masky. I am a mere alter created by the Tim you know and love," Masky said flatly. You narrowed your eyes, your eyebrows furrowing. "Explain yourself," You ordered. Masky raised his hands, slowly rising to his feet. He noted you wearing his jacket even as you pointed a gun at him. "There's too much to explain, what you need to know-" Masky began, your audible scoff cutting him off. Your face was twisted in anger and betrayal, your hands beginning to visibly shake. "I don't give a shit what you think I need to know. Tell me everything. From the beginning. Leave out any details and i-i'll shoot!" You exclaimed.

Masky straightened his shoulders, eyeing you through his mask. "When you met us we had just gotten done with murdering Detective Williams, or whatever his name is. They all blend in together after a while. May I sit? We're going to be here for a while," Masky asked. He gestured to your coffee table. You frowned, cocking your gun towards the table. Masky recognized it to be a python. The same one Nova had threatened to kill Toby with. "I can listen to the story without your mockery. Detective Winston had a family. He had a community that looked up to him," You spat, venom lacing your words. Masky dug in his jean pocket, yanking out a box of cigarettes.

"They always do. He made himself a target by investigating the proxy symbol. I know Nova has showed it to you," Masky said. He was merely guessing, but your face twisting in surprise confirmed his suspicion. "The proxy symbol has been around for centuries. It was created by my maker, The Operator. An unstoppable supernatural entity that diminishes the sanity of his victims. The ones he wants to make proxies at least," Masky explained. He took out a cigarette, not bothering to offer you one. You looked like you could use one though. Your shaking was very noticeable. "When he plants the proxy symbol at a location. He has a specific target in mind. Once the target breaks down to his liking, he'll turn them into what we are. Enslaved proxies mindlessly forced to do his bidding," Masky told you. Masky knew it was highly unprobeable you'd actually pull the trigger.

But to make you feel better he took his lighter out of his pocket slowly. "However, in the modern day world, getting a proxy is a bit more tricky. Back when Hoodie and I-" He started, noticing you looking lost. He flicked the lighter, igniting the end of his stick. "Hoodie is Brian's alter. We were created due to Tim and Brian's mental corruption and faltering. We can swallow what The Operator wants. They can't," Masky clarified. He inhaled his cigarette, any protest of him smoking inside being kept to yourself. "Back to what I was saying. Back then, maybe seven years ago, people just used missing posters and if you weren't found in 48 hours, you were presumed dead. Nowadays there's cameras and more compassion," Masky rambled. He exhaled his cigarette through his mouth, a difference between him and Tim.

"Killing cops and detectives isn't our bread and butter you know. We used to just clean up corpses or crime scenes. But that symbol reaching a wider audience is lethal to life as you know it. Nova really fucked up, plastering that shit on television," Masky said in an annoyed tone. Your eyes were beginning to water, your energy spent on fighting back the tears that threatened to poor. "Why?" You asked. Masky raised his hand, as if having a gun at him was unfazing. "I'm getting there princess," Masky replied. He inhaled more of his cigarette, before quickly exhaling. The buzz gave him a decent amount of relief from stress. "When The Operator plants a symbol somewhere, he has a singular target in mind. If it gets exposed to too many people, they could suffer from his wrath too. You'd be surprised how many people are one day away from snapping. He targets the mentally weak, like Tim and Brian. The weak with deep down issues that he could exercise to his advantage," Masky said dryly.

"Don't say that!" You hissed. Masky gave you an odd look, one concealed by his mask. "Why? Because you made out with Brian? Because you shared a cigarette with Tim?" He questioned. Your tears were flooding your waterline now, blinks away from free falling. "Well listen up princess. They're the reason you're fucked," Masky barked. The tears became too much, two droplets sliding down your cheeks. "The Operator has now shown interest in you. And it's their fault. It's also mine, for not putting a bullet through your skull when I had the chance," He said coldly. Your hands were shaking, your finger trembling against the trigger. You had never shot a gun in your life. You feared if you removed your finger he would stop talking. But you also feared if you kept it there you may accidentally pull the trigger.

"And Toby?" You asked.

Masky picked up his head, "What about him?"

"How does he play into all of this? You haven't mentioned him once," You explained. Masky took another sharp inhale, the tobacco smoke circling around his lungs. "The kid was practically adopted by The Operator when he burned down his house. Tourette's, schizophrenia, and the inability to feel pain. The Operator’s perfect adopted child. Not including his homicidal tendencies," Masky told you. Your eyes widened, your heart beginning to throb painfully. "Homicidal tendencies?" You whispered. It suddenly occurred to you. Nova had been right all along. Masky pistol whipped you. He was responsible for the bullet wounds. "He cuts up the bodies?" You said, phrasing your words as more of a question. Masky nodded affirmatively. "Like no one you've seen before," He confirmed. You felt your stomach churn, nausea ensuing quickly. They were murderers, all of them.

You blinked slowly, soaking all of it in. You glanced over at your kitchen, noting a duffel bag on your counter and Masky's abandoned scrub brush on the floor. "Why were you cleaning my apartment?" You asked. Masky ran his fingers through his choppy hair. "To leave no traces of us. This is what we do. We get the job done, then we disappear," He said, the words spilling out like he didn't want to say them. You froze, his words soaking in. They were leaving? After everything that had happened? "And the duffel bag?" You questioned. Masky slowly rose from the coffee table, taking one last puff of his cigarette before tossing it into the sink.

He grabbed it, yanking open the zipper and tossing it upside down. Out spilled handfuls of hundred dollar bills. You had never seen so much hard cold cash before, your heart plummeting at the sight. “What is this supposed to be?” You gasped. Masky tossed the duffel bag aside. “A peace offering. We’re hoping you can forgive us. That’s around fifty thousand dollars. That’ll pay off your debts. Take the money and Nova and get the fuck out of town,” Masky advised. You temporarily put down the gun, feeling defeat.

“Thats what you think I want? To forget the three of you? Why did you do this to me? Use me to get to Nova? You-” You babbled, pausing when you realized you weren’t talking to Tim. You swallowed, choking on your own words. “Was it a game? To all of you? To Brian? Hood- Hoodie? Toby? Tim? You?” You questioned. Masky lifted his mask, tossing it aside. “Listen to me very carefully princess. Hoodie and I may have started off that way but you have no idea how much you’ve grown on us. How much we care about you. I mean, for fucks sake we just gave you fifty grand,” Masky said. You stomped over to him, grabbing a handful of the cash and throwing it at his chest.

“You think I give a shit about any of that? I let the three of you, five of you, what the fuck ever, into my goddamn life and not only, do you lie to me about who you are. You murder people due to a demon that you attached to me and now you’re just going to up and leave? Thats your resolution?” You exclaimed. Masky went to take a step towards you, your arm raising the gun out of instinct. “Dont fucking touch me or I swear to God i’ll shoot,” You threatened. The swelling in your chest was immense, pressure assaulting your chest.

For the first time in Masky’s existence, he felt something unfamiliar. He watched as you struggled to stay upright, your chest rising and lowering at a dramatic rate. “I don’t understand, why are you upset? This is the best course of action,” Masky said bluntly. You wiped away a few tears, your lip quivering uncontrollable. “Because I fucking care about you! About all of you!” You bellowed. Masky froze, watching your hand shake as you gripped the gun. He realized what he was feeling, his mouth running dry.

Remorse. He felt remorse.

In a swift motion Masky charged at you, one hand gripped around the python, the other backing you into the front door. His large fingers gripped around the gun, angrily tossing it to the side. “First things first princess, you ever aim a gun at me again i’m going to shoot you with it. Secondly, the next time you aim a gun at someone, maybe take the gun off of safety first,” He growled. You shook under his touch as he towered over you. “And thirdly, I care about you too,” Masky confessed softly. You stared up at him, the face of the man who you had shared a cigarette with and bought you cupcakes on a late night whim. Unsurely he brought his hand to your face.

He cupped your cheek, wiping away the remaining tears that stained your soft skin. You searched his eyes unsurely. “There isn’t shit we can do now about how we got here. But I want the best for you,” Masky told you. You put your hand on top of his, closing your eyes. “You all cant leave me. You- you can’t,” You whimpered. Masky’s gaze softened, watching tears flow freely. His thumbs couldn’t wipe them away fast enough. “You’re all I have,” You uttered. It occurred to Masky then, the situation you were truly in.

You had Nova, sure. But how long was it before she wanted a family of her own? Maybe she would keep you around, sure. But you worked a dead end job, one that clearly was not paying the bills. Your dreams were far and out of reach. You had no contact with anyone else besides them. How could he do it? How could Masky leave you here all by yourself? He always thought of himself to be stronger than this. To be stronger than Tim. He was created to be a ruthless obedient murder machine. Yet as you sobbed into his hand, he realized he may be more than that. He couldn’t allow The Operator to have you. He knew that for certain. But all he could do for now, was have you to himself.

He guided your head, using his hand to guide your chin to look at him. You swallowed, your eyes glassy as Masky pressed his lips to yours. His lips were rough, your arms wrapping themselves around his neck without a second thought. He pushed you flat against the door, his large hands roaming down your body. Briefly he bent down, reaching under your thighs. “Jump,” He grumbled against your lips. You did as commanded, the brunette lifting you like you weighed nothing at all.

Your legs wrapped around Masky’s waist out of instinct, his bulge rubbing against your clothed core. He began to slowly grind against you, the two of you groaning in each other’s mouths. Your hands found his hair, gently tugging at the roots as you meshed your lips against his. He swiped his tongue along your bottom lip, causing you to whine as you granted him access. Involuntarily you pulled him closer and closer, wanting Masky as close to you as humanly possible. “I have to warn you princess, I don’t play nice,” Masky huffed, pulling away from your lips. His cock was throbbing his jeans, each subtle movement of his hips resulting in a whine escaping your throat.

“I don’t want nice. I want you,” You whispered. Your doe eyes met his, your words only making him more flustered. “I’m not like Toby, I could seriously hurt you,” Masky repeated. You bit the inside of your cheek, your gaze flickering to his lips. “So hurt me then,” You agreed. Masky’s eyebrows raised, a devious smirk crossing his lips. “You sure you can handle it pretty girl?” He questioned. He brought his hand to your throat, squeezing the sides. You groaned as he restricted your airway, your hips rolling against his. “Holy fuck, you really are a slut,” Masky grumbled. He licked his lips, setting you down on the floor.

His hands fiddled with your sweatpants, shoving them and your panties down to the floor in a careless motion. You expected him to lead you to the couch or to drop to his knees. To do anything but what he did next. In a swift motion he picked you up by your thighs, nuzzling his face in between your thighs. Fear washed over you as he held you mid air, your back hitting the wall. You were almost touching the ceiling, your mouth running dry. “M-Masky i’m not sure-” You started to protest, Masky’s curious eyes gazing up at you. He held you as if you weighed nothing, his mouth dangerously close to your cunt.

“Something wrong princess? I thought you said you could handle it,” Masky chuckled. He straightened out his back, unfazed by holding you standing up.He had looped your legs over his shoulders, hit breath fanning over your folds. "It's just a b-bit high up here," You stuttered. Masky leaned forward, licking an agonizingly slow stripe up your folds. "I got you princess, now relax and fall apart for me," Masky purred. He brought his mouth to your clit, groaning into your folds as he devoured your pussy. Your core was aching, praying for more. His tongue wasn't enough, each flick making your body shudder. You began to relax, raking your hands through his hair as he lapped at your cunt.

Unlike Toby he was far more rough and assertive, his tongue teasing your entrance before continuing to lap any juices you produced. His grip on you was tight, your head tilting back against the wall as he held you in place. You felt the rope inside of you tighten. "Fuck Masky right fucking there! So close," You slurred. Masky took one last long lap of your cunt, before bringing you back to the floor. The tension inside of you dissolved. "W-what was that? I was so close!" You hissed. Masky grabbed a handful of your hair, dragging you over to the couch. He threw you over the arm of the couch, your ass high in the air. A sharp slap was delivered to your skin, a chill running down your spine.

"You'll take what I give you. Such a whiny little thing," Masky purred. He rubbed the skin he had slapped, admiring your flesh turning a deep red. The pain he delivered was gratifying, your core throbbing with a different desire. An ache you had never craved before. You turned around, throwing yourself to the ground. "What do we have here? A cock hungry whore?" Masky mused. You yanked at his belt, before undoing his jeans. Masky couldn't deny you, his desire for you too much to ignore any longer. You brought his cock into your mouth without a second thought, your doe eyes staring up at him. You hollowed out your cheeks, taking his cock down to the base.

"Do- Do you want me to face fuck you?" Masky asked unsurely. You nodded as best as you could with his length down your throat, the sight setting Masky's body on fire. He grabbed your hand, putting it in a neat ponytail. "Your wish is my command princess. Why don't you touch that pretty cunt of yours?" He suggested. You slithered one of your hands down to your cunt, rubbing circles around your clit as Masky moved his hips. His cock hit the back of your throat slowly, his eyes gleaming with pride as you took him in stride. You whined around his cock as your core ignited with a familiar flame. The vibrations made Masky moan your name, his grip on your hair now tightening.

"How did I ever think of leaving? Fuck!" Masky moaned. His hips began to move faster, his cock abusing your throat as it pleased. You gagged around his thick shaft, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth. Humiliatingly it dripped down your chin, a small puddle of it forming on the floor. You circled your clit faster, gagging on Masky as he shoved himself down your throat. "Such a good slut for me. So fucking good. Fucking hell," Masky grunted. Tears flooded your waterline again, this time the sight satisfying to the brunette standing above you. He enjoyed seeing you so hungry for his cock. So desperate to get off that you'd let him throat fuck you as you played with yourself.

You could feel yourself getting close again, this time your eyes pleading as they looked at Masky. "Can I cum?" You asked, your words muffled by his shaft. Masky pulled himself out of your throat, a thick string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. "Look at you. Asking me to cum like a good girl," Masky praised. You continued to circle your clit, the brunette crouching down to your level. He grabbed your chin roughly, planting a sloppy kiss to your lips. "That's too fucking bad that you need to cum already. You're only allowed to cum on my cock," Masky spat. He grabbed a handful of your hair, pushing you towards the floor. You held your ass high in the air, whimpering as you forced yourself to disconnect your fingers from your clit.

Masky made his way behind you, pressing down on your back for a better arch. "You need to cum on a real mans dick princess. Lucky for you i'm here," Masy huffed. He slapped his tip on your drenched folds, the slightest sensation making you squirm. He pushed himself inside of you, both of you groaning in unison. "You're so lucky i'm here. If Tim was doing this he'd hold your hand. But that's not what you want. Is it?" He asked mockingly. He grabbed your wrist, pinning them behind your back as he bottomed out inside of you. "You want to be degraded and be a whore, don't you?" Masky tsked. You squeezed his shaft, then attempting to wiggle your helps so the brunette would move. "I'm not a whore!" You protested weakly. Masky grinned devilishly, pushing your head to the ground.

Your face was an inch away from your previously fallen saliva, your eyes widening. "Lick it up or I won't fuck you," Masky threatened calmly. You hesitated, his hand roughly grabbing your hair, guiding you over to the pool of saliva. "I don't think I stuttered princess," He growled. Humiliated, you stuck out your tongue, deciding to lick the saliva off of the floor. "Only whores do this kind of shit to get fucked. Guess that makes you a whore," Masky chuckled darkly. He began to move his hips, moans escaping your lips as you licked the wood below you. "You're my whore though, don't you ever forget it," Masky rambled. He snapped his hips into yours, his cock abusing your g spot with ease.

Your body shook as Masky pounded into you, his fingers gripping your waist so hard your sinful noises were a mixture of pain and pleasure. You couldn’t control the sounds you made, Masky’s cock pounding into you mercilessly. You felt the cord inside of you tighten again, Masky’s thrust alone enough to send you over the edge. “My fucking whore. C’mere,” Masky snarled. He released your wrist, grabbing you by your hair and yanking you towards him. Your back hit his back as he thrust up into you, your thighs beginning to tremble. Roughly he brought his hand to your throat, squeezing it harshly.

“Go on. I know you’re dying to cum on my cock,” Masky grunted. His breath was hot against your ear, his grip on your neck only tightening. “Just know once you do i’m going to cum deep inside of you,” Masky informed you. You whimpered, your body being forced closer and closer to the edge. “Awe you like that idea, don’t you princess? I can feel you squeezing me. You like the idea of me breeding you,” Masky snickered. It was then your vision went white, your breath shallow as you came around his cock. Your walls milked Masky as you rode out your orgasm, the brunette behind you grunting as he came inside of you.

Dazed, you felt Masky’s hand slip away from your neck. Slowly he pulled out of you, his cum dripping down your thighs and traveling onto the floor. You slumped onto the floor, Masky’s strong hands preventing you from fully falling over. “Let’s get you tucked in princess,” Masky mumbled. You allowed your eyes to flutter close, entrusting the man with a mask with take care of your limp body.

“Hey Masky?”

“Yeah?”

“You guys are staying, right?”

Masky hesitated, clearing his throat before answering, “Yes we are.”

“Can I keep the fifty grand too?”

—> next chapter

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spideyspeaches · 4 years

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Can’t escape (the way I love you) ↬a.r

A/N: This is a repost from my old account :) @th0ttie4tommy here you go :)

Warnings: cursing, use of wooden spoon, seX, canon typical voilence-ish)

MINORS DNI

WC: 3.1K

Summary: after running away from knockemstiff, Arvin finds his way to Cincinnati and finds a girl instead.

Pairing: Arvin Russell x Reader

Masterlist || Taglist

Sleep didn’t come easy to Arvin now that he was hitchhiking his way to Cincinnati. Flashes of his daddy on the prayer log with his neck cut off, Lenora’s limp body hanging, the preacher bleeding his guts out and even the photograph of the whore- the Sheriff’s little sister- all played in his mind like a broken record.

Sighing, he leaned back on the seat and watched the long haired driver honk on the ongoing vehicles, the noises sending shards of pain up his skull. He really wanted to sleep, and maybe smoke a cigarette, but he didn’t want to think about the possibilities of what would happen if he slept in a random stranger’s truck.

Just the thought of sleep reminded him of the old man and the whore’s faces, making him sit up straight.

“You okay there boy?” The long haired man raised an eyebrow, looking at him from the corner of his eye.

Arvin shook his head, wincing at the movement as his sore body struggled to not give in to the strong pull of sleep.

“I’m good. How far away are we from the city?” He asked, gritting his teeth as he saw the Sheriff’s car go past them.

“We have a long way to go. Why don’t you take a shut eye meanwhile?” The driver said.

“No thank you. I’ll stay awake. Sleep is for the week and all.” He mumbled, fixing his cap.

“Okay, if you say so” The driver responded, shrugging and continued driving.

Arvin looked out of the window, watched as the trees passed by, a lonely dog making a trek as it wiggled it’s tail. His heart gave a thump, chest aching as the dog reminded him of Jack. He really missed the mutt, he didn’t deserve the death it got.

Pulling his cap over his eyes, he squinted at the slight indication of dawn, the pull of sleep too strong to ignore now. His mouth went slack and neck bobbed with the wobbly rout, a huge yawn leaving him, and before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.

***

“Hey kid! Wake up!” The man said, shaking out of his sleep. He woke up in a disoriented haze, head throbbing harshly against his skull, body heavy with exhaustion. Sitting up with a gasp, he saw that the man had stopped the truck, panic seizing his lungs. Was that it? Would the driver pull a gun on him just like those Henderson whores had?

Looking around, he noticed a small diner, stomach growling with hunger, as if in response to seeing the place.

“Whe- Where are we?” He said sharply, noticing the driver’s eyes trailing him. He shuddered at the man’s gaze.

“We’re at a rest stop. Figured you might be hungry.” He replied gruffly, getting off the side door, “You comin’ or not boy?”

“Yeah. Yeah I’ll be there.” He whispered. Maybe he could run away from here, hitchhike another ride to the city. His eyes landed on the board on the corner of the road. He was relieved to find that he was already in the city.

Before he knew it though, his feet were carrying him towards the diner, a cigarette making its way to his mouth as an invisible string pulled him towards the small place. He complied, too tired to make anything of the situation.

The bell rang as he opened the door, pushing himself inside before he could think. Taking an empty seat, he leaned on his hands as his heart stuttered to a stop.

Literally stopped.

It felt like he was in a parallel universe filled with coincidences, flashbacks of his old house back in Ohio, his daddy sitting on a ratty stool as he talked about his mama . Because in front of him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He remembered his daddy telling him how he met his mother in a diner in a small town, just like the one Arvin was in right now.

Throwing away the butt in an ashtray, he tried to speak, but no words came out. He stuttered a small smile, looking at your bright eyes as you said something.

“What do I get for you honey?” You asked in a soft voice, oh your voice was such a melody.

“A coffee would be good.” He finally said, licking his lips and thumbing his wallet nervously. He hadn’t left with much money.

“You look like you need solid food and aspirin.” You smirked, pouring a hot cup of coffee in front of him. You slid a cheesecake, smiling at his surprised expression. “It’s on me.“

"Oh- I uhm. Thank you.” He nodded. He took a bite of the soft dessert, nearly moaning at its sweet taste. His taste buds were jumping from the onslaught of the sweet flavour, sighing as he sipped at the bitter coffee. It was the best food he’d had in a few days.

Turning around in his seat, he saw that the driver was nowhere in sight. Great. He had ditched him. Thankfully he still had his belongings with him.

Turning around again, he fidgeted with his fingers just as you appeared in the line of his sight.

“You’re not from here are you?” You ask, wiping your hands on your apron.

“No. How’d you know?” He raised an eyebrow, a smile appearing on his face.

“Well you look quite lost. Do you have a place to stay?” You leaned forward, the open collar showing just a little bit of your cleavage. He licked his lips, trying not to stare.

“I don’t actually. My ride ditched me.” He shrugged, “thanks for the cheesecake by the way."

"Oh it’s alright. The leftovers go to those bloated buffoons anyway. You looked starved, so I wondered why not?” You collected the cutlery from the other customers, shouting orders at the kitchen for the others. “You say your ride ditched you? My grandma owns a motel not far from here, I could get you a room to stay for s while."

"Oh no no no! That- you’ve already done so much for me and you don’t even know me!” He stumbled. He wasn’t used to this sort of kindness, considering the shit his life took in the past few months.

“It’s no trouble really! I’m just going there after this shift anyway, will probably stay in the penthouse for a while.” You said.

Before he could say anything to confirm or deny your offer, You were removing your apron, handing it to another girl as you hopped over the counter.

Fixing your dress and hair, you go to the back of the kitchen and yell something at the manager, walking out of the house, looking behind and silently asking him to follow.

Arvin tried to follow you, sighing in relief when he found you leaning against the wall in the back. But instead of calling out for you, he scrambled for a cigarette, groaning internally when he found only one left and lit it with a matchstick. Taking a drag, he breathed in the familiar burning in his throat, leaning against a pole.

He felt more than saw you eyeing him from the corner of his eye, heart speeding up like he was in highschool and had a crush on one of the girls or guys. He hadn’t stuck around much to date anyone, but the time he had making out with them was good enough for him.

“My name’s Y/N by the way.” You said, biting your lips as you looked at him.

“Russell Arv- I mean- Arvin Russell.” He stuttered, pulling out the joint from his mouth.

He took a deep breath, letting the silent roads and windy weather calm his racing heart down. He thought about leaving right there, not wanting to get someone who looked as innocent as you did, in a mess like his life was. Before he could walk away though, you were walking towards him, biting your lips.

“Uhh, so my grandma’s place?” You asked nervously.

“You barely know me and you’re letting me stay with you. For all you know, I could be a murderer.” He joked. You chuckled and made a face at him, dragging him to your Cadillac. He followed anyway.

(He almost laughed at how ironic he sounded, shaking his head internally.)

“Thanks for letting me stay Mrs. L/N” He smiled at your grandma as she shook his hands, enthusiastically shoving cookies down his throat and excited that you had brought a boy with you.

“She’s nice."

"She’s the best.”

He intended to stay for a day and hitch a ride, stay far far away from this place. He didn’t want to corrupt these people, he tried to reason. But he couldn’t let go, he just kept interacting.

(A little girl in the neighbourhood liked to play with his hat. He smiled at the small child, surprised to find the unadulterated happiness that radiated off the wee kiddo when he played with her. The people smiled a lot too.)

A day turned to two, two to a week and then nearly a month passed and no one asked him once why he lived with a girl and her grandma.

(Or why he flinched every time he saw a gun or an officer of law walk by).

He also managed to score a job at the diner, for washing the plates. He found that he didn’t mind helping people

You didn’t know how fast time could pass, and as it grew it’s sneaky tendrils, your heart grew a mind of its own as you spent days fantasizing your time with him, of you under him as he fucked you senseless.

Tracing his biceps, you leaned forward, mouth nearly touching his. He cupped your jaw, grabbing your waist and lifted you off the ground, slamming you against the concrete wall and kissed you.

Your mouth tasted like berries, which berries he didn’t know, maybe strawberries, fuck if he cared. Maybe it was your Chapstick.

“Arvin.” You moaned against his mouth, hands reaching for the collar of his shirt as he shoved you against the wall, holding your ass to keep your balance. His tongue swirled around your lips, hands sliding up your legs in a soothing motion.

You could taste the nicotine in his mouth, but you couldn’t be bothered. All you wanted was this beautiful stranger right now. A stranger who you felt like you’ve known your whole life.

“Shh sweetheart, don’t want anyone to hear us would we?” He whispered in your ear, holding his hands over your lips to shush you. You nodded, eyes half closed as you enjoyed the feeling of his rough denim rub against your thighs, the sheer friction of his movements causing heat to pool your gut.

“Arvin,” you moaned softly, running your hands through his hair, “Arvin, wait. I- I know a place."

He stopped for a second, Looking at you with a bewildered expression. "What kind of place?"

You gulped, getting off of him and walking around and outside the master bedroom, making sure no one was in the corridor. Following you, his eyes grew wide as he saw you open a door to a dungeon, switching on the flickering lights to reveal a small square area room.

The room was dimly lit and dusty. It was surrounded by racks but he could not see what was kept in them. In the centre though, was a single obsolete piece of wooden slab surrounded by long rods of metal attached to it. It must have been an old hospital bed- the kind the troops used. It sat flat against the floor. He looked at you again.

"My daddy used to bring things from the war, whips, guns, handcuffs. Everything. Everything.” Your low voice sent chills up his spine. With shaking hands, he scoured the cupboards, wiping off the dust from his fingers as he came across a pair of brass knuckles and handcuffs. Fingering them, he looked at you as you nodded.

“Do you- do you want me to use ‘em? On ya?” He said. He could feel his already hard dick throb painfully almost, the lust in your eyes making him feel things.

“Use them on me Arvin. I wanna feel you use the cold metal against me as you fucked me so hard I couldn’t walk tomorrow.” You suddenly push him against the cupboards, his back hitting with a thud as you traced his chest through his shirt, scrambling to remove off the offending clothing.

You scratched his chest lightly, fingers gliding against his pecs and abs as they clenched, moving in a sensual manner. He was impatient, you could practically smell his excitement in waves. The scent of his cologne was overwhelming in a way that made your insides tingle with your own arousal.

“Fuck- sweetheart.” He whimpered, his legs weak for you, waiting to feel your walls.

Kissing his neck and then chest and nipples, you dig your teeth around the skin, eliciting a moan deep from his throat. You were shaking with anticipation, hastily removing your frock and throwing it to somewhere. He held you for a second, admiring your body and giving you a gratifying look. His hands linger around your chest, unhooking your bra holding them as he kisses your chest while bending down with trails of kisses down all the way to your tummy.

You pant as he reaches your navel, slender fingers sliding your panties off you as you sigh in relief, ecstatic that you were now fully naked in front of the boy of your desires.

He plunged his fingers inside your dripping core, your legs trembling as he licked off dripping cum from your folds.

“Already wet for me huh? Wait till I use these on you, how will you feel then babygirl? Want me to use them don’t you?” He urges, spreading your legs apart and moving you so that your butt hit the wooden plank. You whimper at the force, back arching as he dribbles your clit with his spit, licking it off you and then standing up. You immediately miss the contact, and thankfully it wasn’t for long before he came back.

He unbuttoned his pants so that he was too fully exposed now, his cock springing out made you crave for it even more now, but before you could do anything, he took your hand, cuffing it to the railing of the plank. You cursed at the tightness, adjusting your wrist so that they wouldn’t hurt. You whimpered when you felt a cold wooden spoon run along your chest. He held the dip of the spoon on top of them leaving indents, his other hand’s thumb kneading into your flesh.

“Is this okay princess? Don’t wanna hurt your pretty little hand. Just wanna hear you moan my name.” He whispered, voice cracking due to the octave it took when you gave a shrill cry of surprise, your other hand clutching at his hair, causing you to lose your balance and falling on your ass.

“I need you Arvin! I need you now please help me!” You cry out, your eyes devoid of tears but your voice showing your emotion. You were hungry, starved and his cock looked delicious. You just wanted him inside.

“A little patience would be appreciated.” He growled against your chest, biting at the sensitive skin. You must have said that out loud.

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold it in me.” You whimper, scrunching your eyes as he nipped at your neck, rubbing the tip of his dick on your clit. His tip was bright red, hard and erect. You wrapped your legs around his shoulder, bringing him down at you. His fingers kept playing while his mouth worked.

“I’m so wet Arvin, only for you baby, look at me, so wet.” The wooden spoon made contact with your chest again, sliding down to your ass as he gently nudged your back. He didn’t hit you, no, that son of a bitch teased you with slow motions of its cold surface. You kissed him till your lips were plump and red with blood dripping off the thin skin, his mouth leaving his lingering taste in yours.

Finally, finally, he slid into you. You gave a shrill cry as his member entered you, your walls clenching around it as if you wanted it to stay in you forever. You arched your back, your waist hitting his pelvis, causing it to slap around him. You unconsciously dug your fingers in his back, gritting your teeth at the sudden sensory input.

“So tight baby. Clenching around me like a fucking ant-eater. You like this don’t you darlin’? Like it when I slide in."

"Yes baby.” You whispered. Sweat dripped off of the both of you, your slicked bodies slapping against each other, “Oh I’m about to cum! Arvin!"

"Cum on me baby, cum on my dick so I can shove in harder.” He clenched himself, mouth forming an O as he felt you orgasm around him, his dick sliding out of you. Pumping his balls, he clenched his jaw at the sight of you, panting under him with your legs spread apart. “You’re such a good girl. Always listening to what I say."

"Because you’re the best.” You flopped down on the board, your back hitting it. You jiggled your arm that was held in the handcuff, the movement bringing Arvin toppling down to you. He fell on your breasts, face smushed in as if he was sleeping on a pillow. You erupted in a fit of giggles as he licked you with kitten-like strips.

“Did you like that? Was that- was that okay?” He huffed, probably as tired as you were right now. His muscles relaxed under your touch, unclenching as you ran your hands on his back. You hissed when you saw that your hand had caused bloody indents on his skin.

“That was amazing sweetheart.” You paused, “I’m so glad we met that day."

"Me too. I didn’t believe in love for a very long time after momma died, and then my daddy died, and then Lenora-” he said, choking on his tears, “- my sister, Lenora, that fucking preacher. He killed her."

"Arvin, baby I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I can’t bring them back. But I can hold you. I can hold you forever if you want. I can love you."

You froze for a moment, realising what you had said. You had met only a month ago, and yet here you were, telling him that you loved him. Your heart did gallops when he didn’t answer for a while, and then you heard it. You heard him say those three words, a soft whisper in the night.

"I love you too."

#arvin russell smut #arvin russell x reader #arvin russel x reader #arvin russel x y/n #arvin russell x reader smut #peter parker x reader smut #tom holland smut #spideygirl writes

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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 3 years

Text

Into The Unknown, Part 1

... I have no self-control do not perceive me

Marinette stared at the pile of bright red, yellow, and green clothes on the ground. It was all she’d done in the five-ish minutes since she’d portaled onto the scene. Just… stared.

It wasn’t like there was much else to do, anyways. Red Robin was currently beating the absolute fuck out of the person that had the audacity to disintegrate his brother right in front of him. It wasn’t like she could even fix it because the witch had been out cold before she had been able to pull Red Robin off to get a hit in so she could use her lucky charm.

So, she stared.

It was weird. She could almost feel a person inside the clothes but… maybe that was the residue or the ashes or whatever gets left behind when you zap a person out of existence? She didn’t really want to check, to be honest. Gross.

Eventually, though, she hesitantly leaned down and brushed her hand over it, trying to find the energy and get rid of it because it was really uncomfortable --.

… oh hell no that pile of clothes did not just fucking giggle at her.

She narrowed her eyes and carefully lifted up the bottom of the shirt, only to yelp and fall back. She scrabbled on the gross Gotham alley ground until her back hit Red Robin’s arm and he was forced to pause or risk hitting a meta (which would not have been good for his health).

“What?” He hissed.

She swallowed thickly. “That’s a child.”

“... what?” Red asked, all the anger bleeding from his tone in his confusion.

“We let Batman’s kid turn into a baby,” she whispered… then, it sunk in more. “We let Batman’s kid turn into a baby.”

He straightened on top of the thing that was really more bloody pulp than person at this point. “What do you mean ‘we let Batman’s kid turn into a baby’?”

But she didn’t really get a chance to answer because the baby chose that exact moment to be sick of being suffocated under all the armor and pushed it off.

Red Robin gulped. Because, yep, that was Robin as a baby. Batman was going to kill them.

Except he wasn’t going to kill them. Because Batman doesn't kill. No, Batman would find something even worse and that would suck.

The baby -- Robin? Should she still call him that mentally? -- giggled at their pain. Like an asshole.

They were so fucked.

He’d let B’s favorite kid get turned into a baby. Was there a way to get unadopted? Because if there was it was totally going to happen. Or maybe his dad would just cut him off because he was 19 now and could just get kicked out.

No. Nope! Not going to happen. No. He could fix this.

“Okay. Okay okay okay. We need a plan,” he heard himself saying.

Ladybug scoffed. “We? I was barely even here, this is on you.”

“Leave me alone to deal with this and I swear to god I will tell B that you did it.”

She paled. “You wouldn’t. No way.”

“Yes way. So, help me think of something.”

The baby giggled and started crawling over and both of them averted their eyes because, unfortunately, the child did not get baby clothes to go with his random transformation. Baby Damian didn't seem to care as he reached them and started climbing on Ladybug since she was closest. At least it wasn’t him. He did not want to see his adoptive brother’s… ew.

Ladybug made a gagging sound and then quickly summoned a lucky charm. She kept her face turned away as much as her neck would physically allow as she fumbled her way through swaddling the child in a polka-dotted blanket.

And then her shoulders slumped a little. “Great. Great. This is… great,” she muttered, picking up the bundle o’ baby.

He let himself look down now that it was safe.

“Alright, we need to go to another dimension where time moves faster,” Ladybug said after a few seconds. “And then we wait for him to age… fifteen-ish years. Best way to not make Batman notice.”

“... what about us? We also age.”

“Huh…? Oh. Right. You’re human.” She pulled off the glasses she was wearing and blinked a few times before handing it over. “Congrats on your upgrade. The tiny horse god is named Kaalki. She likes cake.”

“The tiny --?” He let out the world’s manliest screech as his eyes landed on the floating bug horse hybrid thing holy shit no no no no no the sci fi movies didn’t prepare him for this shit.

Kaalki looked a little offended but then her eyes landed on the baby and she gasped. “Aw, baby humans are always so cute.”

“Great, Kaalki, you take it,” said Ladybug.

Kaalki did try, to her credit. It just so happened that the approximately one-year-old baby was a lot bigger than the… whatever she was. Tim was refusing to believe that this was a god. Too many implications. He already had something to have a breakdown over, he didn’t need another thing right now, thank you very much.

Tim rested his head in his hands but he had more things to worry about than the blood that he was accidentally streaking through his hair.

“Okay. Okay. We can go to another dimension and try and raise him. Maybe we can make it have a ratio of one month here for every year there so any differences could be blamed on that.”

“Ya!” Said baby Damian. He probably didn’t actually know what was going on but he sure seemed excited so that was cool.

Ladybug sighed and nodded. “Great. You get food and money and clothes and I’ll take this lady to the cops… and I guess I’ll watch the kid until you get back because your dad cannot know.”

They shook on it.

This may be the dumbest idea that she’d ever had, and that was saying something. She didn’t know if she could trust Red Robin on this one, they hardly ever worked together. What if he just left her alone with this kid and let her try and figure this out on her own?

No. He wouldn’t do that. He was the last person known to be with Robin. Robin going missing would be bad for him, too. And, besides, she was pretty sure that he was a duty-driven person based on what she’d heard, she just had to hope that he saw this as his duty, too.

She turned the baby in her arms to get more comfortable as she waited for him to (hopefully) come back.

Part of her wanted to try and find someone from this world to reverse this but she didn’t know any outside of her, Adrien, Alix, and (now) Red Robin. Not on a personal level. Not enough that she knew for sure that they wouldn’t blab to Batman about it.

So, no, this is what she was doing.

But she had things to do. So, she pulled out her yoyo-phone-hybrid-thingy and wedged it against her ear.

“Chaton,” she said the moment he picked up. “You’re alone, right?”

“Uh… yeah?”

“Great. I, Ladybug, relinquish the Miracle Box and name Chat Noir the new guardian.”

“WHAT --?!” He didn’t get to finish as a box dropped on his lap and knocked the wind out of him.

“Just for, like, a year and a half. Sorry. Bye!”

“DON’T JUST ‘BYE’ ME WHAT THE --?!”

She hung up and closed the yoyo, hooking it back to her belt and ignoring it when it started buzzing again.

She looked down at Robin, who was squinting up at her. She returned the squint. Why was this baby so quiet? She didn’t get it. Surely, he should have been crying at this point.

“Do you still… remember things?” She asked, hoping against all hope that maybe he had retained his memories at the very least.

Robin smiled at her, but it was the blank-eyed baby smile that meant he wasn’t really understanding her. She bit down a curse.

Great. So, she’d not only gotten a baby but she’d gotten a fucking weird one. Great.

Tim left a note for his family saying that he, Damian, and Ladybug were bored and were going dimension hopping. His family would probably be suspicious but, hey, at least it wouldn’t be his problem for a good fifteen years on his end.

And, yeah, he knew this was probably one of his dumber plans but… it wasn’t the dumbest. And he was always one to commit when it came down to it. One time he had faked being shot and dealt with crutches for an entire year just to convince Vicki Vale that he wasn’t Red Robin. He had no fears that he couldn’t see this through.

Ladybug, though? A total mystery. She did nearly everything on a whim as far as he knew. She hopped from city to city fighting crime for absolutely no reason outside of boredom and made up all of her plans on the fly. No, he was a bit concerned about her ability to keep doing it.

So, he went as quickly as he possibly could. There was no rhyme or reason to what he was grabbing. He was just… putting stuff in there. There was money and three watches to help them move between dimensions, yes, but there was also a fanta orange and a copy of Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy and exactly seven pairs of socks.

… yeah, he had the necessities. Probably.

He nearly got out the door before he realized he was still in his crime-fighting gear and he quickly shucked it all off and tossed it into the tub so the blood wouldn’t track any more than it already had. He did not need to avoid Batman’s wrath only to end up on the receiving end of Alfred’s.

He pulled on the first hoodie and jeans he could grab and looked around to make sure he hadn’t left anything of importance.

Okay. Now he was ready to go.

Marinette was awkwardly bouncing the baby when Red Robin finally showed up.

… not that she would have recognized him if she hadn’t felt Kaalki hovering in his pocket. In her eyes, he was just a random white guy wearing shades in the middle of the night.

She glanced up at him and gave him an awkward smile.

“Ready?”

He smiled back and held out two watches. Neither fit baby Robin so she prepared herself to choke out a literal baby holy fuck what even was her life.

“Which dimension should we go to?”

“Preferably one without miraculi,” Marinette said. “I don’t want to know what happens if there’s two of the same god in a dimension.”

He nodded slowly. “Probably best if Batman doesn’t exist, either, he’d probably notice my existence.”

“... so… no heroes at all?”

“Looks like we’re going cold turkey,” Red Robin said in a tone that was probably supposed to be joking but just came out flat.

She pushed herself to her feet and waited as he scrolled through the millions of dimensions.

Finally, he came upon one and she added the coordinates to her and Robin’s watches.

She readied Robin’s watch against his neck and tried to ignore the kid’s sudden squirminess.

“3… 2… 1…”

They were gone in a whirl of blue light.

~~~~~

@nathleigh @peachmuses

#yes i wrote timari parenting dami #for no reason #while in the middle of a completely different fic #but listen #... its cute??#yeah no i have no excuse #i just wanted to write cute things ;-;#into the unkown #maribat #timari #timmari #timinette #shutterbug #tim drake #red robin #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug

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mersuperwholocked-lowlife · 4 years

Text

Not Blood But Family

Word Count: 1,922

Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (brief), Sam Winchester (mentioned), OC Character, Reader

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Daughter!Reader

Warnings: angst, some slight fluff

A/N: me: hey i should post at least once a week also me: hey guys i’m back from a random ass hiatus

A/N 2: enjoy the dog poop

A/N 3: lisa’s daughter btw

Masterlist

You shot your eyes around the darkened room, squinting as you tried to make out any figure, seeing if there was anyone who was being held captive with you. Unfortunately for you, you were all alone. You could barely make out the bruises on your wrists, the rope burns caused by being tied up for days.

“Hey!” you yelled.

“Hey! I know you can hear me! What the hell do you want from me?!” you screamed as loud as you could, more annoyed than scared.

Ever since you found both your mother and younger brother dead, you’d given up any emotion you could show, mainly numb inside.

“Ugh,” you groaned softly, laying your head back against the wall as you leaned against it, closing your eyes for a moment.

Everyone always warned you, don’t hitchhike, and now you’ve learned your lesson.

---

“Did you just take a picture of me?” you squinted your eyes, sitting chained up to a chair as you saw a bright light flash.

“Freak,” you scoffed.

He ignored your comments, grabbing a fistful of your hair, pulling it up as you grunted, clenching your jaw.

He just chuckled, pushing you back. You could feel the blood trickling from your forehead as you breathed heavily.

“If you’re trying to sell me, no one’s gonna buy me. I’m a pain in the ass,” you struggled against your chains.

You were met with a blank expression from the man, having not said a single word to you.

“If you’re planning on killing me, at least give me the decency of some good conversation,” you laid back in your chair.

You heard his phone ring as he turned his back to you, picking it up.

“Yes, sir. I have (Y/N) with me. I’ve sent a picture to you to send to Dean Winchester,” you poked your head up, hearing an unfamiliar name before be hung up.

“Who’s Dean Winchester,” you asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough... or not,” he shrugged.

You could feel a slight panic in your chest as you stiffened, seeing him walk towards you while clutching a knife.

“Keep that away from me,” you tried and tried to pull your chains, trying to stay away as he grabbed you, pressing the knife against your shoulder.

“Let's have some fun.”

---

“Hey. Hey!” you groaned as you squinted your eyes, hearing someone calling your name in a distance.

“Wake up, (Y/N), please,” you felt him out a hand on your shoulder, cutting open the ropes tying you down.

“Hmm, who are you?” you winced softly, your body ached from all the miniature cuts all over it.

“I’m… I’m here to help,” Dean said. He debated whether or not to tell who he was, pushing your arm around his shoulder.

“How do you know who I am?” you groaned. You blinked your eyes, fading in and out of consciousness.

“Just stay quiet. Come on,” you breathed heavily as you took a step forward, falling onto him completely.

“(Y/N)?!”

---

“Holy shit!” you groaned, sitting up in the bed as you looked around cautiously.

“(Y/N),” you tensed slightly as Dean wrapped his arms around you tightly.

You felt a sense of relief washing over you, feeling a safety that you haven't felt in a long time as you exhaled softly.

“W-Wait, who are you?” you asked.

He stood up, sitting in front of you at the side of your bed.

“You don't remember me, but I knew your mom, a-and your brother,” your face dropped, frowning as you scooted a little away from him.

“Who are you,” you asked again.

“My name is Dean Winchester,” he said.

You thought back for a minute, trying to think where you heard that name before.

You remembered, hearing the man saying his name.

“That… guy mentioned you,” you started.

“Well, I have some bad blood with his boss and they were trying to use you to get to me,” he explained.

You stayed quiet for a moment, before talking again.

“Why me? I don’t even know you,” you shook your head.

His face dropped slightly, looking at you as you ran your fingers through your hair, slightly nervous.

“My friend is coming, everything will be cleared up, okay?” Dean asked.

You nodded, wrapped your arms around your legs as you exhaled sharply, laying your head on your lap.

You heard the noise of something fluttering, as you frowned, looking up. You jumped back, seeing a man appear in front of you.

You could feel your heart racing as the man reached two fingers on your forehead, his eyes glowing blue.

You felt a sense of warmth over you, feeling warmth in your body as it healed. You gasped softly, seeing visions with Dean inside your head. Everything from the years that past came back to you as you pulled away from Castiel, pushing yourself off the bed.

“Dean,” you remembered.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he took a step forward, walking to you.

You shook your head, stepping backward. He turned his head to the side, slightly in shock.

“You’re Castiel,” you said.

“So then where’s Sam,” you asked softly.

“Sam’s at this place we live at. This bunker,” Dean replied.

You continued to stand there quietly, running your fingers through your hair as you turned your head away from Dean.

“I heard that… Lisa’s gone,” you tensed as your mom’s name fell from his mouth.

“Yeah, so is Ben,” you kept your emotions of both anger and grief hidden.

“(Y/N), I’m sorry-” he started.

“Shut up,” you glared at him.

“(Y/N), I-” he tried to speak again, only for you to cut him off once more.

“I said shut up, Dean. Thanks for the help, I’ll be on my way,” you began heading for the door as Dean stopped you.

“Why are you acting like this?” he asked.

“Like what?” you rolled your eyes.

“Why are you acting so cold? So different?” he crossed his arms.

“Don’t start with me, Dean,” you scoffed, crossing your arms.

Dean motioned to Castiel, telling him to leave as he nodded.

“What happened?” he asked.

“What happened? My family is dead, Dean,” you spat.

“I know, I-I’m sorry-”

“Saying sorry won't bring them back. It was your choice to leave, you had to know that this was a possibility,” you crossed your arms as you glared at Dean.

“The only reason I left was because I wanted to keep the three of you safe. I couldn't have done that if you guys were with me,” he tried to explain while you kept ignoring his words.

“You don't owe me an explanation. You’re not my dad you don't owe me anything,” you could see the look in his eyes fade away.

“I know I’m not your real dad, but that doesn't mean we're not family,” he started.

“You're just a guy that lived with us for a year, who had a past,” you knew you were hurting him, and hurting yourself while at it.

You couldn't let your guard down and you knew it. Even if Dean was there for you when you needed someone the most, when you had boy problems, school problems, things somehow your mom didn't understand, he always helped you. With all the late nights you spent crying, trying to convince yourself that you don’t need help, he was always there by your side.

Not that you would ever admit that. Dean was the only person your mom dated who cared about you and Ben.

“You know that it’s deeper than that, (Y/N). I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry I erased your memory of me. I was just trying to keep you safe,” he said.

“Stop apologizing,” you shook your head.

“Will you come back with me?” he asked after a moment of silence.

“W-What?” you were slightly taken aback by his question, not sure why you were so surprised.

“We have a home now. A sort of home, it’s a bunker. But we live there, and there's more than enough room for you to live with us,” he explained.

“Are you… even after everything I just said?” you frowned.

“Yes. You're still 17, you still, technically need a legal guardian. I know that you’re not happy with me, but I’m gonna fix that. Come live with us,” he said.

“What if I say no?” you raised an eyebrow.

“I know you’re not going to. You hate being alone,” he replied.

“I’ve been alone for a year, I can-”

“I’m sorry you had to be alone for so long. Please, come with me,” he begged again.

You could feel your eyes watering slightly as you frowned, biting your lip nervously.

“Dean, please stop,” you wiped your face with your hands, closing your eyes as you took a deep breath.

“Stop what?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“Why do you care about me?” you whispered softly.

“What do you mean?” he crossed his arms, taking a step closer to you.

You looked up at him, your eyes red and watery as his face dropped.

“I’m not… I’m not your kid o-or anything, why do you always try to take care of me?” you closed your eyes, feeling a tear escape down your cheek.

“(Y/N), listen to me,” he put his hand on your cheek, wiping your tear away.

“I know I’m not blood, kid, but I’m still your dad, you’re still my kid. Nothing’s gonna change that, no matter what. I love you so much, kid. I’m still your family and you’re still mine. I would never leave you, I-I would never hurt you,” he continued to stroke your cheek, while you kept your tears at bay.

“My real dad didn’t want me,” you whispered.

“That’s cuz he’s an idiot. Come here,” he wrapped his arm around you tightly as you shut your eyes, letting your tears fall freely while you let out a shaky cry, holding onto him tightly.

He kissed your forehead softly, then rested his chin on the top of your head.

“I got you, you’re safe now,” he said softly.

“You’re okay now.”

---

You shot up in your bed, looking around cautiously as your breathing was labored. You looked around, before remembering that you were at the bunker as you let out a breath of relief.

Maybe I should tell Dean

No stop bothering him and just try to sleep

Nightmares weren’t uncommon for you, whether it was about Lisa and Ben, or about any event that happened to you in the past year. You were alone, nothing was ever easy, and most people were the absolute worst.

You found yourself trying to stop your hands from shaking as you rested your head on your lap, hearing the door open as you looked up.

“Dean?” you asked.

“What are you doing up? I thought you went to sleep hours ago,” he sat down next to you on the bed.

“Well, I did, it’s just…” your voice drifted off, trying to figure out how to explain your nightmares without Dean having pity on you. He already gave you a home, a place to feel safe.

“Your nightmares?” he asked.

“How did you know?” you frowned.

“Because it’s normal. Come on, I’m staying with you tonight,” he laid down in the bed, wrapping his arm around you in a protective manner.

You yawned softly, snuggling up into Dean’s side as you closed your eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep.

“Thank you, Dad.”

Dean smiled softly, kissing your forehead.

“Anything for you, kiddo.”

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juliathephantom · 3 years

Text

JATP Fanfic Recs: Multichapter Edition

* indicates complete

'Stupid Cupid, Stop Hitting On Me' by Bluefire510

Juke

Luke, a troublemaker cupid, meets Julie, who is also one of Love HQ's toughest cases to crack.

She claims to have no desire to fall in love.

But Luke is always up for a challenge.

Let's see if he could get Julie to fall for her Perfect Match by next Valentine's Day.... and maybe teach her all about love while he's at it.

*Operation Hashtag Rulie by where_you_go

Reggie/Luke/Julie

“Explain yourselves,” Caleb ground out.

“Uh…it’s not what it looks like?” Reggie tried, wincing.

“Oh really, Reginald? Because it looks like two of my most popular band members from a family-friendly band are fornicating in public!”

Julie and Reggie get caught up in a PR misunderstanding that leads to them "dating" for a few months. It's not a big deal, or at least it wouldn't be, if Luke would stop acting so weird.

*Unexpected by Phantom_Lover

Luke is determined to breeze through his senior year and onto mega stardom (which means avoiding school, and Principal Lessa, as much as possible). That is until he's forced to work side-by-side with quiet good-girl, Julie Molina, on the big end-of-the-year talent show. The two struggle to see eye to eye, and meeting the all-important deadline seems impossible until something unexpected happens between them.

keys to the cage (and the devil to pay) by HearJessRoar

Juke, Willex

Julie Molina has always thought it would be rather exciting to meet a pirate.

Unfortunately, she's right.

"Julie, Julie Patterson, I'm a maid here in the governor's household," she bluffs. And she wishes that Luke's name hadn't been the first that she'd come up with, because the long-haired pirate's eyebrows raise immediately.

"Luke got married?" he says, sounding oddly betrayed.

His blonde companion looks equally gutted. "He didn't even tell us."

Piss Off Your Parents (Date Me To Scare Them) by TheNameIsBritney

Willex

Alex Mercer doesn't want to go home for Christmas; but if he has to, he's certainly gonna raise a little hell. Enter: Willie, the cute guy in his history of English class who would be the perfect fake boyfriend candidate.

So if you wanna piss off your parents, date me to scare them, show them you're all grown up. If long hair and tattoos are what attract you, baby then you're in luck.

*i'll hold your music (here inside my hands) by musicals_musicals

"Your soulmate must love music just like you do”

Julie is 3 years old, enthusiastically playing a small plastic piano, the first time she sees her string.

It makes sense that music would connect her to her soulmate.

How Julie finds her way back to music, joins a band, falls in love, and meets Luke Patterson (not necessarily in that order)

*a masterpiece in motion, more beautiful every day by fairylightsandrainydays

Willex, Juke

Alex Mercer is a merboy with a fascination for the human world. Willie is a prince who he saves from a storm. And Caleb Covington is the sea witch who is going to make Alex's dream come true.

So long as Caleb gets what he wants.

*days go by and seasons change (lets try again next winter) by itsagamefortwo

Juke

julie's ready for a year away from home, studying and trying to re-find the magic in music. luke's about to start on a summer tour around europe opening for a band. they meet one night, sparks fly and emotions run high. now they've just got to try and see if they can maintain a long distance friendship.

Who Could Deny These Butterflies? by xxPrettyLittleTimeBombxx

Juke

“I know this is going to sound kinda crazy…but, could you maybe pretend to be in love with me for a few minutes?”

—

When Julie Molina approaches Luke Patterson at a bar and asks him to pretend to be her boyfriend, she never expects to find herself in a position where she and Luke have to keep up the ruse for longer than five minutes. Figures that out of all of the strangers she could have approached that night, she’d gone and picked the one guy who just so happens to be in a rock band that’s on the brink of blowing up.

*relight that spark by @ruzek-halstead

Juke

julie molina has had nothing but a tough life. after losing both her parents early on, she was left in the care of her step-monster karen and her two step-daughters. while working at her late father's diner, completing household duties and being at karen's beck and call at all hours, julie was well on her way to getting accepted into the college of her dreams and having enough money to move out.

and then one day she received a text message from an unknown number. it started out innocent, crossed wires based on a flyer she put up three years ago.

this is the story of julie molina and her prince charming, and everything in between.

i never saw you coming (and i'll never be the same) by ruzekhalstead (@ruzek-halstead)

Juke

julie molina, a new student to uc berkeley, secures a job at a tiny, run-down grocery store, where she meets a group of people who inadvertently become some of the most important people in her life.

there's nothing like suffering in the workplace with your co-workers to solidify a bond.

a look into julie's life in a brand new city, as told by the customer service experience throughout the months.

an oddly specific grocery store au that no one asked for but i'm writing anyway to satisfy my brain

*Love Drunk by captainkippen

Juke

Thirty-two missed calls. Fifty-eight texts waiting. Over one hundred various social media notifications. A deep sense of foreboding took over. Julie swallowed. Slowly, she lifted the phone back to her ear.

"Flynn… what happened last night?"

After a night out in Vegas, Julie and Luke wake up to find themselves married. Hijinks ensue.

*So that's how it happens by echocharm (@echocharm17618)

Juke

But it had to be today. Julie had this crazy feeling in her stomach. Not nervous butterflies. More like fireflies that were trying to zap her (Do fireflies electrocute people? She should google that). It felt like that moment her parents spoke about all the time. The day they met. And when they first spoke to each other. Her mom always says that an intense zap went through her whole body.

Are you new or nervous? Julie has been waiting a (short)lifetime to hear those words be said to her.

She walked down a few more steps in the auditorium and found a spot. It was one of the few seats left in the room that wasn’t all the way up in the back. She sat down and settled into the uncomfortable, hard, plastic chair and took a deep shaky breath. The prof was nowhere to be seen. But there was a cute boy in the seat next to her. He had sort of long brown hair that was covered with a grey toque. And he was wearing a cut off t-shirt and you could see his very nice arms. Julie’s breathing was still shaky, and his attractiveness wasn’t helping the situation.

*we're too young to know things like love by Ephemeral_Joy

(@lydias--stiles)

Juke

The various ways and situations people notice the connection between Julie and Luke, whether that be a close friend or a complete stranger.

(started as a 5+1 fic and then i kind of went rogue. oops.)

*and i know i've kissed you before, but i didn't do it right (can i try again?) by Ephemeral_Joy (@lydias--stiles)

Juke

Some things just can't be fixed with a song.

(Julie and Luke break up.)

*The Infamous Tale of Luke and Julie's Grand Trip Across America by Ephemeral_Joy (@lydias--stiles)

Juke

In any normal situation, Luke wouldn't let this random girl hitchhike with him across America.

Then again, he wasn't normal. And neither was she.

(or: the roadtrip!au no one asked for)

*We Found Wonderland by ICanSpellConfusionWithAK (@pink-flame)

At the end of season one Julie isn’t able to save the boys and they are jolted out of existence. But what if there was another way? Julie finds herself back in 1995 with a chance to stop the boys of Sunset Curve from ever dying at all. But will she be able to find her way home afterwards? Will she want to? Or has Alice really gone down the rabbit hole this time...

A Moment of Quiet Conversation by JackONeillisTheMan

Juke

Julie and Luke talk about how he was the one who introduced her to rock. Then just fluff, more and more fluff.

*Feels like I've opened my eyes again by ICanSpellConfusionWithAK (@pink-flame)

Juke

After the whirlwind her life has been since the boys showed up it’s not that surprising that Julie would be a little tired. But is it normal that she’s more exhausted than she’s ever been? With Nick acting weird, Alex and Reggie both wrapped up in their own problems and her relationship with Luke still a big question mark, she has her work cut out for her if she’s looking to sit back and relax.

Basically my ideas and speculation about what season 2 might hold, or at least some of the things I would like to see.

find the strength, find the melody by sunset_phantom

Juke

An AU in which the boys are alive, Julie has been kicked out of her music program, and she somehow ends up falling in love with Luke in three days while he simultaneously brings her back to her first love of all: music.

after silence, wake me up by Vargynja

Juke

Julie hasn't been able to make music after her mother's death. She lives in New York working as an assistant for Luke, working hard to move forward in her career.

Luke finds out he's about to be deported back to Canada. A panicked lie leads them to fake a relationship to get married so he can stay in the country. Despite working together for two years they aren't close but a trip to Alaska to visit Julie's family might change that

Based on the premise of The Proposal (2009)

#jatp #jatp fanfic #juke #julie molina #willex #luke patterson #netflixwewantjatp2

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thanksjro · 4 years

Text

More Than Meets the Eye #31 - Ammo and the Anti-Glowup

So, the Lost Light disappeared, stranding all the crew in space in their little escape pods. 200-some robots just lost their homes and worldly possessions. That’s absolutely horrible. What a devastating thing to happen.

Anyway, here’s Drift with a flashback sequence.

No hips, fingers all the exact same length, hockey pucks embedded in his forearms- Rojo, this is a crime you’ve committed. When will the long arm of the law stop your sinful, pancake-shaped hands?

About two years prior to current events, Drift, Riptide, and Pipes- yes, Pipes!- were wandering around trying to find a ship for the space yacht trip. The gang’s here to see who owns the big honkin’ ship outside. Problem is, Drift is unintentionally terrifying because he has a great deal of swords.

Now, you may say to yourself “isn’t it a bit odd that the species that has members who literally turn into guns would be nervous around a guy with swords?” This is a valid critique, until you remember that at least some of the folks who turn into guns were born that way, and Drift was very much NOT born bladed the fuck out. There’s an entire miniseries devoted to explaining this, it’s called Drift. The swords are a choice, one that he makes every day.

Drift is willing to pay an honestly absurd amount of money for the ship, if he can just find the dude with the paperwork- don’t ask where he got the money. Pipes isn’t being terribly helpful in finding them, so Riptide decides that now is the time to start practicing being proactive and pulls a Coyote Ugly.

No, no, he doesn’t.

He does climb up on a table and start yelling for the ship’s owners to reveal themselves, though. Which they do.

Now it’s time for the world-building portion of our comic issue. Let’s learn about chirolinguistics.

Drift, staying true to his Mary Sue nature, uses his near-perfect Hand skills to strike up a deal with the owners of the ship. This would be impressive, if it didn’t just look like the most convoluted hand-holding session in the friggin’ universe.

Still, Drift is rich enough to make Jeff Bezos weep with envy, so the arrangements are made and the lads go on their way, talking some mad shit about the original name of the ship as they do.

So it is revealed to us that the Lost Light is named after a festival for honoring the dead and disappeared, which makes the fact that Rewind and Chromedome were there all the more sad.

Back in the present, Megatron tells Riptide to shut up so they can figure out what the hell they’re going to do about this whole “our home and also ride has ceased to exist” situation. He’s putting an awful lot of distance between himself and the rest of the Autobots as he does it, something that isn’t lost on the more bitter people of the crowd.

But why were we even talking about the Lost Light in the first place? Not to reminisce, believe it or not. See, it’s time for Nautica to get a little panel time, and she’s going to use it to be a massive fucking nerd and explain how the quantum engines work. As she does, Ratchet notes that his hands feel funny. Must be the weight of his hand-stealing sins manifesting itself in his joints.

Nautica explains that the engines run off of improbability- it is highly unlikely, but not impossible, that the ship can reach light speed, and riding the fine line between what can happen and what can’t, results in the creation of power for the engines. If this sounds familiar, it’s because Brainstorm gave us a watered down version of this explanation back in issue #2. If it sounds familiar for a different reason, it’s because this is how the Heart of Gold runs in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Again, I’m not sure why it is that the British love this concept so much, but there you are.

Oh, it appears someone has a question. Let’s see what they want to know about, shall we?

…Rojo, what the fuck is this.

Our muppety friend here isn’t too keen on how much of a smarmy asshole Nightbeat is being right now, though I’d assume it actually has something to do with the fact that Nightbeat got smacked around with the pretty-boy stick while Getaway very much did not. While the two bicker- there’s a lot of bickering in Season Two- Nautica presents a theory on what happened to the ship; it went too far in the direction of “can’t” and made itself cease to be.

Megatron gives not a shit about quantum improbability, though. He only cares about how they’re going to get out of this mess. Which, y’know. Valid.

Blaster picks up a radio from Rodimus, who tells the gang that they’re to meet up on a nearby planet to regroup and figure out their next move. The call drops before he can get more than a couple Megatron-directed insults in, however. Megatron, in response, tries to be the bigger person, and almost immediately fails. We do get a headcount though, which is good, logistically speaking. This information is communicated to us by way of a splash page full of character head shots. We’ve got 20 ‘bots on board this ship.

Yep. 20. No more, no less.

As our friends approach the planet, we’re informed that it’s actually a Lectureworld- a planet devoted to the study of a single field. Except it’s actually a Smartplanet now, and it’s been privatized by the Galactic Council, so you’ve got to pay to go there. Cyclonus thinks that that’s bullshit, and I can’t help but agree. Crosscut tries to network with they guy about his play, probably because word got around that Cyclonus is rich as hell, when the lights cut out. When they come back on, Crosscut is nowhere to be found.

It’s time for a Whodunnit.

Tailgate immediately pegs Megatron as the culprit in this disappearance, and breaks out a gun over the matter. Megatron thinks that this is absolutely adorable, which only serves to further infuriate our marshmallow friend. I guess he’s still mad about the whole “I was a Decepticon for five minutes and got brainwashed over it” thing, and wants someone to pin the anger on who’s socially acceptable to hate.

Cyclonus and Ratchet both think that Tailgate’s not going about this the right way, but the guy is simply too het up to listen to them. Tailgate suggests that they lock Megatron in the engine room for the time being and-

OKAY WHO LET HIM HAVE THAT

Riptide breaks out his gun, and soon we’ve got a standoff going between the three of them. Cyclonus tries to deescalate, which makes Gears and Huffer break out their guns. Then Hound breaks out his gun, though he seems to be doing his own thing, by pointing it in Nautica’s direction.

Broski, I think that might be animal cruelty.

Megatron manages to shoot Ravage “unconscious” and catches him by the friggin’ throat, stating that he has zero idea how this guy got here. With the heat off the two of them for a moment, Megatron communicates to Ravage to play ‘possum for the time being. Ravage responds, and I wonder exactly how he’s doing that, considering I don’t think he has enough fingers to effectively utilize Hand as a language. Or fingers at all, really.

While this is going on, Cyclonus snatches the gun out of Tailgate’s hand, admonishing him for being reckless about picking his fights. Generally speaking, you don’t want to try to go toe-to-toe with a guy who’s responsible for the deaths of literal billions. Getaway swoops in to comfort Tailgate, calling him gutsy. I wonder if this will become a trend.

Swerve says a thing, as he is wont to do, and it’s made known that multiple folks have disappeared during this incredibly brief standoff.

Wow, Chromedome just fucked off, huh? He wasn’t even in that sequence, just left.

Everyone’s positively baffled by the current happenings. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to who’s being taken. I guess we’ve got a mystery on our hands.

And who better to solve a mystery than a detective?

Nightbeat wrangles all the leftover folks into a corner of the room, so they can figure out what the common denominator is with all the disappearees. He starts with the easy stuff.

And by “easy”, I mean the super-special racism Tyrest subscribed to.

If you’ve read Eugenesis, you know that Nightbeat was also part of the first wave of cold-constructed bodies there. However, the general populace wasn’t nearly as chill about it as they were in IDW. Also, Wheeljack was his dad. No word on if that particular tidbit made it into IDW lore.

It’s at this point that we learn about M.T.O.s- made to order soldiers. They were cold-constructed ‘bots created en masse during the war in order to keep up with the demands for troops. Pretty fucked up, if you think about it, being born to die like that.

Now where have we heard that name before…

Chromedome, can your love life not be part of the plot for five minutes, my guy?

Nautica makes the honestly horrific claim that a lot of folks owe their existence to Megatron being a warmongering fuck, and even Megatron himself seems rather uncomfortable with the idea. Some thoughts we keep to ourselves, Nautica, even if they might be technically true. And even if Ammo wants to tack on his two cents on the matter.

What did they DO to you, Ammo? You’re supposed to be hot! Where are my three-paragraphs of description as Hound stares slack jawed the entire time? I miss Polyhex Wars.

Anyway, it’s Megatron’s turn to get poked with the questioning stick, and he’s not having it. He claims that by revealing his mode of creation, he’s risking a repeat of Functionist ideology. This would be valid, if people weren’t literally disappearing without any sort of explanation as to why. As it is, he’s being a stubborn asshole, but I guess he didn’t get his reputation by being a decent person who knew when to back down, now did he?

It’s at this point that Ratchet remembers he knows all the info Nightbeat’s looking for, and the conversation on Megatron’s birth is shelved for another day. I’m sure it won’t be a major plot point later, not in the slightest.

As it turns out, Nightbeat’s theory doesn’t hold water, and folks are still popping out of existence. We get another splash page, this time with everyone’s mode of creation listed under their names, and we move on to other theories about what the fuck is going on. While Nightbeat has a minor crisis over what the answer could possibly be, the MTOs in the group reminisce on the Ten-Step Program, a series of tests they were put through to make sure they worked well enough to get handed a gun and shoved out the door. Riptide wasn’t a fan.

Riptide has more wood panelling than a 70’s-style ranch house, and I think that’s very brave of him.

It’s at this point that Ratchet remembers it’s been quite a bit since he last shat on religion, and takes the time to do so while informing the reader about Information Creep. This is a concept we’ve seen mentioned previously, during Chromedome’s runaround in Overlord’s brain, but it’s here where we get the juicy implications.

Because memories can become corrupted in the brain due to extreme age, what ought to be objective fact has to be reinterpreted due to missing pieces. This is why nobody knows what the Knights of Cybertron got up to, or if they’re even actually real at all.

The lights go out again, and when they cut back on, Cyclonus is missing, leaving only his sword behind. Tailgate is extremely distraught by this, but Nightbeat gives not a fuck about Tailgate’s impending breakdown. He only cares about the truth!

And then a giant eyeball shows up.

It’s Ultra Magnus, coming to us live from his shuttle, via holomatter avatar! He shrinks down to a far more reasonable size, in a panel reminiscent of the first time IDW readers saw Megatron.

Don’t get me wrong, this is a neat parallel, I’m just… not terribly sure why it’s happening. One could say it reflects a reversal in power dynamics, but that theory gets tossed out the window when you remember that this isn’t actually Verity. I suppose it’s just a cool little thing.

Because the comms aren’t working, Ultra Magnus has been forced to use this avatar to communicate with the folks in the Rod Pod. Megatron asks just what the hell is going on, but unfortunately Magnus isn’t sure either. Then his shuttle disappears, and it’s bye-bye grunge girl Magnus.

It’s at this point that Nightbeat decides it’s time to stop pussyfooting around and get serious. He tells Ratchet to throw HIPPA directly in the garbage and write down everything he knows about the Autobots who crewed the Lost Light. And he does mean everything, as we get the splash page again, this time with lots of neat info on our friends, including spark type.

Spark types will become plot-relevant in the storyline after this, but for now let’s focus on some weird gender essentialism that got slapped into the first print of this issue.

As we know very well by this point, Transformers as a franchise has a tumultuous relationship with the idea of women existing. You would think that the awkward introduction of other genders we got in “Dark Cybertron” would have been the end of things being weird in IDW. However, you would be wrong.

In an effort to explain why genders exist, Roberts had the idea to make it spark-based. Nautica, in the solo print of this issue, has an estriol-positive spark. Estriol is a type of estrogen, which is the hormone that develops and maintains feminine secondary sex characteristics, when present in certain levels, in conjunction with other hormones. Biology

This “spark = gender” idea is, generally speaking, not a great idea to be presenting us with, especially when the writer is a cishet male, because it implies biological essentialism- the idea that a personality trait/quality of a person is innate and predetermined by their biology, as opposed to social, cultural, or individual experiences. Because this story doesn’t exist in a vacuum, it’s irresponsible to reduce the experience of being a woman to a single, physical, unchangable asset, especially when all other assets of the same class have zero effect on one’s gender identity. You don’t exactly see many nonbinary robots running around, now do you? And there are definitely more than two spark types, despite the Transformers as a species being... very binary.

It also makes female Transformers into an “other”, which is a problem that has existed from the very start of the franchise, in some form or fashion, and really doesn’t need to be perpetrated anymore than it already is.

The estriol spark type was removed in the trade edition, and Roberts has expressed regrets over its inclusion, having realized that it was potentially offensive.

Getting back to the story, Swerve, Tailgate, and Ratchet have disappeared, though Ratchet seems to have left his hands behind. His stolen, Pharma-original hands.

That’s still fucked up to me. I don’t think it’ll ever not be fucked up.

Riptide reveals the reason that he wasn’t in Season One of MTMTE was because when he went back to grab a receipt for the ship two years prior, he’d discovered that the original owners were worshipers of Mortilus, Cybertronian god of death, and knew about the nasty little problem that was the sparkeater from the first storyline. When Riptide went to confront them about it, they beat him up so bad he was unconscious for two solid days.

Which is a long-ass time to be unconscious. That might have been a coma, Riptide. Jesus, I hope someone got him to a hospital after this beatdown happened, or at least scraped him off the floor.

With this last piece of the puzzle, we finally have the common denominator in this big ol’ mystery. Everyone who disappeared was on the Lost Light when it took off from Cybertron in issue #1, and everyone left behind- Skids, Getaway, Nightbeat, Nautica, Megatron, and Ravage- didn’t join until afterwords.

Of course, having the answer doesn’t do us much good when everyone is still missing, and Megatron seems to agree with me, because he’s about to throw hands, when Nautica lets them know that they’ve arrived at the rendezvous. Problem is, so has something else.

...

I’m sure it’s fiiiiiiiiiiiiine!

#transformers #jro #MTMTE #issue 31 #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #incoming analysis #overthinking about robots #comic script writing

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shimmershae · 3 years

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My thoughts on Episode 6--On the Inside

Very appropriate title by the way. Works in a multitude of ways.

As always, my randomness is going beneath a cut again to spare the eyeballs of those of you that don’t want to see it at all and also? Help those of you that have somehow stayed spoiler-free in this brand-new age of early release episodes. It is still so wild to me that I’m a full episode ahead of half the fandom. I don’t know what I’m going to do when we get to the final episode and they decide to make us all suffer together--because somehow I do feel they will do exactly that after spoiling us for the first 23 episodes. It is going to be agonizing.

Anyway. Without further ado, Shae’s stream of consciousness review (of sorts).

Not fair, Angela. Opening the episode with that shot of that big ass spider. I hate those suckers. So naturally, they’re an easy sell for setting the horror scene to me, lol.

Okay. Who the hell’s chasing Virgil and Connie? Walker No-See-Ums?

Barely a minute in and the atmosphere for this episode is moody AF.

What is this? Tara Jr. The Walking Dead? LOL. Where’s the Scarlett for this mini plantation house? Anyway. First three minutes of this episode? Just as attention grabbing as the first five episode openings this season. I don’t think people out there are giving our writers enough love for that. Every episode so far has opened like a mini movie.

With the way the Walking Dead logo keeps crumbling away with each successive episode, somehow it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the Carol and Daryl spinoff was eventually titled The Living and had flowers growing out of each letter, lol. I mean, there would be a certain sort of life-affirming symmetry in a show that’s been promised to be much lighter in tone doing just that.

More Carol and Aaron? Yes, please. I don’t necessarily like Carol staying at home and sitting the sidelines like a figurative happy little homemaker in the B story while the rest of the mains are trying like hell to sell the A story, but if she’s going to be totally prohibited from the main storyline until it’s time to blow shit up? I’m going to continue enjoy getting to see her do what she should have been doing for seasons--interacting with others in the community, especially Aaron and the ladies.

Truly. I really am loving my girl getting some quality Aaron and Rosita time. It’s so long overdue.

Bless sweet Kelly. Riding off to her sister’s rescue.

Why isn’t Lydia shown as part of these plans? For someone that could barely read last season, I doubt that big ass map was a piece of cake for her and it’s all just guesswork anyway without her guidance. I mean, why does it feel like they are cutting some of this stuff that might not seem like much plot-wise but would go a long way toward establishing different character beats? Personally, I would have loved to see her involved in the search and sharing scenes again with Carol and bonding with Kelly.

Virgil be having that “I always feel like somebody’s watching me” feeling. Don’t you hate that, lol?

“You haven’t slept in days.” But how many days, Virgil? I’m going to need a number because I’m confused AF about this timeline at this point. What we’re seeing and what different pieces of dialogue is telling us is not exactly lining up. I’m going to find it awful hilarious if it hasn’t even been two weeks since the cave in. For reasons.

Connie’s spidey senses are clearly tingling.

Alrighty, then. She’s clearly got PTSD. Understandable. They’ve all had it. Some have been treated more sympathetically than others, though.

I mean, it never seems to cross anybody’s mind how Carol probably sees Henry’s head on that pike, Mika’s pale and bloody body, Lizzie crumpled face down in a bed of yellow flowers, Sophia with a smoking bullet hole through her undead head whenever she closes her eyes but whatever.

Okay though. But what if Connie had really shitty, impossible to read handwriting? AKA doctor’s handwriting. What then?

Leah’s face honestly twists my insides whenever I see it, lol. It’s quiet a visceral thing. No, that does not make me a horrible person. Not everybody wants or has to drink the awesome, great, redeemable villainess Kool-Aid. IMHO, she’s got a face meant for a Walker. Perfect makeover idea. Eh. Mostly it’s her expression and the deadness of her eyes.

Anyway. Why is it always the fingers? Eff that.

Listen. If ya’ll can’t tell Daryl’s conflicted AF with the situation he’s landed in, you don’t know how to read NR’s face and eyes. He’s not a masterclass like MMB but he’s pretty darn good when he wants to be.

I honestly feel sorry for Redshirt Frost.

“You do what you gotta do.” Frost knows what’s what and he’s willing to walk the walk for Maggie. Impressive loyalty. I’m left wondering how the current, colder incarnation of Maggie inspired it because I’m still struggling to see it. Anywho. My point is the dude knows the score and just gave Daryl the okay.

Daryl taking off his angel vest before stepping into the role of torturer/interrogator=him shedding the persona/the man Judith and RJ and Lydia and Carol know him to be. Pushing away his man of honor status so he can just survive somehow.

Pope never quits chewing whatever the hell he’s got in his mouth. It’s kind of distracting.

Ohhh. We’re back to the Haunted Mansion. I mean house. Where are the Hitchhiking Ghosts?

All the eyes scratched out of those creepy pictures=spooky.

The good old fogged up bathroom mirror shot. Somebody’s been watching and studying their horror movies, lol. Not gonna lie though. I’m legit bracing myself for the jump scares I know have to be coming.

I’m loving the music/score in these scenes.

Truthfully, I could care less about these Reapers. But they are hella attractive, lol. Listen. Angela knows what she’s doing.

Kelly’s horse is so pretty. Prayer chain for that baby.

More dead horses? Why?

Connie’s slingshot? Sorry. I maintain, no matter how much I like these two, that they have the lamest weapons ever. Endless supply of Virginia rocks or not.

So. Did Virgil and Connie enjoy a little equine for dinner? Did they kill it before the Walkers fed? What monsters! Yeah, no. Not if they were starving even if I personally could not have. The more probable story is they fled the camp in a panic and left the horse behind and then it went down. Sorry. I didn’t exactly study the wounds on the poor animal because it is so traumatizing to me to continue to see them meet such dastardly ends on this show. I don’t know who the hell has such a score to settle with horses but stop it.

Days. It’s only been days. Not weeks. So many times with all that Daryl and Company have had to contend with since the cave in? Those do not exist, lol. They’re just a convenient, appeasing piece of dialogue thrown at a fanbase primed and ready to read everything into not much of anything. There’s just not been enough time for it to happen unless Daryl has literally been up 24/7 for all of them. You know, strategizing how to attack the remainders of Alpha’s horde, figuring out how to defend Hilltop before it fell, healing from the wound he sustained at Alpha’s hand, sitting on that log all damn night with Negan waiting on Carol to come home, having a lover’s quarrel with his best damn everything, taking care of the Grimes babies and Lydia, being the reluctant leader. Kang, why you playing them like that? Daryl’s a super guy but he’s not a superhuman with clones. So many times my ass.

Seriously. Who been watching Connie and Virgil? The MIA Oceansiders? Beta’s Fee Fi Fo Fum Ghost?

Nice. A Michonne mention. Maybe the truth will start to trickle out.

LMAO at Connie’s “I’m not staying here.” Me neither, girl. I would be outta that house so fast.

They really “Quiet Placing” this episode. Honestly? I’m kinda loving it.

WTF was that? I know she can’t hear but you telling me all the little hairs on her arms, legs, and neck didn’t stand the fuck up and say fuck this shit, I’m gone? Pardon my language, lovelies, but that moment had my heart kicking up several beats.

Okay, okay. To be fair to Connie, every hair on her body been doing that since the front door closed. Maybe they’re desensitized.

Gollum’s chasing Connie!!! He/She wants their Precious!!!

The knee jerk reactions about this episode sight unseen are OTT, honestly. And I mean no disrespect by saying that. I can understand completely where they’re coming from because we’ve been burned so long in this fandom. But it’s obvious the spoiler source has their particular biases and reads into things in such a way that don’t line up with what’s actually being shown onscreen. Daryl’s loyalty in this episode and all along quite clearly lies with his family and his community. He’s been playing Leah since the start and is truly just trying to survive somehow.

Awful thought. The Reaper that’s so suspish of Daryl--haven’t quite caught his name or really cared to. I feel like he might try to get to Daryl somehow. When he realizes that Daryl cares no more for Leah than any human would care for somebody (they thought) they used to know? He’s going after Dog. Or Carol should she finally join this story.

I refuse to believe Carol isn’t going to be a part of this story. Because they messing with her mans, lol.

“You’re ever with us or you’re not.” Now where have I heard those words before? I wish I could find that Daryl gif because that had to be one of the funniest things ever, lol.

Unrealistic suggestion to Daryl, Leah? Breathing oxygen seems to piss off Carver. Oh look. He finally has a name for me, lol.

I love how all three of the ladies--Carol, Magna, and Rosita--look at Kelly with such indulgent, adoring “little sis, you alright?” eyes.

They are seriously the most beautiful quartet of characters. I mean all of them are lovely but Carol and Rosita this season? Ugh. The unfairness of the pretty.

Human bones. Terminus callback, lovelies. How it all would have eventually gone down if Gareth and Co. hadn’t met the business end of Rick’s red machete.

So many horror movie homages in this one.

Virgil’s like “let’s leave this Texas Chainsaw Massacre behind.”

Connie and Virgil have obviously bonded, ya’ll. I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying their scenes together when the character mostly got on my nerves with Michonne. He’s a good actor and the core of his character is sympathetic, but I’m not going to lie. I wasn’t super enthused when he was the one that rescued Connie because I didn’t know how their scenes would play out. But there’s a nice synergy there.

Okay. Does Carver want Leah for himself? Because I’m sure Daryl at this point would love to scream “take her, I know where I fucking belong!”

Daryl’s digging in deep because Carver has shown him Leah’s potential weak spot. Nuance is truly lost on some people, LMAO. He cares about Leah as a human being probably. He’s Daryl, after all. The sweet one. But he sees her as his way outta this and he’s going to exploit it.

It’s nice to have a silent Negan for once, lol. I can pretend he didn’t take my baby Glenn away from me and enjoy JDM’s pretty.

So. These cannibal people were the watchers? Hmm.

I’m really digging Virgil 2.0. Yeah. Nobody’s surprised more than me.

Sweet, sweet scene between Virgil and Connie. His determination to reunite her with her family brings back the sympathy I felt for him when he told Michonne “I promised her flowers. Every day.”

Damn. How many of those creepy crawly cannibals are there?

How brave of Connie to confront her fears to save someone she’s obviously grown to care about.

The Kelly/Connie reunion gave me chills and made me cry. Thank fuck Angela didn’t cheapen that moment by having it focus on literally anybody else. Kelly is the most important person in the whole world to Connie and vice versa. Just like Carol is the most important person in the whole world to Daryl and vice versa. Angela fucking knows. Everybody does. Except the people busy building castles out of sand while the waves of Carol’s and Daryl’s converging stories keep crashing closer and closer to shore.

Such a beautiful moment given to us by Angel Theory and Lauren Ridloff. So authentic and sweet. Kelly and Connie are home to each other.

Poor Frost. That’s all I gotta say about that.

WTF, though. Was Mel just not available or what? I want to see more of the ASZ characters that I care about, not the Reapers. Like I’d be fine with the story if all the characters not named Maggie, Negan, or Daryl weren’t surviving on crumbs during it. Especially the 2nd billed actress on the entire show. Angela. Please. Fix this.

One last WTF. Seriously. WTF has Maggie done to inspire Pope’s obsession? It better be juicy after all this shit.

Overall impression of the episode--

One of my favorites of the season so far. The horror aspects were fantastic, IMHO. I truly didn’t expect to like Connie and Virgil’s scenes as much together so that was a nice surprise. She got the reunion that felt most true and earned for the character and her story and I thank Angela from the bottom of my heart for that.

I would have loved more Carol but I always want more Carol. I’m okay with her taking a backseat because ultimately? This was Kelly’s moment with her sister. Carol and Connie will eventually have their time to sit down and talk. And pick back up their blossoming friendship because I truly do not feel Connie blames Carol at all.

I do wish Lydia had been included with the girl group. Last episode felt like it was leading up to that.

The Reaper storyline continues to be the weakest link because every time we see them the dialogue and interactions feel totally recycled from the time previous. I feel like it would have totally been helped by a tighter focus and less stretching out because 8 episodes of this is really diluting what I feel like Angela and Co. are going for. I’m not here for Leah being redeemed or being a bigger focus in any of the episodes because she does nothing of interest for me. I’m just peeking in on that story for the Daryl of it all.

Speaking of the Daryl? You lovelies out there gotta stop taking that spoiler source’s recaps at face value because it’s obvious to me at least that there’ some bias at work. Every action and word coming from Daryl is coming from a place of loyalty to his family and wanting to protect them, no matter how he has to dirty his hands. Leah is just a means to his ultimate end. She’s not his future. She never was. His future’s already spoken for and 2023 can’t get here soon enough. But like Daryl, we have to just survive somehow.

Oh goodie. More Maggie and Negan next episode and looks like no real follow up on Connie and the ASZ reunions. Hopefully, this is yet another instance of the previews being deceiving but I’m not holding my breath.

Until later, lovelies.

Hope my word vomit didn’t bore you too much.

#The Walking Dead #Season 11 #TWD spoilers #things that make me smile and cry #for reasons #ignore all the typos #with something this longwinded?#LOL #there's bound to be plenty

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thesightstoshowyou · 4 years

Text

Hurt Me

John Ryder (The Hitcher 2007) x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: Your car breaks down along a deserted stretch of road. The man that stops to pick you up might be the best or worst thing to ever happen to you.

There is a disturbing lack of content for this man and I intend to remedy that.

Warnings: Dubcon, masochistic reader, mention of family death, knife play, blood play, fear play, fingering, slapping, violence, blood, creampie

Smoke billows from under the hood of your 1999 Piece of Garbage Accord. You curse under your breath, hitting the steering wheel with your palms as though that will stop the inevitable death of the engine. With a final, guttering sigh, the car rolls to a stop along the endless stretch of New Mexican highway.

Stupid fucking car.

You’d done as the signs had instructed. You hadn’t run the air conditioning all day, instead leaving the windows down so miserably hot, desert air could blow your hair into a rat’s nest. Still, your shitty car had decided to die anyway.

After banging your head against the steering wheel for a solid minute, you pop the hood and slip out of the car. You stare at the innards of your smoking vehicle, wondering why the hell you’re even bothering. You know nothing about cars. You don’t even know what’s wrong let alone how to fix it.

The sun had set about two hours ago, and the heat had gone with it. The thick layer of sweat that had accumulated over your entire body like a slimy shell is now chilling you to the bone, your thin jacket doing little to keep you warm. A breeze picks up too, making you shiver and hunch down further in your coat.

Scrubbing a hand down your face, you walk to the yellow line along the side of the highway, looking despairingly back and forth. You are alone, the rushing of wind and chirping of crickets the only sound. You’d maybe only seen about three cars all day and even if someone drove by, the likelihood they would stop to pick you up is minimal. No one picks up hitchhikers anymore.

Your cell phone had croaked last week and you had yet to acquire enough funds to replace it. So, your options are to walk until you find a gas station or wait in your car for…for what? A miracle?

Decision made for you, you retrieve your keys and wallet and head east. You can’t remember what the last sign had said about the next service station, but you have a sneaking suspicion it is much farther than you’re comfortable walking. You wore the wrong shoes for this.

Hours passed and you’re still plodding along down the road. Your hips and knees ache and your shoes have rubbed your ankles raw. You’re just beginning to hope a pack of coyotes will come and kill you when you hear it; the rumbling of an engine careening down the road toward you.

You twist around and see a set of headlights approaching quickly. You wave your arms and try to look as distressed as you can. Please, please, please stop….

The car slows. You can feel the noisy roar of the engine vibrating in your own chest. A black Trans Am rolls to a stop ahead of you.

“Jesus, thank you, thank you,” you repeat, running to the open window. Bending to peek inside you find a lone middle-aged man, caramel colored hair trimmed short, copious stubble peppering a strong jaw. He flashes you a disarming smile, white teeth almost abnormally straight.

“You okay? Was that your car I saw back there?” he asks, voice deep and smooth like bourbon. Your eyes flick to the wedding ring on his finger. If he’s married that might cut down on the chance of him being a murderer.

“Yeah, the old bitch died on me.” The man chuckles and you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips.

“Hop in, I’ll take you to the next gas station.” He seems nice enough, but that’s how they get you, isn’t it? But what choice did you have? Keep walking until your feet bleed or until you freeze to death? What are the odds he’ll hurt you, anyway?

“Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.” You slip into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. The engine roars and you’re off, speeding down the road at a speed you’re not entirely comfortable with. You’re loath to say anything, though, lest you lose your ride. You buckle your seatbelt instead.

“I’m John,” he says, quickly throwing another charming smile your way before turning his eyes back to the road. You tell him your name and fight the blush creeping across your cheeks. He’s handsome, no denying that, but something feels a bit off. It’s his eyes. They’d looked…empty. The smile hadn’t reached them.

It’s warm in the cab, much warmer than outside. You slip out of your jacket, John unabashedly watching as you do. Married, you’re married, dude….

“Where you headed?” he asks, fiddling with the stereo. Some sappy love song croons through the speakers. John switches it off, instead letting the hum of the engine fill the car.

“Amarillo. My, uh…my aunt passed. Her funeral’s tomorrow.”

“Oh, sorry to hear.”

“Thanks. How about you?” You’re anxious to change the subject before you recall too much of the conversation with your mother you’d had earlier in the week. John hums in thought at your question.

“Wherever I end up.” You find that answer odd. What about the wedding ring? Doesn’t he have a wife?

“No one…no one to get home to?” you inquire, unease beginning to settle in your belly. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you glancing at his ring. His lips twitch up in a smirk.

“No.”

“Oh,” is all you can come up with. You swallow, regretting your decision to get in this car. So, he doesn’t have a wife? Or something happened to her? You don’t understand, but you’re afraid to ask, afraid to know the answer.

Glancing at the passenger side door, you find there is no door handle. Your heart stutters. There’s no visible lock either. John must notice because he chuckles again, low and dark.

You shriek when he slams on the breaks, your seatbelt catching you hard in the chest but saving you from smashing into the dash. John cranks the wheel, whipping the car onto a dirt side road. Your nails dig into the seat as the car thunders down the uneven path before skidding to a stop.

There’s nothing around you but an endless stretch of moonlight desert, no one around for miles and miles. No one to save you. You’re alone, completely alone with this man. Get out, run.

You scrabble at your seatbelt but as soon as it slips off your shoulder there’s a click to your left. You freeze when cool steel meets your throat. A knife. You release a tremulous exhale through your nose and settle back into your seat, your heart slamming against your ribs so loud you think he can probably hear it.

“Good girl,” John purrs, killing the engine and unbuckling his own seat belt. The sudden silence is unnerving, no noise around you but for your shallow breaths. He reaches under his seat and pulls the lever, sliding the seat back as far as it can go. “C’mere,” he says, spreading his legs and patting his thigh.

You stare at him fearfully, eyes wide. You can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe your shit luck. Out of all the people in this entire state to pick you up, it had to be this psycho.

You hiss when he presses the knife into your skin just hard enough to prick and draw blood. It’s a warning. As scarlet trickles down past the collar of your shirt, you suppress the shiver the stinging pain brings, clench your thighs to stop the pleasure that zings up between them. Not now. That is the last thing you need.

Sweat beading along your brow, you clamber over the center console to straddle his legs and settle into his lap. That smile is back, friendly, pleasant but for his eyes. His eyes are dead, empty as he drags them down your figure. You quickly look away, not wanting him to see the flush in your cheeks.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch John’s eyes narrow curiously. Knife still pressed against your flesh, he grips your chin with his free hand, turning your head until you’re looking at him again. You tremble in his grip, two parts terrified of him, one part fearful he’s going to discover your little secret.

He knows something is up. You can see it in the way his eyes study your rosy cheeks and heaving chest. Leisurely, he drags the knife lightly down your sternum, between your breasts, past your waist before lifting the hem of your shirt with the blade. You squeak when he exposes your bra before stuffing the edge of your shirt in your mouth.

“Hold that,” he orders before turning his attention to your abdomen. In a flash he cuts you, blade slicing horizontally through your flesh, deep crimson spilling down your stomach and soaking into your jeans. As hot, sharp pain morphs into sticky pleasure, your muffled scream tapers off into a warbly moan. You flush a dark red, hating yourself for allowing that noise to escape you.

“Interesting,” he murmurs before ripping your shirt from your mouth, sawing through the fabric and tearing it away from your body. You screech and thrash, falling still when the knife returns to your neck. The metallic scent of your blood fills the cab, sharp and pungent in your nose.

Once again, blade meets flesh and John carves a sloppy line under your collar bone. You grunt and try your best to stifle the mewl that slips off your tongue, but he hears it anyway. John lets out a breathy laugh, smearing the blood leaking from the newest slash up your neck with the palm of his hand.

“Never seen that before,” he comments, more to himself than you. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your bottom lip quivering under his bloody thumb when he caresses the skin. He continues, speaking directly to you now, “You like it.”

You shake your head, another scream ripping from your throat when he traces a rib with the blade, splitting your flesh open until you’re leaking crimson. You can’t mask the shaky moan, the “Please,” that sneaks from your mouth and you hang your head in shame. Between your thighs, you’re burning, soaking your underwear, quivering and needy. Desperate for friction, you grind down into his lap, pulling a startled grunt from him.

“Fuck,” John mutters, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking your head back, latching onto your neck and dragging his tongue through the blood smeared across your skin. He bites you under the jaw, hard, probably hard enough to break the skin. You whine and arch into his mouth, hand flying to the window to brace yourself.

“How far have you taken this?” he asks, tilting your head back down until you’re looking into his dead eyes. There’s a spark there now, curiosity and a little heat. You release a haggard breath and shake your head to calm your racing thoughts.

“U-um, I…have—haven’t, really,” you stammer. Why are you telling him this? John’s eyes narrow. He’s connecting the dots.

“No one knows,” he says, mouth splitting into a grin, “Do they?” It isn’t a question. He can read you like a fucking book. He groans under his breath when you look away, blinking away the tears pooling along your bottom lid.

“It’ll be our secret,” he murmurs, tapping the flat of the knife against your lips. He releases your hair, fingers going to the button of your shorts and snapping them open. You tense and whimper when he pushes his hand inside to drag his fingers along your drenched slit.

“Fucking Christ,” he exclaims, pulling his hand from your panties and forcing you to look at your slick coating his fingers. He meets your heavy-lidded gaze and sucks the wet digits into his mouth. You inhale sharply, biting the inside of your cheek.

His hand returns to your underwear and he pushes two fingers past your folds, curling them delightfully. You keen, hips bucking into his hand when he massages that tender spot within you. His other hand goes to your hip, urging the roll of your hips.

“Fuck yourself, good, like that,” he instructs, hand leaving your hip to slip the knife under your ear. You can help the pleased little noises that escape you as you grind down onto his fingers. Delicious heat curls in your gut and, deliriously, you wonder how many shades of fucked up you are to be enjoying this.

“You want me to hurt you?” John asks, pulling your face down until your lips are inches from his own. You pant, only hesitating a moment before you nod. “Ask me,” he says through gritted teeth, huffing quietly when your wet cunt squelches around his fingers.

“P-Please…please h-hurt me, John,” you whisper. Christ, what if he kills you? Had you just signed your own death certificate?

“Polite,” John comments. Lightning fast, he twists and sinks the blade into the hand you have splayed out on the center console. You scream, tensing, riding out the putrid agony as it immobilizes your arm and groaning noisily as the pain is slowly replaced with feverish pleasure. You clench around the fingers inside you, feeling the heat curling into tight pressure.

“Jesus, you’re gonna cum, aren’t you?” He sounds shocked and almost…excited. You don’t hear what he says next as that pressure within you implodes, shock waves wracking your core. You sob, bowing forward as your hips twitch through mind-numbing climax.

John gives you no time to come down from your high. He rips the knife from you hand, pulling another shriek of pain from your throat. You cradle your mangled palm to your chest as he throws the car door open.

He shoves you hard and you tumble out the door with a muffled cry, sprawling on your ass in the dirt. John quickly follows, digging a hand in your hair and hauling you to your feet with the other hand under your armpit. Half shoving, half dragging, he forces you to the front of the car and shoves you down over the hood. The metal is still warm under your uninjured palm as you brace for the inevitable. Your heart races in your chest and you know you would beg for it if he wanted you to.

John rips your shorts off your hips. You hear the hasty slide of his zipper and the rustle of clothing and then you feel him at your entrance, hot and hard. One forceful thrust and he buries his cock completely within you.

You shout, the sweet ache of such a sudden intrusion making your stomach muscles clench. John wastes no time in hammering you into the hood of his car, heedless of any pain you might be feeling. He’s trying to hurt you, after all.

“Fuck, that’s tight,” John groans, using the hand in your hair to wrench your neck back painfully, too far. Your grunts of pain turn high and girlish, every brutal snap of his hips making the line between pleasure and pain blur until you can’t tell which is which anymore.

Drool and tears spill from you face onto the golden wings of the Firebird beneath your palms. You feel John’s fingers sneaking up your waist. He digs his nails into the gash on your ribs and your scream echoes across the quiet desert. Your vision narrows to pinpoints and your head lolls, falling against the hood with a quiet thud.

“No, not yet,” John growls, pulling out of you and flipping you onto your back. He slaps you across the cheek and your eyes snap open. You blink wildly, trying to orient yourself, but he’s already throwing your legs over his shoulder and lining up again.

“Look at me,” he orders, gripping your jaw and forcing your gaze to his. You see stars when he fucks into you, pitiful whimpers spilling from your parted lips.

“Yeah, yes, please, John, please, god, god, oh god—

You’re speaking, you think, but you’re not sure what you’re saying. Maybe you cum again, but the pain is finally starting to win out, your torso and hand throbbing in time with your fluttering heart. You’re dizzy, the Earth lurching horribly when you turn your head. You’ve lost too much blood you think, or maybe you’re still reeling from the orgasm.

Finally, John’s hips meet yours with one final, harsh thrust. Distantly, you hear him moan your name, feel the warmth in your cunt as he paints it white. Your eyelids droop and you reach out to clumsily pat his forearm.

John drops your legs. Without him to hold you up, you slip off the hood, landing in the dirt a second time with a grunt. You shiver, the ground cold against your bare skin. Cold, and so, so tired….

You awake to bright, piercing light behind your eyelids. You blink, scrunching your eyes. There’s an IV pole above you, bags dripping into a pump. You follow the line down to your arm. Scratchy hospital sheets grate against your legs, the stiff gown sagging down your shoulder. You ache in so many places, the deepest of which is between your legs.

“Officer, she’s awake!” Blearily, you look up as two cops enter the room. They look uncomfortable, glancing to one another, silently deciding who will speak first.

Memory hits you like a punch in the gut. John. He hadn’t killed you after all. What happened after you passed out?

The officers kindly explain you were assaulted and dumped, bloody and half-dead behind a motel along the highway. They ask if you remember anything. You tell them the wrong make and model of vehicle. You say you were unconscious the rest of the time. You don’t remember.

“Nothing at all?” You shake your head. They ask a few more questions, none of which you answer with anything useful. Once you’re alone again, you lift up the gown to inspect the stiches on your abdomen, gently tracing the wound along your ribs. You flinch when it stings and a small smile creeps across your face.

#john ryder #john ryder x reader #the hitcher #the hitcher 2007 #n sfw #dubcon #masochistic reader #reader insert #slasher fandom #slasher x reader #blood #violence #my writing #family member death

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fandomsilhouette · 4 years

Text

you found me in the ashes then (and taught me how to thrive)

The glass he makes is fragile and firm, shatters at the touch of his hand but holds the weight of his whole heart strong and steady. It melts in the heat and bends to his touch, reshaped by the palms of his hands. Felix has left his mark, made something beautiful, something he could call art.

There are scars on his hands from the cuts and the burns. Looking at them in the morning light, the crisscrossed lines look like art too.

Happy @felixmonth, y’all!

Marinette doesn’t forgive him, necessarily. He’s too far gone for that, and he doesn’t expect anything more than… well, he had expected her to burn the pillow at first sight but clearly that didn’t happen. Felix finds himself absurdly, ridiculously grateful for every smile she sends his way. It’s not often, and usually in passing, but he’s finally getting to see more than the tips of her hair as she rushes around a corner and disappears. He missed this. Felix hadn’t realized how much.

He also finds himself going back to the library, missing his kids (his kids? when did that happen?) and wondering how they’d been all summer. He’s surprised when most of them even remember him, ask about where he’s been and beg for their favorite stories to be read first.

A little girl with black hair all tied up in pigtails pushes a book at him. Felix has never read it before, and, ignoring the guilt that comes with choosing a book out of simple curiosity, picks it up. Savvy, he reads, by Ingrid Law. The children settle down, and he starts reading.

There’s something relaxing about beanbag chairs and bookshelves, and the warmth of a child like a cat on his lap. There’s something relaxing about reading children’s books, too: they reach to the deepest parts of his childhood Felix has yet to shed and call to him, pull him apart into all the pieces he’s broken into and find the spaces where the glass doesn’t fit and smoothes it over, burns him in the light of being seen and heals him in the same breath. There’s no judgement in reading it to the children. They’re a free pass to exploring the themes he skipped over as a child. Felix holds onto it with both hands.

In the book, Mibs climbs onto a bus and hitchhikes her way to her Poppa, injured in the hospital. On the way there, she learns how to work her savvy, and learns that her strongest power is the one she’s had all along. Felix’s heart aches to have a power like that, to be able to touch someone and know what they feel, what they need. He wishes he knew how to be the person that the people around him need.

“Mister Felix, you are what we need.” The little girl in his lap snuggles into his stomach and sighs, half asleep. Most of the other kids have wandered off or nodded off, holding their parents’ hands or clutching at their collar. He hadn’t meant to whisper it out loud. He’s sort of glad he did.

“Where are your parents, noodle?” Her name is Maggie, but Felix calls her anything but. Her favorite is noodle, and he’s inclined to use it when she’s all soft spoken and sweet like this, wiggly and melted in his lap.

“I dunno, I lost ‘em.” She makes no move to get up. Felix shrugs off his jacket and tucks it in around her, and starts in on the second book in the series. Her parents come to pick her up two books later, just as he’s wrapping up the last one, and he lets her take his jacket with her. She wears it gleefully, sleeves hanging past her fingertips and one shoulder sliding off. Her arms wave just to flap the sleeves and her eyes light up when her mama spins her around. He doesn’t expect to get it back.

Marinette shows up with it two weeks later at camp with a note and a messily stitched cat, grinning.

“You have a secret admirer.” The cat is stitched in with the same gap-toothed stitching that shows in the uncontainable joy of Maggie’s smile. On the back, in that messy careful writing, she’s scrawled “You are your own savvy!” Felix’s heart bursts. She’s too young to be so clever. She’s just young enough.

“Very secret, mhm. Definitely.” And then he manages a wink, and that turns into a full blown smirk when Marinette turns pink. She hands him the jacket and Felix doesn’t jump when their fingers brush. It’s been washed out and has that lingering little kid smell, overlaid with something that smells like bakery and flowers. That night is Felix’s turn to fall asleep tucked into a jacket that feels like it fits just right.

Marinette doesn’t avoid him that summer, but she doesn’t seek him out either. It’s a strange truce to be in, to go on hikes on paths they used to walk together, to see his messy stitches propped up against her neat ones in the project storage of the arts and crafts room. Felix makes an effort to wave, to nod at Nino and ask about his new music, to talk to the younger years when they get lost or lonely. Felix finds he has so many stories memorized from how often he read them at the library. He does voices, and the youngest campers are enthralled. The older ones are, too, but they skulk around at the edges, keep themselves busy with something else and act like they aren’t paying attention. Felix leans in, winks at them, and catches a little boy around the waist, throws him up in the air. The older campers laugh at the shock on his face, and when Felix gets overrun with kids demanding attention, he waves over the rest and slips out once everyone is laughing.

He runs into Marinette leaning against a wall outside, waving Nino off so he can catch up with Luka. Felix can see the blush even on Nino’s dark skin, and tries something new. A nod, a wave, something encouraging and bright instead of sneering or snide.

“I was waiting for you.” Her voice is teasing and light and makes Felix blush. He doesn’t respond. “You’re pretty cute with those kids, y’know. Allan is especially fond of you, he won’t stop talking about the voices you do.”

“...you know them?”

She snorts and pushes herself up, starts walking away. “I’ve been teaching them arts and crafts for years, so… yeah. I do.” There’s something sharp in her tone, chiding and playful all at once, and Felix’s heart races. He watches her back, her ponytail swinging, and worries. She pauses. “Aren’t you coming? You’re going to get caught in the rain again if you don’t hurry.” Then she winks, and takes off at a jog.

Felix laughs in delight, shakes off the first raindrops on his skin and chases after her, a few steps behind but getting closer.

By the time they’ve sat down with their lunch, the rain is coming down heavily. Marinette waves and splits off to find Nino, and Felix wanders over to an empty table. He can still see her, animated, waving and gesturing wildly, and Nino laughs with her. She glances over at Luka and Nino pulls a face, but he slides down into his seat too. When Marinette laughs, Felix does too.

By 3PM, not a lot of people are left laughing. The rain is coming down hard, and with everyone stuck in the great hall with nowhere to go, counselors are rapidly losing any ability to keep everyone entertained. By 5, everyone’s irritated and scared, itching to be back in their own cabins or outside or anywhere else. There’s general discontent growing across the room. Felix slips away from his table to make space for the growing group of upset children huddling together in support and slinks into a corner. Cabin fever is setting in, which makes Felix almost smile. They aren’t in their cabins, and the irony would make him laugh if he wasn’t so listless-lost-lonely in this crowded hall. Thunder rumbles. Felix’s spine shivers in time with the skies.

He’s still watching Marinette. He doesn’t know what that says about him.

She hasn't looked back at him, but the lightning strikes and she makes her way away from the seat she’s curled up in for the last five hours. Nino sticks his tongue out behind her and she does the same back to him before turning around to look at Felix. There’s lightning again, sure, but it’s in her thundercloud-blue eyes.

It’s shockingly beautiful.

She slides down the wall, her shoulder barely brushing his. Electricity shoots across his skin and he shudders. Half an hour passes like that, each second tapped out with the beat of his pounding heart.

Her voice is quiet when she finally speaks.

“...why did you do it?” She’s not looking at him, but he can hear the strength it takes her to ask the question out loud. Felix draws circles in the dust on the floor with his finger.

“I… wish I could tell you. I don’t know, Marinette. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I just want to know why.” She pauses. “I… Nino says I shouldn’t care or I should ask you and get it over with, and I’ve never been one to not take my own advice.” Marinette doesn’t explain that statement and Felix doesn’t ask her to; in the time that Marinette’s been here, Nino has been edging his way towards Luka.

“My… mother. I just… I spent so much time around people who just…” Words slip away from Felix and frustration roils in his gut. It’s bitter and biting and hurts, and he screws his face up, clenches his fists. Marinette looks away and leans into his space, and he feels seen and safely hidden all at once. “…this is going to sound so dumb, but I didn’t… I didn’t know what happiness looked like. I thought… I just… that’s what people did, okay? Growing up, everyone who smiled at me wanted something, and usually something I couldn’t afford to give. So instead it was torn out of me and after a while… you start seeing smiles with all their bloody teeth when all they’re used for is taking a bite out of you.”

She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t speak. It feels like the walls are closing in, squeezing at his heart. The fever spikes. Felix thinks he might be sick; he gropes blindly for water and gulps it down.

“I really did want to be your friend. I don’t know what it looks like but it’s damn hard making friends. Chloe spent the first whole decade of my life tearing down any scrap of self esteem I had. By the time I even figured out how to stand on my own two feet, everyone else had managed to make friend groups and build social skills and I was years behind. I worked hard to catch up. I made my way here and I refuse to be called manipulative for being kind.” Words come pouring out of her, like she spent the last half hour building them up behind a dam just to let them all burst now. They wash over Felix like waves, cool on his burning skin.

“I think I’m… starting to get that, yeah.” He tries for a joke: “As it happens, I happen to be pretty behind too.” It makes her laugh, and pride wells in his smug grin. She bumps into his shoulder.

“You’re not too bad, y’know. I’ve seen you with them.” She nods at the kids and then weighs her words on the scales of her tongue, decides to speak. “Thank you, Felix. I forgive you.”

“Thank you, Marinette. You’re… not too bad yourself.”

Counselors start bringing out dinner and the children rouse. By dessert, Marinette is singing and the kids come gather around her to listen, to sing along in their warbling voices. She nods at Felix and he joins in too; then someone demands stories and between the two of them, they manage to get through three Disney movies. She doesn’t move from beside him the whole time.

She falls asleep first, still stuck in the great hall while the clouds pour down, tilts onto his shoulder. Felix doesn’t do anything but slide down until she’s comfortable, and keeps telling stories until his voice gives out and the campers are passed out around them.

Come morning, the sun breaks through the clouds, bright and bold and shining. Felix wakes up to it, revels in the light of the morning sun, and grins.

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lovelyirony · 4 years

Text

Footnotes

it’s been a bit since i added to the bookshop au: time got away from me!

We’re taking over the world/a little victimless crime -Do It All the Time, IDKHBTFM

Tony notices that Bucky doesn’t come into the store for a month. This is fine. Should be fine. Not like he wonders what Bucky will think of the newest latte, which is geared more to the warmer weather that has been breezing in cheerfully. The iced latte, flavored with caramel and coconut, had been a hit with MJ and Ned, who both loved it.

But Bucky hadn’t come in and tried it.

His anxiety tells him that he is found out and are currently waiting until Tony leaves the building to set up a trap and probably blow up every single book and also him.

But that would be stupid. There’s no way that the Avengers know who Iron Man or War Machine is. Tony Jarvis is a nice guy who runs a bookstore, has a suspicious amount of money from inheritance, and got a degree in English from a local college.

He even photo-shopped pictures there with Rhodey and everything. (Thank god for anti-aging technology and Rhodey’s genius.)

But he still kind of wants Bucky to come in and look at books. He even has a few records pulled just for the occasion.

“You are quite honestly the worst kind of person,” Rhodey says. “Who gets a crush on who is supposed to be their arch-nemesis and wants to make a custom coffee menu for them?”

“Not me,” Tony says quickly, pushing away the lemon-blueberry scone idea. “And besides if anyone would be my arch-nemesis, it would clearly be Black Widow. We match each other intellectually.”

“Not a chance,” Rhodey says with a snort. “Or did you forget the time you got so nervous you—”

“Hello?” comes a voice from the front. Rhodey immediately cuts off, going back to filing new shipments. Tony looks over.

“Hey, you’re back!” Tony cheers.

Rhodey makes a motion of gagging. Tony flips him off with one hand behind his back as he comes forward.

“Sorry I haven’t been in. Work has been…enlightening.”

“Usually code for ‘I-don’t-get-paid-enough’” Tony teases. “You wanna try an iced coffee drink?”

“I’m game.”

“Sit down at the table, I’ll get it out for you.”

Bucky has to admit that a good apron can do wonders for an ass. Or maybe Tony just has a really nice one. Either way, the view is spectacular.

“What has work been having you do?” Tony asks, pouring in syrup.

“Oh just…the usual,” Bucky says. He’s horrible at lying. He really, really is. “They keep twisting up what they want, it’s getting confusing.”

“Bookshops, luckily, are much simpler than that,” Tony says, smiling. He slides the drink over to Bucky. “Try it. Tell me what you think.”

Bucky takes a long slurp. Puts his head back.

“Tony, you ever experienced a masterpiece?”

“Once or twice,” Tony says, smiling.

“This is the damn Mona Lisa of drinks.”

Tony grins. Bucky sips a bit more, sighing in contentment.

“Hey, I know that last time I learned that you sold records. What are, um, your favorites?”

“I’m glad you asked…”

Bucky learns about new music. He learns that he needs to google new bands. AC/DC is a clear favorite of Tony’s, who sings along. It’s a funny juxtaposition with his cardigan and old jeans, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

Bucky finds some of the old ones, which Tony doesn’t look surprised at.

“You have an old soul,” Tony says.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Bucky mutters.

“Don’t I?” Tony teases. “You act as if you’ve never had iced coffee before.”

Bucky has to turn back to the player to stop from laughing in front of him. What Tony doesn’t know…well. He’s damned sure he doesn’t know that technically all of Bucky’s favorite records were either unable to be found, most likely questionable, or long disintegrated with time.

Oh, Tony knows. He knows for a damned fact that Bucky has never had iced coffee, most likely does not know who the hell Jimmy Carter was and knows how to disassemble and reassemble most weapons in under sixty seconds.

But it’s cute to mess with him. His brow furrows. Tony has a thing for furrows.

“Hey Tony?” Rhodey asks, head popping up from the upstairs. Bucky automatically looks up, finding the face to be vaguely familiar.

“What is it Rhodey-dear?” Tony calls back out.

“I have a computer glitch, you gotta come see it! Now!”

“This better not be a repeat of the pinball incident,” Tony mutters, turning back to Bucky. “I’ll be back in five minutes, I promise.”

“Take your time, love,” Bucky responds.

Bucky then immediately wonders if he bangs his head against the column near him if Tony and Rhodey will hear it. Tony also called his…person “Rhodey-dear.” Dear! Does he even have a chance?

But this brings him to think about Rhodey. He looked familiar. Bucky’s life doesn’t consist of knowing that you know someone from a certain social event and trying to place them. No, Bucky knows people because of two reasons:

1.) He tried to kill them.

2.) SHIELD has something on them.

He’s pretty sure that if he was faced with someone like Rhodey, he wouldn’t be able to kill him. Even from the head poking out, he could see a pretty defined shoulder and a look set to his gaze that read as very competent, entirely capable of taking down an authoritarian government, and also probably likes gourmet cheeses. The last one is a guess. But Bucky likes to guess pretty damn accurately.

Rhodey…

Rhodes. Colonel James Rhodes. Close with Tony Stark, who went missing. They thought he had something to do with something. He moved to New York pretty quickly after that, refusing to go into military service to a “previously unreported mental incapacity.”

Bucky smells bullshit.

Tony Stark. Another mystery in this puzzle. Bucky remembers trying to kill Howard and Maria Stark. It was the wrong person. Winter Soldier never missed his targets. Of course, Tony Stark wasn’t the target.

Rhodey is freaking out. Someone at SHIELD figured out there was a tiny bug in the system.

“When did they hire someone competent?!” Tony whisper-yells. “I thought they were two years behind schedule!”

“We made that schedule when we were drunk out of our minds from Moscato,” Rhodey hisses.

“Still! It was Moscato. It wasn’t like we drank vodka until we were shit-faced. That would’ve ended up disastrously and possibly given Dum-E and U a new sibling before Butterfingers.”

“Butterfingers wants a baby, just so you know,” Rhodey says.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Tony asks.

“Because you know what you’re doing and I figured you should know what your daughter is up to. It’s very important in developmental psychology.”

“Do not,” Tony hisses. “Let me fix this…”

With a couple more frantic curses, one eye shut, and a yelp, the problem is (mostly) taken care of.

“You think they can trace it?”

“It’ll trace back to a random e-café,” Tony says. “And there will be Justin Hammer who is currently trying to work out why his dating profile isn’t working. I’ll give you a hint: it’s the bio and the fact that he looks like he’s going to bail on paying for your dinner.”

Rhodey smiles, shaking his head and looking out the door.

“Get back down to Barnes. Don’t let him know what this is.”

“When would I?”

“You tend to be a terrible liar around people you like.”

“Why you—!”

“Thank you for helping with the pinball machine again!” Rhodey says, throwing his voice. He shoves Tony out of the office. Tony’s cheeks are bright red, he’s flushed, and he can barely walk down the stairs.

He’s not sure what exactly happened. He knows someone found out about them, tried to trace the bug back. That simply wouldn’t do because Tony runs a legitimate business. Pays taxes on April fifteenth and everything.

“Sorry about that, emergency with a pinball machine game,” Tony says.

“Understandable,” Bucky says. “What was wrong it? A bug get in?”

“Uh, not exactly,” Tony responds, body going tense for a moment. “You want to pick out a new record?”

“Yeah, sure…”

They find out that Bucky absolutely hates the pop, almost-fake music from the fifties.

“It’s…unsettling,” Bucky says, shuddering. “Gross.”

“Let me get some Benny Goodman then,” Tony says.

“How’d you know?”

“Everyone likes his music,” Tony says. “But then again, you did say you were an old soul.”

Bucky can hear the familiar music fill the air as he hums to himself.

“Hey handsome, wanna help me with something?” Tony asks. “I have some books that need to be shelved. I was wondering if you could help?”

“No problem,” Bucky says, grinning. “Can’t reach the top shelf?”

“Why you—”

“I’m shelving!” Bucky calls, grabbing one of the boxes.

Tony thinks that no one should be attractive when they’re lifting boxes. Especially when they’re holding what is essentially about forty pounds with one arm. His left one, but still.

There is also the matter of making sure that Barnes never finds out who he is. Tony has been quite careful about that, although the “bug” comment got to him. Does he know about them? Is he playing some sort of long game?

Answer: no. Bucky got distracted by a book title that he remembers from years ago.

“I forgot I read this,” he says, smiling. “It was forever ago.”

“Old books get to you like nothing else,” Tony responds. “I grew up with Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. You read that one yet?”

“Add it to the recommended box,” Bucky answers.

He has his own box now. Technically a crate, but Tony’s been putting books there for Bucky when he thinks he’s found one that he’ll like. Which of course, Bucky will like whatever book is in there if Tony chose it. He likes anything Tony chooses. He would wear the worst outfit in existence if Tony chose it.

Shelving goes by with little conversation, although they both hum along to the music being played softly over the intercoms. Tony comes and goes, helping customers with different items, brewing some more coffee, and getting some more boxes.

Bucky likes the routine.

He’s sad to go, taking his books with him and waving a soft goodbye. Tony’s leaning against the doorframe, a fond look on his face as the bookshop light floats out onto dark pavement. He wishes he could be there all the time.

And then, of course, people are in his apartment.

“Bookstore again, huh?” Steve asks. Natasha’s looking through the pile of receipts on the kitchen counter.

“You go there a lot,” she murmurs.

“I like being literate, gives me a headstart on Clint,” Bucky answers glibly.

“Even if someone liked reading this much, they wouldn’t be buying obscene amounts of books and coffee.”

“I don’t buy every book. To—the owner lets me take some home if I return them the next day.”

“You’re on a first name basis?” Natasha asks, eyebrow arched. “Just what bookstore are you going to?”

“One that’s none of your business,” Bucky says.

“It says it on top of the receipt,” Steve says.

Bucky curses.

Steve laughs at him.

#bookshop au #lovelyirony writes #sorry it took so long #i've been dealing with personal stuff and schoolwork #but now schoolwork is done #writer's block on the other hand.....#winteriron #rhodey #pepper potts #tony stark #bucky barnes #steve rogers

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simtrospective · 4 years

Photo

SCRAPPED STORY CHALLENGE by @bugsims

01. Post a few screenshots from a scrapped scene / edit / story! 02. Share why you scrapped this specific thing. 03. Tag five friends, and watch the fun play out!

Thank you to @gilded-ghosts for the tag.

Because I wrote so much that you might prefer to skip, let me do 03. outside the cut. I tag...

@ladykendalsims - @jet-plane-sims - @boogey-studios - @pinkmonsimblr - @dynastiasimss

The above pictures (plus the related tray files) are all I have left of an idea that was half-formed to begin with and which never got off the ground at all.

01.

Depending on if you’re a follower of mine + how long you’ve been following me, you may have seen a few of these shots before but I’ll explain them anyway:

Set 1: The characters Charlie, Hick, and Craig, in their original states on the left and their enhanced, final states on the right;

Set 2: A few WIP pictures of the performance space/club/thing I built;

Set 3: A bunch of test shots I took to see how the characters looked interacting, what they did naturally, and how they looked when I ~directed them. I used these pics to try and find my editing style for the story. I didn’t find the style I wanted. Clearly.

02.

I scrapped this idea because it never came together; I didn’t connect with the characters; I didn’t care about the storyline; I’m not done with my new save so I couldn’t ~comfortably start telling this story when the rest of the world was/is disordered; and on and on. The point is, I wasn’t feeling any of this. Oh! And I hate the whole vibe and time period and aesthetic irl; what on earth was I thinking writing about it?!

So. What was this going to be?

[[Under the cut because this is... so, so long. So long.]]

Charlie, Hick, and Craig were

going

to live in Del Sol Valley in my new save, in the Pinnacles neighborhood, which I was

going

to turn into a Laurel Canyon-style neighborhood. An entire community of would-be songwriters/musicians were

going

to live in the two smaller lots and commune with one another and be the New Guard colliding with the Old Guard; the huge mansion lot was

going

to house an aging former film-current soap actor confronting his mortality and also hating the living shit out of these hippies whose existence he took as a personal affront--I digress. Back to the “story.”

Charlie, Hick, and Craig met after each arrived in DSV separately and they vibed and they moved in together, all in a matter of, like, a week’s time. Charlie and Hick vibed especially. So much in common! Such poor little rich [kids]! Both came from pampered environments in which their family money and respective fathers’ connections allowed them to skate through life and to play at being musicians because--despite crying oppression at the hands of upper class WASP-dom--they'll always have safety nets to ensure they’ll always be okay. Charlotte Grant graduated from her all-girls prep school and put on a floppy hat and became Charlie Grant; Richard Hickey (lololol) ripped up his acceptance letter to Britechester and grew his hair out and hitchhiked and told people to call him “Hick.” They’ve lived parallel lives and “recognize” one another as soon as they meet. They have an electric connection, but neither will verbalize that. Above all, they... really want to sleep together.

Craig grew up working class and has no safety net; he just wants a little adventure before he gets a real job/grows up/gets married (his gf back home is off to college; they’re long-distance; it’s... not going to work). He’s a good guitar player and he’s a good songwriter and that’s it but maybe it’ll be more? What do they say about the lottery? Can’t win if you don’t play? Charlie and Hick want to be famous ~rule the world. Hick plays guitar well and tries to write songs but they’re shitty. Charlie is passively learning the keyboard and writes songs that are not... bad...? Some are... good?

Charlie and Hick--can you tell they eclipse Craig, yet?--have weird sexual chemistry and tension: they tease, they flirt, they taunt, they enjoy one another’s attention but they never so much as hug. They both have cruel streaks as only disconnected, spoiled, emotionally stunted bluebloods can: the torture of their relationship/non-relationship gets them off more than anything else could and that thrill drives much of their behaviors: bringing wanton strangers home for one night stands, each hoping the other is watching/overhearing, fighting about little things, acting like inappropriately close siblings, acting like strangers. Craig suffers their whims; Charlie and Hick aren’t just united in their toxicity and their dreams of fame, but in how they make Craig into a third wheel or a--well, punching bag is too strong a term. Charlie and Hick think they’re teasing their bff but you know how it is to be teased allllll the tiiiiiiime and how it can make your head spin when people who can’t get along with one another join forces--without even having to discuss it--to turn on you. Their relationship gets patched up, you’re hurting, they insist it’s not a big deal and even that you even liked it. We’re all friends. We’re all best friends omg.

But sometimes they have fun together. They have a lot of fun together. Sometimes it all is everything each dreamed it would be. DSV is a wonderland and their careers are happening and life is happening and they’re best friends. They’re soulmates for life.

The three work on music, perform at clubs. Craig is starting to come into his own as a man. I hate the term coming-of-age but in the background of the Charlie & Hick Show, Craig is maturing. He has to, because C&H are fuck-ups. They jeopardize scheduled performances. They don’t know how to talk to club owners. They’re not interested in paying their dues. They are unable (or unwilling) to promote themselves without being obnoxious attention whores. They don’t practice or help write songs. They don’t take care of the house. Hick is late with his rent. Charlie thinks she can flirt her way out of everything. Craig is also the only one of them who works; he has a day job at a print shop, gives guitar lessons on the side, and makes sure the three get gigs and don’t get evicted. The only thing C&H put consistent effort toward is making the social scene or finding a party or scoring drugs or getting laid. As the group’s local star(s) rise, their fates start to change course which increases the interpersonal tension. Hick’s fun-loving nature is starting to turn into a legit substance abuse problem and he’s picking fights with the wrong people and socially devolving, his arrogance and issues and general laziness rendering him unable to relate to others; Charlie is getting a lot of attention from older men In the Business, who have the money and connections to make her a solo star, which she is shrewdly considering; and Craig’s resentment toward his “friends” and disillusionment with the superficiality of DSV is making him rethink his motivation for coming west in the first place.

Oh, and Charlie and Hick--again, as their paths change and as their weird tension remains unresolved--continue to take their bullshit out on Craig and now it’s not funny anymore, it’s not cute, it’s not exciting, and neither is it when Hick ruins a show by being too stoned to perform and neither is it when Charlie brings unsavory characters home who trash the three’s equipment and neither is it when C&H steal Craig’s songs and perform without him at a gig they didn’t tell him about.

What I intended was that the story would at first seem to be The Charlie and Hick Show, all about them, as if we’re supposed to root for them, but ideally, through my ~deft hand 🙄 the reader 🙄🙄 was supposed to be like, Um... hold on-- until it eventually was quite obvious that these two--though human; though in situations we could understand and empathize with--were captured at a point in their lives when they were Super Toxic Assholes, and what you were watching all along was Craig as Hero.

So I had ideas, but I didn’t know how to fit them together and I didn’t want a really long story and I couldn’t--I just couldn’t figure it out. I do know that the end was going to be Craig screwing them like they’d been screwing him, a final middle finger with consequences. I know that he and Hick were going to have words and Hick was going to try and fight him (such a loser) and Charlie was going to throw a Hail Mary of like... trying to seduce (lol) Craig into staying omg I always had a thing for you/we’d be such a great team/I always thought we could ~be something ~together uwu bullshit like that. Was this true? Was this true in her own mind? I think I was going to set the story up so that if you reread, yeah, it could be true, but she’s so flirty and manipulative and socially savvy and used to getting what she wants that who knows what her real feelings ever are? Ultimately that would’ve been irrelevant bc Craig never looked at her that way and hates her and Hick now; good going guys. It’s worth noting, I guess, that when I put the group on a test lot, Charlie was super into Craig immediately, went right to him, stood close to him, was eager to make romantic overtures; she went 0 to 60 in an instant and as so far as is possible in this game they had chemistry, but Craig was not feeling the romance. And no one was feeling Hick.

Anyway, Craig was going to move on with his life and Charlie and Hick were going to learn nothing and blame him, ~the end.

And then, as I continued to play my save and maybe tell more stories, there would be Easter eggs, references to Charlie, Hick, and Craig older/in the future and where they went in life in the background of other, unrelated stories: Hick’s substance abuse problems and rehab stints and going by Richard again and his eventual moderate fame and eventual sobriety and attempted comeback and his bad relationships with his exes and children; Charlie’s legit fame + marriage to a producer + eventual fade away + moderate comeback + solid second or third marriage and bff relationship with her children 🙄🙄🙄 and her palatial house on the coast and now she exclusively wears white and ivory and pampers her dogs and eats raw (but drinks wine) because it “cured” her undiagnosed, unnamed “autoimmune disorder,” which she wrote a book about resulting in a semi-comeback but as a Famous Person and not a musician. Craig going to college and becoming a high school English teacher who plays in a local band on the weekends and who has a good marriage (not to the long distance gf) and nice kids, one of whom would eventually have her own story where she pursued musicianship with her dad, which got him back into his first passion but it was a qt father-daughter project and not An Attempt to Be Famous.

So. Idk. That’s what this all would’ve been. But it wasn’t, and it won’t be!

#sims 4 #ts4 #scrapped story challenge

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meat-husband · 5 years

Note

Nasty nsfw piece for our big guy Tommy?

I’m sorry, do you mean the only thing I ever write when left to my own devices? It’s much longer than I meant it to be, but I just love my big boy. I know there’s a lot of set up just for some smut but I can’t help myself lol

Naughty stuff under the cut!

Sometimes it was a little scary how easy it was to bring people home. Maybe it’s just because of the knowledge you have now, but you couldn’t imagine picking a lonely hitchhiker up off the side of the road, much less letting them direct you down old dirt roads and through abandoned fields.

“You sure it’s this way?”

The boy behind the wheel is squinting in the sharp afternoon light, looking hot and tired. You give an easy smile, a quick laugh, and nod your head.

“Of course I’m sure, I know where my house is!”

You laugh again and the other boy, scrunched up in the backseat behind you, laughs with you. They can’t be much older than 18 or 19, you think, with scrawny arms and baby faces. It might have made you feel guilty once, but not anymore. Younger than them had come through town before, and not made it out. Meat’s meat, is what Charlie had told you, and the family has to eat.

They had stopped for you because you were small, unthreatening and pretty. The promise of a place to rest up and a sweet smile had won them over, though the glances they gave you let you know they were hoping for more.

“Look, it’s right there.”

You lean over the driver’s shoulder, closer than you need to be but still trying to sell the ruse, and point out the shadow of the house in the distance. A shaky grin appears on his face and the other boy lets out a happy shout. You keep smiling.

“What’d I tell you?” The other boy asked. “And you thought we were gonna run outta gas and get stranded!”

“We were gonna run outta gas, asshole,” the driver snapped - they had introduced themselves, but you were quick to forget names now - swerving onto the worn path leading up to the house. “You’re lucky she came along and saved our asses.”

As their truck came up to the house, stopping to idle in the front yard, both boys frowned.

“Hey, why’re the cops here?”

You laugh again, this time genuinely.

“Oh, that’s my daddy’s car. He’s the sheriff ‘round here, but don’t worry, he don’t do much but get drunk and tell old war stories.”

There was a role for everyone to play when the meat was brought in. More often than not it was either you or Charlie bringing them home, so together you played the parts of stern sheriff and his daughter. Mama and Monty would fill in where it was needed, and when Charlie has had his fun poking and prodding, it was time for dinner.

They walked into the house with no more motivation than the big smile you’d thrown them, following you into the dimly lit hall. You led them to the kitchen, finding a large pot already on the stove and boiling.

“Go on and sit, I’ll go get my daddy and he can see about gettin’ your car filled up.”

Your part was coming to an end now, and you hurried into the hall, heading towards the little room behind the kitchen where you could hear the TV. Once they figured out that all wasn’t as it seemed in the big country house, people tended to get violent, so you didn’t intend on following Charlie when he took over in the kitchen. Tommy would soon have work to do, so you’d sneak upstairs and wait for the sound of the saw to cut off.

You saw the big metal door, a remnant of the old slaughterhouse, looming at the end of the hall. The peephole moved to follow you as you turned into the sitting room and you threw it a quick wink and a wave before heading in.

Unsurprisingly, both men were slumped on the couch, warm cans of beer in hand.

“We got company,” you announce, moving to turn off the old TV. “And someone left the stove on again.”

“Who’s that?” Monty asks. “Hey, leave it!”

You flicked the TV off anyways, giving him a firm look.

“There’s two boys in the kitchen, truck’s outside and nearly outta gas.”

“Big?” Charlie asks, quickly draining the rest of his can.

“Nah, they’re skinny things, can’t hardly be old enough to be out on their own. I told ‘em they could stay here for the night.”

“They sure can,” Charlie grinned, standing from the couch. “Let me get my things-”

“You don’t need to wear that damn uniform every time someone comes around,” you scowled. “They saw the car anyways, I told ‘em you were the sheriff.”

“Now, you know first impressions are important -” You rolled your eyes, tuning him out, and waving him out of the room.

“Turn the damn TV back on!” Monty called after you.

“Do it yourself!” You called back, ignoring the swears he threw at you.

You ducked into the kitchen to quickly reassure the two boys that Charlie was on his way, noticing that they seemed on edge. Perhaps it was just the cussing coming from the sitting room, or that you had left them alone for so long in a strange house.

“Oh, uh, you’re not staying, then?” One of the two spoke up as you turned to leave the kitchen.

“Work to do!” You answered, eager to make it out of the room as you heard Charlie’s footsteps coming back down the stairs. You were hoping he would take the fun outside this time, you weren’t looking forward to scrubbing down the floors again otherwise.

You met Charlie at the bottom of the stairs, throwing him a quick grin, but he grabbed your arm as you went to pass him.

“Where’re you goin’?”

You huffed.

“To get some sleep before all the noise starts up.”

“Nah, you ain’t done yet. We got a little while before Mama gets back from the station, no need to be rushing things.”

“I don’t wanna mess with ‘em,” you insisted. “I spent all afternoon out by the crossroads, I’m tired.”

You knew by the look on his face that this was the wrong thing to say, and although you really didn’t want to hang around, you wouldn’t put it past Charlie to make things horribly inconvenient for you if you didn’t do as he wanted.

“Alright,” you give in before he could speak. “Let’s get goin’ then.”

The boys were still in the kitchen, huddled together by the back door and having a rushed conversation under their breath. They were probably regretting following you inside, but it was too late for that now that they were here.

They stopped talking the moment you came in, glancing nervously between themselves. One of them opened his mouth to speak, but Charlie got there first.

“Well then,” he drawled, putting on a friendly smile. “One of you boys come on out and help me bring around some gas cans, and we’ll get you on your way after dinner.”

Both boys looked unsure, exchanging a few more glances, before the driver spoke up.

“Yeah, okay. We gotta get going though, we’re on a schedule.”

Charlie’s smile tightened, turning from easy going to forced in a matter of seconds.

“Then hurry the fuck up, that shit ain’t gonna move itself.”

You almost grinned, but managed to keep it hidden, turning your back to them and busying yourself with the boiling pot still on the stove. Someone had been attempting to reheat last night’s leftovers, but hadn’t added enough extra water to keep the broth from boiling down.

“Honey, you keep an eye on this one, and go ahead and get dinner cookin’.”

“Yes, sir.”

You had already started scraping the overcooked meat from the bottom of the pot, dumping it into a small container. Mama fussed about it, but you felt bad for the mangy dogs that hung around the empty pastures, and you figured no one would miss a few scraps every now and then.

A glance over your shoulder showed the other boy, nervous looking and standing in place like he didn’t know what to do with himself. You sighed, figuring you might as well get some use out of him while he was still standing.

“Sorry ‘bout Daddy, he’s just a little strict sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah, no problem!” he says hurriedly, waving off your apology. “I’m sure he don’t mean nothing by it.”

Setting the pot to soak in the sink, you turn to him.

“You mind helping me with dinner for a bit?” You make sure to pair the question with a bright smile. “Just gotta get some meat from the freezer, I could use some help.”

His face turns bright red but he gives you an eager nod.

“No problem.”

“Good!”

You lead the way, ignoring the fussing coming from the sitting room as you pass the doorway, stopping at the big metal door. Either Tommy’s behind it, ready to pull the boy downstairs kicking and screaming, or he’s waiting in the basement and you’ll have to lure him down there. You’re hoping for the former, but pulling open the heavy door reveals nothing but the little landing at the top of the stairs.

“Oh, wow, that stinks.” Tensing, he gives you an apologetic look. “Shit, that was rude, I’m sorry-“

“Nah, that’s fine,” your amused grin is genuine and it puts him at ease to see you aren’t offended. “We do our own butcherin’ down here. Smells like a slaughterhouse, don’t it?”

You leave the lights off until you reach the bottom of the stairs, partially to avoid him catching sight of the grooves scratched into the walls of the stairwell, partially to keep him from backing out at the sight of the bloody basement. The big door is locked behind you, so at least he won’t be able to open it without struggling with the bolt.

Perhaps your explanation eased him more than you thought it would, because once the lights are on, casting dim shadows around the crowded room, he doesn’t seem alarmed. The hooks are empty, as is the butchering board, but there are enough bloodstains on both to be concerning. The boy, though, doesn’t spare them much of a glance, before eyeing the two big chest freezers in the corner.

Once you reach the freezers, you hesitate to open them. You’re both well into the basement now, far enough from the stairs that he couldn’t make a run for it through the equipment and furniture that crowded around you, but there’s no sign of Thomas. He wouldn’t have gone outside - Charlie has likely got the other boy ground into the dirt on his own by now - but he hasn’t stepped up to hook the boy following you either.

Seeing you hesitate, the boy moves closer, wringing his hands, and for a moment you think that maybe the environment has gotten to him and he’s about to start freaking out.

“You’re really hot,” he blurts, taking you off guard. “I mean, pretty, ya know, not-“

Your eyebrows raise. This is the opposite of what you were expecting - did he really think you’d brought him into the basement to fool around?

“Uh…”

You can’t manage to bring any words to mind in this situation. Perhaps taking your red face and speechlessness for shyness, he places a clammy hand on your forearm, rethinks it, and moves it to your shoulder. He’s still fumbling with his words, but you’re almost too surprised to make sense of what he’s saying.

You’re at a loss for what to do, staring at the clumsy teenager in front of you with wide eyes. You’re about to open your mouth, not sure what words might come out, when the boy screams. You jump, startled by his outburst, backing up out of reach, and he falls without your shoulder for support.

It doesn’t take long to realize what had happened. He’s writhing on the muddy floor, one arm twisting behind his body to feel for the big cleaver that rests in the flesh over his shoulder blade. A boot, caked in mud and debris, settles on his lower back, pinning him to the floor, while a big hand tugs at the blade. It comes free with a wet sucking noise and the boy screams all the louder.

“Thomas,” you start, relieved but still jumpy. “Where’d you go, I thought you were gonna-”

You stop when he looks at you, still holding the squirming boy down with one foot. He looks furious, eyes narrowed at you and hand gripping the cleaver tightly. You’re confused at first when you realize that his anger is directed towards you, and you spend a few seconds of panicked thought trying to figure out why. He’s never liked you being around the meat, no matter who brings them in, but everyone has to pitch in, even when it comes to the more unsavory chores. He’s never been mad about it before though, so what was different now?

Thomas leans to the side, putting more of his weight on the foot holding down the boy, fingers twitching around the handle of his weapon when the whimpers turn back into screams. He watches you, still glaring, grinding the heel of his boot against flesh and bone.

“What the fuck?!”

The boy is spitting blood and saliva with every word, arching into the ground in an attempt to get away from the pain in his back. The noise is distracting but you don’t dare to look down, not with Thomas snarling like a dog over him.

“C’mon, Charlie’s gonna need help with the other one soon…”

You trail off, unsure. You had hoped the mention of Charlie would snap him out of it, remind him of the work to be done upstairs, but he ignores your words. You’ve never seen him this angry before, not at anyone, let alone you.

Your eyes flick to the boy against your will when he cries out again, cussing and begging, flinging one hand out towards you as though for help. This draws Thomas’ attention as well, and the act seems to only enrage him further. He lets the boy out from under his boot only to bring it down hard on the crook of his arm and you flinch and look away too late to avoid seeing it snap.

“Tommy, lets go outside, we got more to do!” You’re scared now, desperate to calm him somehow. Despite the horrors that regularly take place in the house, you’ve never stuck around when they happen, preferring to wait it out upstairs. You know what goes on down here, but you’ve never seen him hurt anyone like this before.

He turns to you again with a huff, stepping away from the boy and towards you. Your instinct is to back away but you stand your ground, arms wrapped around your middle protectively, trying not to be afraid of him. He’s angry, but he wouldn’t hurt you, no matter how intimidating it is to have him looming over you.

Thomas stands in front of you, chest heaving and hands trembling. You meet his eyes for a moment but can’t keep them there, looking instead at the old, torn collar of his shirt and the black threads that hang from his mask.

“Tommy, put him up and let’s go,” you insist, trying to sound more in control than you feel. “Charlie’s gonna be upset-”

A hand grips your shoulder, big fingers digging into your skin, and you quickly cover it with your own, hoping that the gentle touch will calm him. His hand flexes under yours, tightening his hold on you, and he bends down to press the bloody nose of his mask to the top of your head. His heavy breaths ruffle your hair, the sour smell of dead flesh and stale air drifting down to you. You can feel the nose of the mask bend and turn inwards when he presses his face closer, nothing underneath to keep it from crumpling.

“C’mon,” you murmur quietly, reaching up to grab a handful of his sleeve. “Lets go, Tommy.”

He’s trembling, eyes glaring angrily, but he pulls away, looking over his shoulder at the boy squirming in the mud. He’s crawled a bit away, but only closer to the butcher block, probably trying to find a dark place to hide in. You almost feel sorry for him, but you can’t start pitying them now.

Thomas is still snarling, lips pulled down and teeth gleaming. He doesn’t shy away from the killing or cutting, or any part of the preparation for butchering and skinning, but he’s never enjoyed hurting them, not like Charlie does. To be so violent now, he must have a grudge against this one in particular. You’re almost surprised when the thought finally hits you, feeling his hand on your shoulder where the boy had touched you, remembering the anger when he had reached out in fear. With a jolt of warmth you realize that he was jealous of the boy, angry to see that someone else had put their hands on you.

“I love you.”

His head snaps around to look at you, and you hear him let out a low whine. You smile, tilting your head to brush your cheek against the top of his hand, stroking his fingers with your own. All of the tension and fear has melted away at this revelation, and you’re almost excited to realize that he could get so worked up over something so small.

“Don’t you worry about that boy,” you say, watching his eyes following the slow movements of your lips. “He’s meat now, ain’t he.”

Slowly, Thomas nods in agreement, letting out a heavy sigh. He watches as you press a half kiss to the side of his hand, and you can see by the eager way his eyes watch your mouth that the adrenaline in his veins hasn’t stopped flowing.

“You know how much I love you,” you murmur, seeing him give another slow nod, eyes still focused on your lips as you keep them against his skin. “Let me show you.”

Thomas stills, even the heavy rise and fall of his chest stopping momentarily as he takes in your words. You know the rush of capturing the boy has riled him up, he always seeks you out after the meat has been hung up to wait for butchering, and the heat of anger would have only made it worse. The gentle flick of your tongue against his hand is what spurs him into action, moving suddenly to get you in place.

The weight on your shoulder pushes down, fingers curling into your flesh until your knees hit the floor. The ground is wet with mud, filthy water soaking into your clothes and dirt caking your legs, but you don’t mind at all. You keep the gentle smile on your face, placing your hands on either side of his thighs and leaning to the side to press your face against his arm. He keeps his hand on your shoulder, leaning forward to hunch over you as the other fumbles with his belt.

Somewhere further into the basement you can hear the boy, crying and wailing, too damaged to crawl away. It didn’t matter where he was, the only way out of the basement was behind you, and he wasn’t getting out now. You know he can see you, only a few paces away from where he had fallen in the mud, but it doesn’t matter when you know he won’t be alive much longer.

Thomas slides his hand up to grab a rough handful of hair, pulling you close but not close enough to take him in, despite your open mouth. You can smell the sweat and musk on his skin, stretching your mouth wider and sticking your pink tongue out towards him, but he doesn’t let you close the distance. He holds his cock just out of your reach, and when his wrist rolls, pulling his thick fingers up and down, you let out an eager moan. His grip tightens, squeezing the flesh harder and you watch the slow strokes get rougher and more uneven. He’s not gentle, pulling harshly until hazy precum drips over his fingers.

You strain a little, trying to pull forward and flick your tongue over the slick head, but the hand in your hair keeps you back, a sharp tug bringing tears to the corners of your eyes.

“Please, Thomas, let me-”

You can’t even finish your sentence, pulling against his hold as far as your aching scalp will let you. Your jaw hurts, mouth open as wide as you can get it and tongue lolling out, and you see his own slip out to lick at his lips as he watches you.

He lets up only a little, but it’s enough for the tip of his cock to bump against your tongue, and the groan he lets out at the contact makes your stomach clench so hard that it’s painful. He does it again, slapping his cock hard against the flat of your tongue and you hurry to lick at it while you’re close enough. He tastes like salt and sour sweat but you lap at whatever you can reach eagerly, whining when a pull on your hair jerks you away.

You don’t care about the mud under you when he shoves you down, falling backwards onto the wet ground, or the rough nails scratching at your skin. Letting out a half-moan, you let him hold you against the muddy floor, the rest of your noises catching in your throat when you feel him wedge his knee between your legs. You can feel the heat coming off of him, made warmer by the cold air of the basement around you, and you wiggle your hips to get closer to the heat and the pressure of his leg between yours. He flips the skirt of your dress up, bunching it at your waist and hooking a finger hurriedly over the messy crotch of your panties, pulling them to the side rather than down your legs. You feel blood rushing to your face at that, somehow feeling more exposed than if he had taken them off, and have to fight the urge to snap your legs closed and cover yourself. He doesn’t let you remain on the floor once he’s gotten your clothing out of the way, jerking your hips up and into his lap before pulling the rest of you upright. The wet slick of your hair and clothing, soaked through and dirty, sticks to your skin but you hardly care as Thomas holds you against his chest.

“Hurry up, please.”

You mumble the words desperately as he lines himself up under you, rocking your hips in an attempt to help him find the right angle. You hold onto his shoulders, face buried into his neck and let him hold your bottom half up with one hand, a firm grip on your ass keeping you hovering over his lap. The head of his cock, swollen and nearly purple, nudges against you for a few seconds and you huff out a frustrated groan when it doesn’t slide home.

“Tommy, c’mon, please!”

With a heavy grunt he shifts his hand to hold you by the hip instead, stilling your movements. You think for a moment that it’s finally going to happen, but the moan already building in your throat turns into a high pitched whine when his sticky cock slides over your cunt completely, the head bumping against the underside of your ass. You whine again when he ignores your persistent pleas to let you move your hips - if he would only let you go, then you could easily fit yourself over him, he’s already so close. He lets you squirm, panting above you while you fight his grasp, but making no move to enter you, only a slow back and forth of his hips that drags his cock against you. You roll yourself around desperately, whimpering into his ear and begging, pressing quick kisses to the side of his neck.

Finally he relents, letting you wiggle just enough that the next tilt of his hips upwards forces the blunt head into you, surging forward in one thrust until he’s as deep as he can get. You hear a loud sob leave you, the slight twinge of pain as he bottoms out barely even felt over the satisfaction of finally getting what you want. Thomas pulls you down further, pushing until you’re completely seated on top of him and almost more full of him than you can handle. You jerk away a little, but a rough hand stops you from going further and works you right back down his length until you’re back where you started. You want to hook your legs around his middle, but he’s too big for you to lock your ankles behind him, so you squeeze your thighs around his sides instead. It hurts a little, having him so deep, but you know it won’t stay that way for long.

“Tommy, I love you so much,” you half whisper, the words rushing out of you without any thought. “So much.”

His cock jumps inside you, arms coming around to wrap you up as he leans down and moans loudly into your hair. Both arms crush you to him, pushing you down while his hips grind upwards, and you hear him return your affections with muffled grunts and gasps. You wince a little when he rubs against the depths of you, a dull ache already forming in your stomach, but the short, jerking movements also make your abdomen go tight with small ripples of pleasure.

“Ah, Tommy,” you hiss into his ear, reaching up to slide your hand under the back of the mask and grab a handful of his sweaty hair. “Move…”

You don’t finish your words, trailing off into a stuttered gasp as he lifts you up, dragging your clenching muscles over his cock until he’s nearly slid all the way out. Eyes rolling back, you brace yourself with one hand on his shoulder, wrapping the other into his hair until your fingers are stuck. Your entire body jumps in his lap when he finally drops you again, lurching upwards to meet you halfway and bouncing you on his thighs. A sob slips out when he continues with the same harsh thrusts, but after a few moments of pushing and pulling you in his lap, the slick between your legs eases the friction enough that you can ignore the bulging pressure in your belly. A soft moan escapes you as it recedes, overtaken by the hot thrum of pleasure that drowns out anything else.

His pace isn’t gentle, but you know that even this is him trying not to be too rough, keeping you seated on his cock as he forces his way up and into you. The position keeps him deep, face pressed against the top of your head and arms around your torso, and each push of his hips only forces you more firmly into his chest. You pant against the edge of the mask, bucking down against him wildly and pull hard on the hair wrapped around your fingers. You want to speak, to cry out more I love you’s, but the rough pace is pushing all the air from your lungs and you’re already gasping, so all you can manage is weak, labored breathing. Grabbing at his shoulder with your free hand, your thighs tremble around his waist as you struggle to hold on.

You get a small reprieve when his movements finally stutter, pausing to dig his fingers into the meat of your ass and hike you further up his thighs, moving your weight effortlessly. The cold air rushing in against your wet back makes you shiver when his arms leave you, slipping under your legs to hook them over his forearms and leaving your feet dangling. Once he starts again, lifting you with both hands on your ass, you can feel how wet and swollen the folds between your legs are, stretched open further by your spread legs. Thomas snarls above you, holding you down as he pushes up, and a hot trail of pleasure shoots up your spine, burning all the way down to your toes. You kick your feet uselessly, flailing against him and fighting you keep your hold on his shoulder without his arms to support you. A loud whine escapes you, muscles contracting around him, and it feels like each dragging thrust of his cock into you is getting more and more difficult as your body tightens. You’re sure that the big hands holding you are going to leave their mark, but you don’t feel any pain now, bouncing like a rag doll in his lap.

“Please, Thomas!”

You’re not sure what you’re asking for, but you beg anyways and lock your arms around his neck, every muscle in your body trembling as you jerk and whimper. Thomas huffs and groans into your hair, forcing himself upwards even more harshly as you start to cum, and you’re clenched so tightly around him that you’re nearly overwhelmed by how much of him you can feel. His thrusts change into slow, hard jerks of his hips against you, each one rocking your head on your shoulders and drawing out wet gasps. You close your eyes and bury your face against his shoulder and neck, arching into him until your body seizes up and all you can feel is the throbbing nerves between your legs.

You’re almost numb once it starts to recede, going limp and slumping weakly into his hold. An arm around your back keeps you from falling too far back, but the new wetness leaking down your thighs has only made it easier for his hurried, rutting thrusts to ram home. A hard, sharp push goes too far, hitting the deep spot in your belly that almost hurts, and you squeal in protest, clutching at him with renewed motivation. The next thrusts lands in the same spot, and the next, and the thick, strange feeling isn’t quite pain or pleasure, but enough of both that you aren’t sure if you like it or not. Each bump of his cock against it floods you with a sense of pressure, an overwhelming sensation of fullness that only comes to an end when you’re slammed down into his bucking hips and held there. A broken moan and the abrupt change to slow, grinding thrusts are the only warnings you get before the sudden, hot gush of his cum fills you, and almost immediately you can feel it trailing out of your cunt, smearing against your thighs. You squirm in his lap, but he keeps you firmly seated as he cums, the twitching cock inside of you steadily pouring more warmth into your belly.

Gasping down as much cold basement air as you can, you try to catch your breath. The heat and lust is slowly fading from your mind, replaced with the dull ache between your legs that you know will soon get worse, and the soft, tired feeling of being truly worn out. Thomas finally stills underneath you, grip loosening as he allows your sore legs to slip back down around his waist, huffing heavy breaths against the crown of your head. You can feel the sticky mess where he’s still connected to you, but you ignore the thought of the unpleasant clean up in favor of pressing a few trembling kisses to the underside of his chin. Your body is slowly cooling off as the heat between you dissipates, but Thomas is enough to keep you warm for the moment, cradling you against his chest and making soft noises. Any thought of the boy still in the basement, or the one upstairs, or even of the work you both still have to complete, hasn’t come back to you yet.

“You two done fuckin’ yet, or do I gotta wait some more?”

You jolt up, hands hurriedly reaching out to hold onto Thomas and pull at the hem of your skirt, flipping it down over your thighs. A flush of embarrassment is already burning your face, and although you want to hide, you glance over your shoulder anyways. Charlie is at the end of the steps, hands on his hips and a big grin on his face, looking all too pleased to have caught you in the act. You can’t keep his gaze for long, turning back around to avoid the smug look on his face, and wondering just how long he’s been standing there. Thomas isn’t bothered by his presence at all, but you figured that’s only because he doesn’t realize this kind of thing is usually private, and no one but Mama has ever discouraged him from trying to get his hands under your skirt in the middle of the kitchen.

“...done,” you mumble quietly, hoping that he’ll hurry up and leave. “The boy is taken care of, too.”

“Well, that’s great, but I got the one upstairs ready to go, so if you can spare Tommy for just a moment,” the false politeness in his voice grates on your nerves, but you know he’s relishing the moment. “‘Sides, I don’t expect you’ll have need of him for a while now. If that shit didn’t put a baby in you, I don’t know what will.”

You want to shut him up with a smart comment of your own, he’s in a good enough mood that you could get away with mouthing off a little, but you’re in no position to try anything now. Still firmly perched on top of Tommy’s cock and with a lukewarm mess of cum between you, you don’t have the guts to start up anything.

“Okay, just gimme a minute! He’ll be there in a bit.”

“Don’t be too long, that fucker isn’t going to stay down forever and Mama’s home and makin’ a fuss about all the mess.”

You hear him take a few steps back up towards the door, relief flooding you when you realize he’s finally leaving. This has happened more regularly than you’d like, and he’s always eager to provide some snarky commentary and let you wallow in the shame of being caught, but you suppose it wasn’t a bright idea to start this up when Thomas was supposed to be working anyway.

“C’mon,” you sigh, a little reluctant to part but not wanting Charlie to come looking again. “Guess we still got work to do.”

#Slashers #Thomas Hewitt #Slasher x Reader #Female Reader #damn this is long im sorry #most of it isn't even the smut lol #but i started on this and got carried away again #Anonymous

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amillionsmiles · 5 years

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vieni a vivere (Steve/Natasha)

Title: vieni a vivere Summary: Sometimes Steve would choose to sit in the corner of a piazza and people-watch, sketching. Natasha would venture off on her own, ducking into colorful leather shops, chasing the dribble of her melting gelato with her tongue. Once, she stopped on the street for a caricature artist. It amused her, to be studied and then so deliberately exaggerated. / Natasha, Steve, and a whirlwind tour of Italy. A/N: This is an AU in which Clint sacrifices himself at Vormir instead and Steve doesn’t time jump at the end. It’s been languishing in my drafts for the better part of the past 8 months but here it is!

{Read and review here} or continue under the cut.

“Natasha,” said Clint, every syllable another twitch of his fingers, his hand working itself free from her grip. “I’m not saving you from dying. I’m asking you to live.”

There was no safehouse in which to disappear from grief.

So Natasha went to Missouri, where Laura Barton took one look at her and knew. A flock of birds carved through the clear blue sky. The tall, dry stalks of wheat stood at attention. Cooper, Lila, and Nate came running in from the fields to find their mother and their Auntie Nat collapsed on the porch, holding each other, rocking.

“I had a hunch,” Laura admitted later, after they had done their best to tuck the children into bed. “When he didn’t call.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha tried for the third, fourth, fifth time, the bile rising in her throat again. “We tried so hard. I wanted—”

“Five years.” Laura rest her head against the wall. She looked as young as the day Natasha had met her, except for her eyes. They fixated just over Natasha’s shoulder, on the family photo framed above the dresser. “It didn’t feel like that. You know I wouldn’t believe it, if not for… he finished the shed while we were gone.”

“Never could keep himself still,” said Natasha, thinking of Tokyo and the rain and the erratic dot she’d followed on the holo-map at her desk. The gentler things, too: bandaging her wounds that first time, when she’d been nothing but startled and feral. Rushing to hold a three-year-old Cooper as he climbed Clint like a tree. Dragging the couch one way, then another, then back again.

“Will you stay?” Laura’s voice broke her from the memory.

Every part of the house creaked with his presence. The bookshelves, the floorboards, the bottom drawer he’d stubbornly cleared out the very first time he’d brought her by because it’s you, Natasha, damnit, now hand me your things. It hurt, but it was a hurt she owed him gladly, and Natasha closed her eyes and let it seep into her bones.

“Yes.”

Lila had Clint’s steady hands, the same way of looking down her nose and tilting her chin back. Cooper had his squint and his hair. Nate had his smile.

For a time it was enough, being their aunt. Reading picture books. Cutting the crusts off sandwiches. Sometimes Nate woke up in the middle of the night crying for his dad and Natasha would lay there, listening as Laura tried to comfort him. It got better. It got worse.

“Nobody in this house blames you for what happened,” Laura said from the doorway, watching Natasha fold a shirt and tuck it away in her duffel.

“I know.” The arrow necklace at her throat burned.

“Will you come back?” Lila asked as they bid their goodbyes. She was getting tall, the top of her head nearly at Natasha’s collarbone. Natasha ran a hand down the braid she’d tied for Lila that morning and closed her eyes, squeezing the girl closer.

“Promise,” she said, because she’d helped bring this world back and she’d be damned if she let it do anything to stop her.

On the way to the airport, she called Sam.

“Journaling helps.”

They sat in Sam’s office. The oak furniture gleamed warm and familiar. He had a bruise on his right cheek, but other than that he looked healthy. Fulfilled, even. Natasha glanced at the shield propped behind his desk; Sam followed her gaze toward it and nodded, leaning forward.

“You know what he said when he gave it to me?”

“What?”

“‘We got the world back, but it’s a new one. Maybe I need something new, too.’” He tilted his head.

“I have a list,” Natasha said quietly. “Not of targets. Places.”

Sam smiled. “There you go. That’s a start.”

She found Steve at a sunny gym studio in Brooklyn teaching a class of 30-year-old women how to punch.

“Be honest, now,” she said as they entered the juice and salad bar right next door, “how many dates have you been asked on?”

“None,” Steve said, making it a point to study the menu even though Natasha’s reconnaissance had shown her that he came here every day after work. “I keep things strictly professional.”

They found a table by one of the windows. Natasha took a sip of her smoothie and wrinkled her nose—a bit heavy on the carrots, but it tasted healthy, at least.

“Does this new job of yours come with vacation?”

Steve set down his fork, lettuce and chicken drizzled with peanut sauce still stuck on its tines. The gray instructor’s V-neck looked good on him, the studio’s logo printed neatly in black.

“What’s this about, Nat?”

“I’m thinking of traveling for a while.” She focused on the straw in front of her, rolling it between index finger and thumb. “I’m trying to figure out who to be without… all of it.”

Steve leaned back in his chair. His finger tapped against the table once, twice.

He had a right to say no, Natasha told herself. When they’d told each other to get lives, neither had stipulated what that had to look like. Soul-searching was probably more effective when done alone, anyways.

But that didn’t stop the surge of relief when he said, “I’m in.”

The park swing squeaked under her weight.

“Sorry to take him from you.”

Bucky half-squinted at her, then swept his gaze farther out. They had come a long way since Soviet slugs and the freeway, Sam’s car.

“Nah, he needs this as much as you do. Just do me a favor and bring him back in one piece, will you?”

Natasha nudged him with her shoe. Bucky scuffed the gravel right back.

“Take care of yourself,” he added, a little softer. “Don’t let it chase you down.”

Natasha hadn’t flown internationally in a good, old-fashioned commercial airline for years, and she planned on enjoying every minute of the eight-hour journey. For the first hour and a half she busied herself finishing Ancillary Justice on her kindle, Dean Martin crooning Mambo Italiano in her ear through the in-flight music selection.

She’d chosen Italy because she liked the way the language burst free of your mouth. That, and she appreciated the scrappiness of the country: a patchwork history of kingdoms, duchies, and republics expanding and contracting, managing to unify; the fierce sense of local identity married with proud celebration of a Roman past. Natasha cared little for regimes, but she admired the people who lived through them.

“Last time I was in Italy was 1943,” Steve said on hour 3, peeling back the plastic wrap on the salmon and penne they’d be given for dinner. “I only really got to see the military camps, though.”

“Well, I promise not to make you deliver any rousing speeches,” said Natasha. “This trip is strictly pleasure. No business.”

“Not gonna argue with that.” He caught her reading the captions off his screen and took the earbud from his left ear, offering it to her. “You know you’ve got your own monitor, right?”

“Shut up, Rogers, I’m trying to watch this movie.”

Cinque Terre looked like someone had taken a grandmother’s box of buttons and threads and sent it tumbling into the sea. The houses sprawled on top of each other in an assortment of confectionary colors—pale blues and pinks, lemon yellow, deep red.

On the trail down from Vernazza to Corniglia, Natasha stopped to admire Monterossa in the distance, the sun beating down between her shoulder blades. Steve stood beside her, hands on his hips as he surveyed the landscape. He cut a striking figure with his CamelBak; more than one group of hikers passing them by craned their necks to spare a second glance. It wasn’t because of the Cap aura, though. He just looked—handsome. Nice. The kind of guy you’d stop at the side of the road for if he held his thumb out as a hitchhiker.

A mosquito landed on his bicep and Natasha reached over to smack it, flicking its remains off the palm of her hand.

“Can’t have any of these guys flying around with your super serum in their bodies,” she teased. “What do you think would happen?”

Steve cracked a grin. “They’d probably be even more stubborn and harder to kill.”

Loose gravel crunched on the path beside them. A group of elderly—Natasha guessed they must be in their early 80s—walked by. The man in the front wore a navy baseball cap and held a rust orange walking stick. He was telling a story about his trek along the Camino de Santiago but paused to appraise them.

“Stopped already?”

“We��re pacing ourselves,” Natasha said cheerfully.

“Don’t let us old geezers beat you!” he called over his shoulder, continuing on; one of the women in the group joked, “If I sat down to rest I think I’d throw out my hip getting back up,” and the rest of them laughed, the sound swallowed by the green trees and cliffside terraces as they rounded the bend. Natasha wondered, not for the first time, if this was what having parents and grandparents would have felt like.

“Should we catch up to them and tell them your actual age?”

In response, Steve hopped off the rock. “Come on, Romanoff,” he said, and for a moment they were the newly minted leaders of a ragtag team of superheroes again—the clipboard’s weight in her hand, their footsteps in sync as they went out to meet Wanda and Vision and the rest—then let’s whip them into shape. Who else could she have stood by all these years?

“I’m not getting any younger!” called Steve, already at the bottom of the hill, the asshole—rolling her eyes, Natasha followed.

The dream always started in the water.

The purple dunes around her brought her splashing to her feet. Above her, the eclipsed sun winked, and she was back on Vormir’s unforgiving peak, shoulder screaming in pain as she tried to reel Clint’s dead weight up.

Natasha—

No, no, no—you bastard, don’t let go, don’t you dare let go—

Like a fish, Clint’s hand wriggled out of hers. The cry tore free of her throat and she clawed at the air, fingernails digging into—

“Nat. Nat.”

An arm wrapped around her waist, holding her up. The rocking motion brought her to her senses and she turned, burrowing her nose into Steve’s shoulder, needing to be anywhere else. He smelled like cotton and lavender, courtesy of their Airbnb host’s shower gel, the fabric of his tank top well-worn and familiar, more gray than white in the darkness.

“Hey,” he murmured.

The last time he’d held her this close they’d been in a bunker in New Jersey, hoping to survive a missile. Somehow, it seemed like a simpler time.

Deep breaths, Natasha. Count to ten. She did it in Russian, then twice more in French and Italian. When it no longer felt as if her heart were plummeting through her stomach, she pulled back.

“You good?” Steve pushed a lock of hair away from her forehead, eyes searching hers.

“Yeah.” It came out strained—a sound that wanted to be a laugh but couldn’t. “It’s just—” She raised her hand and made a twisting motion with her fingers. “You know.”

Steve leaned back against the headboard to give her space. A small strip of carpet and a bedside table separated their beds, and Natasha noted the disarray of his sheets, the evidence of haste. None of it betrayed by his face, which adopted a careful expression as he studied her now.

“I have a question. You don’t have to answer it right this moment.”

“What is it.”

“This trip, Nat… is it for yourself? Or is it for Clint?”

I’m not saving you from dying, Natasha. I’m asking you to live.

Trick question, Rogers, Natasha wanted to say. There is no me—the way I am now—without Clint.

“I just need to know. We promised we’d always be honest with each other.”

He was hurting, too. When they’d first been partnered together all those long years ago, Natasha had been drawn to his loneliness; it had fascinated her, the idea of America’s golden boy left behind by everyone he’d known. Now she knew better, of course. The dry humor and the rule-breaking, the furrow between those blue eyes, the black and white photograph tucked away in a pocket watch, kept close to the heart.

“What about you?” she asked. “Who are you traveling to leave behind?”

Steve considered, looking to the side. She tried to follow his gaze but couldn’t make out what he was looking at in the dark, if maybe he was just admiring the paisley wallpaper instead.

“My old self,” he said, finally. “He’s a stubborn bastard, though. Keeps running to catch up.”

Natasha cracked a smile. “Mine likes waiting in the shadows.”

“Let’s make a deal, then,” said Steve, extending a hand. “Whichever of us gets to the other side of this first, we pull the other one along, okay?”

She took it and squeezed and thought: don’t let go.

“It’s not very high up,” Steve said, frowning at the balcony.

Natasha adjusted the braid over her left shoulder. “People were shorter back then. What, does the lack of height kill the romance for you?”

“Not exactly.”

He was right, though: Juliet’s balcony was little more than a pink stone box jutting out into the courtyard, ivy crawling up the wall next to it. They’d passed through a graffiti-covered and gum-strewn wall to get to it, a little tunnel off the wider, smoother street of Via Capello. Natasha liked that about Verona: the streets were clean and broad, yet the city was still small enough that you felt cradled by it. Charming.

In the interest of being less conspicuous, Steve had worn a baseball cap, but that didn’t stop a few people from sneaking photos. Sunnily, he overlooked them, choosing to focus on the bronze statue in the corner, polished golden by the touch of thousands of hands.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, reading the informational plaque nearby, “touching Juliet’s right breast is supposed to bring good luck?”

“In love, specifically,” Natasha clarified. “You should do it. When’s the last time you went on a date?”

“Not this again, Nat.”

“I’m just saying, we brought the other half of Earth’s population back. Your odds are no longer as shitty. Not that they were that bad to begin with.”

“Oh, yeah?” The smile he leveled at her was disarming. It took her by surprise—ten years by his side, yet the supersoldier still had a few new tricks.

Deflecting, Natasha said: “Speaking of breasts, you know you grab your left boob when you’re laughing.”

Steve looked scandalized. “I do not.”

She reached over and twisted.

“Natasha.”

“For good luck,” she cackled, merciless, and darted away.

After fighting aliens, traveling to other galaxies, and resurrecting half of existence, these were the things Natasha believed in: warm pelmeni, a good dye job, and the quiet grandeur of churches, even if she wasn’t so sure about God. Florence’s church to capita ratio kept her plenty busy. It wasn’t that she was chasing salvation or forgiveness, necessarily. Just that stained glass and measured arches gave her a certain peace of mind, one she still struggled to reclaim at night.

She hadn’t realized how deeply it had infiltrated her routine until she and Steve checked into their Airbnb.

“There’s a couch in the main room,” said Steve as they eyed the sole bed.

It had become a sort of symbiosis. Steve got in his head during the day, so Natasha planned itineraries to keep them busy. Natasha mourned at night, so Steve comforted her. It happened frequently and without much discussion. Sometimes he went back to his own mattress, but more often, they drifted back to sleep alongside each other—so often, apparently, that her subconscious had stopped looking for two separate beds when she made reservations.

“We can share,” Natasha decided, tossing her duffel at the base of the bed and moving to check out the bathroom. “We’re adults.”

The old Natasha would have thought things over a little more, perhaps. Weighed the merits and drawbacks of this arrangement, what it meant to sleep beside but not sleep with. Especially Steve, who had a funny way of looking at her sometimes as she argued with street vendors or pulled them into random courtyards—a weighted pause, filled with equal parts exasperation, amusement, and an affection that Natasha hesitated to name. The new Natasha went to bed with her hair wet and a towel on her pillow and woke up with her cheek pressed against his bicep, Steve already alert and scrolling through his phone with his free hand. Upon sensing her stir, he glanced over, eyebrows slightly raised. If she weren’t so good at feigning nonchalance, she’d have blushed.

Instead, she probed: “What are you thinking, Rogers?”

“I’m thinking,” he said, setting his phone down and shifting to prop himself up on an elbow, “that we should talk about this thing between us.”

She wrinkled her nose. “‘Thing?’”

“Unless you’ve got a better name for it.”

“Here in the 21st century, we don’t care much for labels.”

“So I’ve been reading. The Atlantic paints a kind of grim landscape for love. Did you know that we’re in the middle of a sex recession?”

Natasha rolled over so that she was on her stomach, cheek pillowed on the backs of her hands. “Are you propositioning me right now, Steve?”

“No, but.” He shrugged, considering. “I hear friends with benefits is all the rage.”

Natasha laughed. “The ‘benefits’ part of that isn’t talking about retirement.”

Slowly, Steve blinked at her, the picture of feigned innocence. “Isn’t it?”

Natasha wasn’t stupid. The five years post-Snap had wrung it out of her, but she remembered flirting. For her, it had been a game. When needed, a weapon or a wall.

Steve, though. He meant what he gave. Subtle but honest: an invitation, there for the taking, if she wanted it.

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. When Natasha had been younger, her list of wants was small: bread, water, the light of another day. Then they’d grown loftier: acceptance, redemption.

Steve smiled, and she thought that perhaps there was room for something in between.

They didn’t spend all their time together. Sometimes Steve would choose to sit in the corner of a piazza and people-watch, sketching. Natasha would venture off on her own, ducking into colorful leather shops, chasing the dribble of her melting gelato with her tongue. Once, she stopped on the street for a caricature artist. It amused her, to be studied and then so deliberately exaggerated.

“Hmph,” Steve grumbled later, examining the picture. “I could have drawn you for free.”

The light through the curtains created a glare on his tablet, which was open to the day’s crossword. Steve had started them as part of his cultural catch-up. Natasha often helped due to her arsenal of disparate factoids and interests, courtesy of all the covers she’d shuffled through over the years.

“Work in Italy,” Steve read. “Five letters.”

“Opera,” Natasha said, not missing a beat as she stirred some honey into her tea. The under-the-breath hm of satisfaction told her that she’d guessed correctly.

“We should see one.”

“Not a bad plan,” said Natasha, finally joining him at the small, tiled table near the window. “Are you feeling more Puccini or Verdi?”

“Nobody likes a know-it-all,” Steve said, though the smile playing on his lips told her otherwise.

“Funny,” Natasha quipped. “I thought that was why you kept me around.”

She went in a floor-length black gown. The old training said it was because black hid most stains, and knife and gun were easily stowed in a garter. But the truth was that Natasha had chosen it because she liked the way Steve’s eyes lingered on her just a bit longer, and the low-cut back meant she felt every callus on his palm when he put a hand to support her as they climbed up the stairs to their seats.

“You know I’ve done this before.”

“It crossed my mind once or twice.” Gallantly, Steve offered an arm. “Do you object?”

Somewhere, there was a movie like this—a swell of string music, a camera rolling. Steve’s bowtie sat as a dark knot at the base of his neck. You clean up well, Natasha had said earlier that evening, but what she’d meant was: I’m glad it’s you.

They settled in, the stage gilded and opulent. When in Rome, Natasha thought, the velvet seats plush against her back. She tapped her heels against the floor once, testing the acoustics of what she could hear. Two rows over, a French couple murmured to each other.

Natasha had attended operas before, as covers. And so, when the first deep note was sung, she looked to Steve. Saw the way he straightened and leaned forward slightly, as if someone had extended a hook into his chest and tugged him forward. An intensity overtook her, because in that moment he wasn’t supersoldier or teammate or partner, just achingly unguarded, human in a way that hurt. Human in a way that she could have.

When intermission came, she excused herself to the balcony to get some air. Happiness winded her. For so long, all her contentment had been inextricable from relief—at having been accepted, at having survived. To have it stand on its own felt impossible; a gauntlet not meant for her to wear, a feeling she couldn’t possibly hold in this way.

“Nat.” Steve’s voice sounded from behind her. “Are you okay?”

Blinking through watery eyes, she turned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go all Pretty Woman on you.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth tightened and he took a step forward. He wore disappointment well. She could appreciate it even if she hated that it was being directed toward her.

“Don’t do that, Nat,” he said, quiet.

“Do what?”

“Play pretend. Wasn’t that the point of this trip? To find out who you were underneath it all? To just let yourself be?” And oh, hadn’t he said the same thing to Tony, when they were younger and snapping at each other’s throats, and how did she balance that against a world in which Tony was dead. What did it mean to want something for herself, after everything? To want this?

“What are you when you aren’t planning, or fighting?” pressed Steve, and he was too much bright and too much close but Natasha wanted, just once, to step into a blaze of her own making; not because her back was against a wall or because there were regimes to topple, but because she felt deserving of the life she’d live on the other side.

“I’m terrified,” she confessed.

“Me, too,” he said, and held her. And didn’t let go.

When the alarm went off, Steve mumbled against her shoulder: “I’m gonna be honest with you—I’m getting kinda sick of all these churches.”

The old adage was that in Italy, the farther south one traveled, the slower life became. Bright-colored Sicily coated Natasha’s edges like a candy drop, crystallizing her in its sparkling waters, the lush gooeyness of cheese spilling from fresh arancini.

Sated, still, from last night’s wine and seafood, Natasha turned in the circle of Steve’s arms, conjuring her most doe-eyed expression. “That’s not very schoolboy of you.”

An arched eyebrow. The ghost of a kiss on her collarbone. The stroke of his thumb over her forearm set the hairs there standing on end. “Maybe there’s something else I’d like to worship.”

The laugh pealed free from her chest before she could stop it. “Oh, no. How long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Since Florence, at least.” Steve grinned, unrepentant, and she could write paeans to those particular shades of blue, the sweet softness of a good night’s sleep hiding in the crinkles by his eyes. The clock by their bedside read 9:00 AM.

“Maybe we could sleep in,” Natasha agreed. If it meant more time with Steve’s bedhead, and this particular warmth. Natasha was finding that, given full license, she was a greedy person: about food, about hot water, about touch. And time. Time wasn’t something she’d given herself permission to hoard, before. So, too, with Steve. Selfishness—maybe that was part of living, too. They could both do with a little more of it.

“Right answer,” said Steve, tucking his face against her neck happily. He fell back asleep easily; Natasha followed soon after.

At night, jasmine in the garden. The moon, full and forgiving. Natasha, alone, on the balcony, listening to the waves lapping—proof of a planet in motion, orbiting around a burning star. Clint, adjusting the aid in his ear, cocking his head in the wind.

Hear that, Natasha?

A song for the living.

A song for you.

#romanogers #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #natasha romanov #avengers endgame #my writing #ff: mcu #fanfiction #otp: how about a friend

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realityhelixcreates · 4 years

Text

Lasabrjotr Chapter 65: Like Peeling an Orange

Chapters: 65/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Mature Warnings: NSFW

Relationships: Loki x Reader (There We Go)

Characters: Loki (Marvel),

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Loki Gets A Scolding, Sometimes Loki Should Not Do What He Wants, This Armor Looks So Cool In My Head You Guys, And A Fun Time Was Had By All

Summary: Loki helps you into-and back out of-your new armor.

Your armor was finally ready. Loki pored over it, examining every minute detail. It had to be perfect. He had to make sure it was perfect.

The weavers and tailors had brought their best. The scaled plates of nornbein and steel had been removed from their original leather backing, and affixed to new; less bulky, more supple, to better fit your smaller frame. Each bit of metal had been embossed with beautiful swirling knotwork, some of them ancient Midgardian motifs.

The quilted silk tunic glistened like polished jade, soft but tough. It would peek out from under the armor here and there, offering protection from sharp things, and signaling your importance.

But the helmet-the crown-was a grand achievement of deceptive metalworking. It looked so delicate, constructed of dainty petals and leaves, affixed to a wide band. Long, gem-studded petals stretched over the top, overlapping ivy leaves trailed down the back to protect your neck, fiddleheads would cover your cheeks.

It looked as fragile as a real bouquet, but the smith had whacked it with a heavy mallet for Loki to see, and it hadn't left a dent.

“And if anyone tries to strike without a weapon, they'll lay their hand right open.” The smith had assured him. “The edges aren't sharp enough to cut just by touching, but with applied force, they certainly are.”

Loki gathered it all up, impatient to show it to you, to see you put it on, to see you take it back off, and he rushed to the kitchen to pick up some dinner that you could eat together. Preferably in front of the fireplace in his room.

The under-chefs greeted him with some amusement, wrapping up a simple dinner and a chilled bottle of that Icelandic fruit wine for you.

“So, is the Seidkona beginning a new project?” One asked politely. “A special Midgardian spell, perhaps?”

When pressed for what he meant, he became a bit nervous. “W-well, she rushed in here very excited about something, and asked for the largest glass jar that we had. We had some of those five-gallon pickle jars, so, of course we gave her one. She gave no suggestions as to what she was doing with it, but I've heard that some Midgardian sorceresses used to put their spells in jars, so we thought perhaps she was simply making a very large spell.”

“Don't worry about it.” Loki said. “I'll see what she is up to.”

Upon entering you room, he saw that you had placed your flowers-vase and all, inside the pickle jar, and covered the top with a tied down cloth. He set the bundle of armor and the basket of dinner down on your dresser.

“Darling, what-”

“Silvery Checkerspot.” You said shortly.

“I'm...not sure as to what you are referencing...”

You pointed at the vase inside the jar. More accurately at a fat, undulating worm, crawling up a flower stem.

“This creature?” He asked. “Does it offend you?”

“No, this is a caterpillar! It turns into a Checkerspot butterfly. They're pretty. Black and orange, with tiny white spots on the edges of their wings. Lacy. I used to see them and these caterpillars all the time. They're so beautiful. Also, and this is the important part-they don't live in Iceland.”

Your voice had gone a little hard, and Loki internally recoiled. You knew. This traitorous little orm had whispered his secret to you by very virtue of its presence. How could he have known that, among the no doubt thousands of species of butterflies in this world, this would be one that you were so familiar with? How could he have known that there were none here? And how was he to know to search for hitchhikers in the first place?

He'd been so high on success, and trying so hard to hold on to all the sensations that had been swimming in his head, that he hadn't spared a thought to looking out for creatures that would give him away.

And now you knew that he had been back to your home without you, and he was just now realizing how angry you might be about that. Very angry, perhaps. Betrayed, even. 'Never touch me or talk to me again' maybe.

Oh no.

Had he ruined it? He'd been trying to do something nice! How could he continually fail so badly at doing good things for people?

He hadn't always been so bad at this. It was one of the many things that had gotten lost on the way. One of the things unfairly taken from him.

Was it going to drive you away too?

“I thought you had gone back to Akureyri on your business. I figure Leynarodd could probably get you there and back in way better time than we made. But you didn't exactly say where you were going, and that's why isn't it? Letting me assume isn't the same as lying, is it? But Leynarodd can't get you across a whole ocean. God, when I woke up this morning in all that pain, I should have guessed...”

Loki flinched. The pain. He'd thought he could avoid it if he went while you slept, that he could do all this without causing you any trouble at all, but the trouble was all here anyway.

“What could have taken you back there?” You continued. “Couldn't have been just the flowers.”

“I...needed to understand you better.” He explained. “I needed to experience the world you lived in. The surroundings you grew up in. The land that shaped you. I needed to know it better. There's something I want to do for you, and I needed that information.”

“What thing?” You asked, sounding mildly skeptical. Loki's mind screamed at him to fix this, fix it right now.

“It's a special surprise, just for you.” Loki leaned down, placing both hands on your shoulders, gazing sincerely into your eyes. “Please don't be angry with me.”

“Oh, Loki.” You wound your arms around his neck. “I'm not angry. I'm sad I didn't get to go.”

He took the opportunity to hold you tightly to him, relieved that you weren't pushing him away.

“I'm sorry.” He said, possibly the first time he'd uttered the words to you. “Of course you miss it. I'll take you there, sometime. When it's safe. When we can walk the streets without having to hide. They honor you, you know. They've named a cupcake after you. They even seem to have accepted my involvement, though it might be no more than crass opportunistic commercialism. I saw no effigies of myself burning, though, so that's a good sign.”

“Dad and Tara tell me they've been spreading the word about my 'medical treatment', so everybody probably just thinks you're bad at being altruistic.”

Loki scoffed. “I suppose I'm not exactly famous for it...”

“You will be. You really seem to want to do big, great things. As Asgard grows, you'll be able to do more. You'll live so long that you'll have time to do a lot. Long term projects. I wish I could see-”

“Shhh. I'll show you everything.” Loki promised. “Don't you worry. What will you do with the worm?”

You glanced back at the pickle jar. “It's a big bouquet. And the caterpillar is in a late instar. There should be enough there for it to eat until it pupates. Then...I guess I'll let it go. They don't live long after coming out of their chrysalis, and there's no more butterflies for it to meet up with, so there's no way for it to become invasive. The cold will probably kill it early, but that would have happened back in Iowa too. Sometimes they just get started late, and don't have enough time. This would probably have been the last flush of flowers that it would have found. So it's okay. I just want it to reach it's full potential, even if it won't have much time after that.”

Loki stroked your hair. Was that what it felt like to you, when you examined your lifespan in contrast to his? Like this larval creature, did you see your magical potential as something to be mastered, even if you wouldn't have many years to make use of it?

Could there be some way to prolong your time?

And if there wasn't, what would he do?

He released you and you glanced curiously at the things he had brought.

“Presents?” You asked. He scooped up the armor bundle and dinner basket.

“Of a sort. I thought we could eat in tonight. Your armor is finished. Would you like to try it on?”

You agreed, and he led you back into his room, down in front of his fireplace. Dinner first, little bite-sized tidbits that he knew you liked, fed back and forth, and a moderate amount of wine.

He could see just the tiniest bit of tipsiness shining in your eyes when he put the food and drink aside, and brought out your armor.

You marveled over each piece, rubbing your face against the shimmering silk, delighting in the little details all over the armor. Loki helped you put it all on over your dress, and then, he offered the helmet.

At first you were speechless, overcome by its beauty. Then you couldn't stop gushing over that beauty, interspersed with welcome thanks and much less welcome insinuations that you didn't deserve something so grand. You deserved everything. You deserved the moon and stars. You deserved every ounce of precious metal, every carat of gemstone, you deserved it all, if only because he wanted to give it to you.

He stood you in front of the large mirror, and with great satisfaction, lowered the helmet down onto your head. Like a reverent coronation, you stared at yourself, as if trying to recognize your reflection. Beyond the slight asymmetry of your face, which had never quite gone back to normal, there was now the new look of your perfectly tailored armor over top of your flowing skirt, all your beautiful jewelry, your precious knife, and this helmet, a crown fit for royalty.

You were no different in appearance than a noble goddess, one of the glorious Aesir. He could see you at the head of a battlefield, shouting orders and being obeyed, at the head of a table, presiding over a victory feast, at the head of a bed, holding a swaddled infant in triumph.

You had turned and could clearly see what was in his face, as he hadn't bothered to hide it. Maybe he wanted you to see.

“Show me yours.” You said-almost commanded, pawing at his chest.

He liked this side of you equally to the shy side. The side of you that demanded, that expected, that could be selfish. The side of you that made you run up and grab his hand in the first place.

He knew what you meant. Green light webbed over his body, replacing his comfortable tunic and trousers with his ceremonial court armor. You stared, breath becoming heavier, taking it all in. The stiff, thick cape, the tall horns, the complex Nornbein breast plate with all its interlocking pieces meant to mimic the scales of a snake-or the belly of a dragon. The built in scale tassets on the thighs of his fine, olive trousers, that just so happened to draw the gaze in a certain direction...

He watched your eyes drift downwards, slipping down the metal guides to their intended focus-he still couldn't believe his mother had never said anything about it-and grow round at the sight of him, lovingly cupped by taut cotton. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips.

You pressed close, and though he couldn't feel you much through all the layers, there was something just as exciting about the clink and weight of the armor as there was in the silky warmth of bare skin. He wrapped his arms around you, squeezing, and you smashed your mouth against his in hungry lust.

You nearly knocked him over in you eagerness to get him onto the bed, and he fell into a sitting position, laughing.

“Stars, you're beautiful.” He purred. “Powerful. Grand.”

He reached for his trousers, but you stopped him.

“Not yet.” You said.

“Not yet.” He repeated.

“Just this.”

You straddled him, your skirts hitching up around your thighs, and pressed very close. Now Loki could feel your warmth, cloth barriers the only thing separating you from his swiftly hardening member, the bulge of which you began grinding slowly against.

A soft groan escaped him.

His hands found your rear through your skirts, and your throat with his lips, delighting in the vibration of your pleased moans. The friction grew between you as you drew away to gaze at him through heavy-lidded eyes; His armor, his helmet, whatever it was you saw that you liked so much had you throwing your head back and rolling your hips even faster.

And it was he who had done this. Merely existing, wearing a certain set of clothes, he had driven you to this frenzy of lust. Just because he wasn't truly inside you just yet, didn't mean this wasn't what it was. You were taking him as your own, and he was absolutely going to let you do it. Anytime, any way, however you liked.

Your moans grew high and ragged; Loki crushed you to his chest, bucking his hips. The friction, the heat, and the sound of your impassioned cries sent him spiraling into his own orgasm.

You held each other like that until your breathing slowed, and your bodies relaxed.

“Well. We should get you back out of that armor.” Loki said, voice slightly rough. “I'd say it more suggestively, but it appears you beat me to it.”

“You really don't know how sexy that armor is? Didn't anybody ever throw themselves at you while you were wearing that?

“Well...yes. But it didn't really matter. It wasn't you.”

You mewled an embarrassed little sound, and hid your face in the crook of his neck. Loki chuckled, running his hands down your body. Your new armor melted away into your comfortable and modest nightdress.

“Wow...Where did it all go?” You asked, wriggling in his lap, as his own armor faded into soft sleeping clothes.

“To your room, where your nightgown was.” He said, as you ran your fingers through his newly freed hair.

“Your horns are so handsome.” You murmured against his lips. “Just like you.”

He felt the bashful smile curl his mouth. “Will you stay with me tonight? He asked hopefully.

You nodded. “I'd like to. If you don't mind though, I need to play noise on my phone. It's been helping me sleep.”

“Whatever you need.” Whatever kept you by his side.

The two of you took a little time to clean yourselves up and prepare for bed, then snuggled down in the sheets together, holding and stroking one another. You set your phone up to play cicada song, and Loki watched you slowly fall asleep to its sawing.

Soon, his little project would be done, and you might never have to sleep away from him again.

#lasabrjotr #loki (marvel)#loki x reader

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gunkyengines · 4 years

Note

4, 7, and 9, for the s/i questions if you're still taking them!

Ohhhh my gods @jetsetspy I’m so sorry for answering this question so late ;-; My answers are under the cut!

4. Does your insert have a backstory? Tell us about it! How does their backstory, if any, define who they are? How does it reflect their relationships now? Their hopes and dreams?

Bellamy Amplexus – Final Fantasy XV SI

Bellamy doesn’t have much of a backstory just yet, but I do know this:

· Their family isn’t a huge part of their life, aside from a younger sibling, who, to this day, I have not yet named.

· They want a sense of belonging somewhere, and have a number of self-image complications (it’s not really a set of “issues” to them, because they’ve found comfort in their body and self over time, but they still have wishes about what they could be seen as—androgyny is a tough line to straddle).

· They hate the nickname “Bella”.

· Bells, as far as I’m concerned right now, finds their sense of belonging amongst the ‘Bros ever since they just sorta started… tagging along, I guess? It was just an act of good will from the prince and his guards and a bit of hitchhiking on Bells’ end that got them where they are now.

· They were originally a bit of a vagabond prior to meeting up with the guys. Hitchhiking, walking absurdly long distances, camping out often, all that jazz.

Junko Hisayo – Persona 5 SI

Junko is a character who I largely based off of my late-high school self for both self insertion and coping reasons, but a few things do set her apart from me. As in, she’s a pretty close approximation, but by no means is she a direct, direct copy of me.

She’s a student at Kosei Academy, simply due to the fact that I read on the wiki that it’s speculated to be a catholic school (I was brought up in the catholic education system, so, I could find some accuracy and likeness in that), and attended meetings at both the drama and art club there. She has bitter memories of the two clubs, as she was betrayed by the one major figure in both: her childhood friend Hideo Sunjaya. Since then, she’s taken to expressing her creative outlets in circles outside of her student life, and finds her passion in writing. At the time of Persona 5 canon, she’s set on becoming an editor. In the future canon, she does in fact achieve this goal. In this way Junko’s less of a model of who I was, and instead she’s what I hope to be.

She comes from a somewhat broken home, but has a strong relationship with her mother. Despite her current disconnect, Junko feels that she owes it to her parents that she has such a good understanding of her own identity, as they were supportive when she first came out as sapphic, and continued their support when she decided to be GNC and soon after came into her identity as a demigirl.

Elizabeth Beaufort – Red Dead Redemption 2 SI

Lizzie is a pretty lighthearted simulacrum of a more feminine version of me, translated loosely into the scope of the year 1899. I’m by no means a historian, but here’s Lizzie’s life.

Elizabeth Beaufort is a born and raised resident of the town of Valentine. Her mother is whatever the RDR2 universe’s equivalent of Quebecois French is, having moved to Saint Denis due to a family matter down there, and subsequently met her father. A Valentine resident himself, he beguiled her mother and convinced her to move to Valentine and live as the wife of a livestock owner (he comes from some blue blood ‘round those parts—as mentioned by the VDL in Chapter 2, the town is a goldmine of trade).

As a lady of relative privilege, life was… well, it was what a privileged life is. Sheltered, simple, and for the most part pretty damned easy. However, her naivete wasn’t something that her mother would stand to see Elizabeth keep, as she wanted a strong daughter who wouldn’t simply bend to the hand of tradition. Would I say that Lizzie would’ve most certainly rallied with those girls in Rhodes? YES. I’d rather die than portray any iteration of myself as complacent rather than progressive lmao. Elizabeth Beaufort flows in the vein of RDR2’s… I guess, progressive* writing? More** on that below, I guess???

*I don’t actually know how well it was received by everyone else, and honestly, I’m not even gonna try to speak on anyone else’s behalf but my own—I found that RDR2, despite some shortcomings, made itself a relatively hospitable environment for me as a white queer.

** Lizzie does struggle a lot with her internalized homophobia? Like… she had a lot of difficulty when she was younger coming to terms with the fact that she’s bisexual. This is less prevalent in her backstory considering it only ever surfaces post-canon. Yes, my SI and her FO came out to each other at random after being married to him for approximately 3 months. And it went fuckin’ great cos guess what!! Theyre both bi!! WLW/MLM solidarity!!! Don’t @ me.

Gillian Wright – Red Dead Redemption 2 SI

· Gilley was brought up amongst a gang of outlaws, and her being born a woman changed nothing about the things she was taught by said gunslingers. She left the group she once called family because of the leadership turning sour. From that point forward she went it alone, shifting in and out of her identity as Gilley Wright and her masculine persona (a pseudonym-turned-identity) Giles Kingsley, to keep herself straddling notoriety and anonymity.

· Gilley only started wearing her hair short because of an encounter in which her longer hair was used as a means to pull her back into harm’s way. She lopped it off shortly after out of the feeling that it was a necessity, but soon found that she preferred it that way.

· Thaddeus, her large draft horse, once pulled carts. She took him during a robbery so that she’d have an adequate mount for her getaway. The connection was instant between them.

Taeko Atou – Tokyo Ghoul OC

Taeko went by another name before her time in the 20th ward. She had another face, another life. But that was a self she had to leave far, far behind. Before “Taeko”, she was a reckless twentysomething ghoul living off of her father’s money, basking in the upper echelons of society, indulging in Scrapper shows and seeing humanity as nothing but an unprepared buffet. The danger ranking on her CCG profile demonstrated as much.

One night, however, her cushy life changed drastically. She went out drinking after a Scrapper show with one of her friends and decided to go hunting with her. Things were as usual, they stayed in their territory, but ended up getting apprehended by a group of Doves. During the getaway, her and her friend were separated, and she had no way of knowing whether her friend was alive. Drunk, desperate, and rather terrified, she decided to abandon all else and ripped her mask off to taunt the officers. They deserved to see her face, covered in gore and as ghoulish as they came! Nothing mattered to her at that point and she wanted to give them a scare…!

That is, until the next morning, when she recovered from her hangover and realized what she’d done. One of those Doves got a picture of her. In a panic, she called her father to ask for some sort of mercy money to clear the issue up. He’s frustrated with her constantly getting into increasingly worse trouble and tells her this: he’s going to pay for her to completely change her identity and her face so that she can move elsewhere, completely out of the way of harm. After that, he’d be cutting her off, leaving her with only the savings that she had prior to the cut-off. No more handouts.

This is when she became Taeko Atou, a pseudonym based off of her Scrapper show guest alias, “Miss AT”, and moved to the 20th ward. She has to adjust to average life a la Schitt’s Creek or Arrested Development.

7. What kind of clothing style do they like? What would they never be caught dead wearing? What’s likely in their closet right now?

Bellamy Amplexus – Final Fantasy XV SI

· Bells LOVES anything that’ll make them look cute and androgynous. They’re super partial to a femme prince aesthetic. Blouses and linens and vests and suspenders and a bunch of that cute shit. (Yes, this is my preferred fashion style and I wish I could look like that all the time.) They’re also into stuff like your average sundresses and such when it’s too hot for “princey” attire because hell yeah.

· They’d hate to wear… hm… short party dresses? Cocktail dresses n shit. (No shade to those tho theyre cute. Just not Bellamy’s style.)

Junko Hisayo – Persona 5 SI

· Junko’s super masc and butch in her presentation, binds her chest, does the simple graphic tee + jeans thing a lot. Think “Kanji Tatsumi but a lesbian”.

· She lowkey doesn’t like wearing overly feminine clothes, like, she does not vibe with dresses.

Elizabeth Beaufort – Red Dead Redemption 2 SI

· Lizzie is pretty standard when it comes to clothes: blouses and skirts, dresses, all just… really basic stuff. She likes simple and solid colours, maybe simple patterns. She’s also like… very cottagecore. Probably likes overalls if she ever wears ‘em?? I’m not a frickin’ historian and I’m not gonna google early 1900s clothes styles at this hour don’t @ me.

· This is literally just because I’m basic as all fuck and I like a skirt/blouse or sundress style outfit. I don’t wear it often but that’s my jazz y’know?

Gillian Wright – Red Dead Redemption 2 SI

· Gilley’s another one of my more boyish characters. She doesn’t deliberately go out of her way to look like a man unless she’s under the guise of her male persona Giles Kingsley. But let me tell you—she goes all out for those occasions, even electing to simulate stubble on her face with cosmetics. Think “cowboy drag king” and you’ll hit the mark.

· Other than that, she just wears whatever’s convenient and comfortable.

9. Their favorite foods? Colors? Activities? What do they enjoy in life? How do they express their joy for things they like?

As dumb as this sounds I completely burnt out after writing only 2 self insert likes/interests profiles, forgive me lol.

Bellamy Amplexus – Final Fantasy XV SI

· Favourite Food: Bells is indecisive, but they will gladly eat anything Ignis puts in front of them. They’re thoroughly convinced he uses magic in his cooking. (They’re only half joking about that—it’s so good!) If they were made to decide a top three, it’d likely be Garden Curry, Broiled King on a Stick, and Moogle Mousse with Kupoberry Sauce. Honorable mention being Gyashi Chips (yes, they like what’s effectively Eosian kale chips).

· Favourite Colours: ANYTHING PASTEL will win Bellamy over, along with any colour considered light and airy. White, silver, pale green, soft gold, baby blue, lavender, and also whatever the sky has going on at any given time of the day—they’re an aesthetic little shit.

· Favourite Activities: Travelling, leisure shopping when funds allow it (if given the means, Bellamy will 100% engage in excessive retail therapy, no joke), swimming, loving their friends, talking about books and music, gardening, and (I know this sounds vain but bear with me) preening. Yes, they’d be a vlogger in another life. Don’t @ me

· Bells loves to talk in excess about what they like, and on occasion, when words fail, they tend to express it through squealing, jumping, etc. If someone points out how passionate Bells is about these things, they’ll end up flustered and ask the person if they could continue. I guess you could say Bellamy stims? I’m not diagnosed with anything, so take this with a grain of salt, but I do have stimming habits.

Junko Hisayo – Persona 5 SI

· Favourite Food: Junko’s pretty partial to miso soup. It’s one of her weaknesses. Total comfort food. (Bro I fuckin’ love miso soup.) As well as baked goods like cupcakes.

· Favourite Colours: Red, black, silver, pink, blue, purple.

· Favourite Activities: drawing (sketches, scribbles, doodles, colouring, etc., singing, baking/cooking, writing, and she learned to love gardening after getting close to Haru.

· Junko tends to show her happiness through verbal and artistic expression, she’s also the type that tends to crack jokes (mostly shitty puns followed up by finger guns).

Again, thank you so much for asking, thank you so much for asking! QwQ Asks are still open, everyone.

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