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upsidedownwithsteve · 7 months

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A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [4.6K]

THE TIMELINE

"Oh, won't you stay, just a little bit longer. Please let me hear, you say that you will, Say you will."

- Stay By Maurice Williams and The Zodiacs

IV. MOUNTAIN LAKE, VIRGINA: 1963

The man in front of you was not part of your vacation plans. He was half naked, sweaty, annoyed and scowling. The man in front of you was a stranger.

Except he wasn’t.

Was he?

You knew his name by now, something you’d only learnt on Monday, or perhaps the day before. Steve, Steve Herringbone or Barrington or something. He didn’t like it when you called him Steven and he certainly didn’t like it when you argued back.

But this was supposed to be a getaway, a small summer break where you could maybe sneak a smoke by the lake when everyone had returned to their cabins and the geriatric morning yoga was done. Except your dad knew the owner of the summer retreat, a huge house settled in the Virginia countryside, the forest greener than it was back home. Bauman’s Mountain House was host to many golf courses, a fencing team, seventeen rowboats, an archery club, the best water aerobics in the state and an award winning dance show.

The very latter included the man in front of you.

Tall, broad shouldered and tanned from the summer, Steve Harrington was handsome and painstakingly so. Brown hair that he always tried to tame by pushing his hand through it, brown eyes and too many freckles to count. He wore a gold chain around his throat, black slacks and a leather jacket on his days off, driving around the resort in a BMW that made too much noise, but he didn’t seem to care.

He cared even less about his bad reputation and loud ways when his partner broke her foot weeks before the final show, a tiny girl called Nancy that you were unreasonably jealous of at first sight. You watched them both on your first night, sat between your mother and father as they took to the stage, dancing flawlessly, fluidly, like they were one whole person. You watched the way she touched him, an easy familiarity that had your stomach feeling unsettled and something inside of you burned when her hand brushed the man’s neck, holding onto him as he dipped her low, her fingers trapping two little moles and hiding them from sight.

You’d blamed the cheap cocktails and called it a night.

But then your father found him arguing with Mr Bauman about the show and suddenly you were volunteered against your own volition, your parents talking loudly and proudly about talent shows and dance lessons when you were much younger, boldly exaggerating about how must’ve been a dancer in another life as you shook your head and tried to escape back to the gazebo by the shoreline.

Now you were left spending your evenings with Steve Harrington and his tight trousers in a cabin that was much smaller than your own. There was a leak in the corner, a consistent drip from a missing nail in the roof and rainwater splashed against the wooden floor as if it were counting down the seconds.

As if it were counting down to— something.

It had rained every night since you had started seeing Steve, the stifling afternoons giving way to humid evenings that always started to smell like rain by six o’clock, sweet tea and lemonade taken over by the scent of a new downpour. There had been threats of storms, chattering of it during breakfast in the main dining hall, grumbles of it from groundskeepers during bowling on the green.

But nothing wild, not yet.

Steve had scowled the entire time he was with you, minutes and hours spent with a frown on his face as he did his best to avoid touching you, mumbling something about getting the timings right, about learning the steps and the footwork before putting it all together. It was tedious now, repetitive and too warm in his small room and even with the bed pushed to the wall, there was barely space to avoid brushing up against him when you moved.

You were flushed, skin shining with a thin layer of sweat and the same sheen made Steve’s lips look glossy, his hair sticking to his forehead in curls and flicks. You rolled your eyes when he hit rewind on the tape deck, a silent order for you to take it from the top. But you didn’t move as he made quick work on his buttons, undoing them one by one until his short sleeved shirt hung open, showing off far too much skin. Lean muscle and a smattering of hair across his pecs, more skating down the line of his navel and you sucked in a breath, pretending you hadn’t stood on your own foot.

“It’s too fuckin’ warm,” he complained, circling you as he spoke, watching you for more errors, inspecting your footwork, your posture, the way your held your head up and squared off your shoulders.

“No shit,” you couldn’t help but bite back. “How’d you think I feel?”

You wore denim shorts to his black slacks, but your cotton T-shirt was sticking to your torso now, the baby pink material too heavy and restricting for the heat inside the cabin. You pressed your lips together and moved, eyes on the wall ahead of you, your right foot moving in front of your left before you twisted your hips half a turn and—

“Take it off, then.”

You blinked, your framework going slack as you dropped both your arms and your jaw. You were hardly prudish, but something about this man had set you on edge since you’d first seen him. An electrical buzz every time you looked at him, fizzing through your bones, an invisible string tied to your insides pulling and pulling and pulling you closer. You’d ignored it until these dance practices, always turning in the other direction, putting the entire resort between you both.

But now… now?

He was standing all of three feet away, cheeks flushed from the heat and his chest on show, his hands behind his head and his fingers buried in his hair in frustration as he stared at you. Like he was challenging you. The muscles in his arms were flexed, taut cords and lines that showed off how hard he work at his job and you couldn’t help but stare.

“What?” You demanded it, a bite of an answer.

“Your shirt,” Steve nodded to the pink material, brows raised like it were obvious. He almost rolled his eyes. “Take it off.”

Above you, the rain outside fell a little harder, a consistent din against the thin roof.

You didn’t say anything. You just hoped you didn’t lose your cool as you reached for the hem of your t-shirt, untucking it from your shorts. The cotton stuck to you uncomfortably, dragging against your skin as you raised it up and over your head, the brief second where your eyesight was blinded a terrifying prospect.

Was he looking? At you? Was he watching? Did he care?

By the time you’d balled up the offending fabric and tossed it in the corner, Steve had turned his back to you, pressing some buttons on the tape deck until the song - some kind of mambo - played for the beginning again. You couldn’t see his face but you wondered if he’d caught sight of your bra, as plain as it may have been. White cotton, thin with scalloped edges and a tiny pink bow between the cups. Hardly sexy, nothing near scandalous, but there was certainly a lot more skin showing now.

Slick, damp skin that you wondered if he’d touch. It was like he wasn’t allowed to, the way he skirted around you all of the time, his hands shoved into his pockets when he wasn’t demonstrating the next step, a fist pressed to his chin as he watched you repeat his instructions, a wide palm always hovering just out of reach of your lower back when he scolded you for slouching, like he’d went to put his hands on you - only to pull catch himself at the last second.

“You gotta loosen your hips,” Steve’s voice interrupted your thoughts as he turned back around. His eyes were on the floor before he finally dragged them up your legs and over your bare stomach. He sucked in a breath. “You’re too rigid.”

“You told me to hold my shoulders,” you retorted, knowing fine well that he’d bitched about your ‘noodle arms’ for days.

“Yeah, your upper body needs to be squared off. Hold yourself tight from here up,” Steve gestured to your waist with the side of his hand. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the heat radiate from him. “But from here?” He tapped at the button on your shorts.

You froze.

“From here down, you need to put a bit of swing in the hips, alright?” He spun, putting himself behind you but you could see him in the mirror that leant against the cabin wall, an old looking thing that was too ornate to be here. Once gold, it had carvings of cherubs on the frame, tiny wreaths and rosettes intertwined with ancient style busts. “It’s a mambo, sweetheart, put a little heat into it.”

The tape begun again and Steve leant against a dresser, arms folded across his bare chest, his open shirt plastered to his skin. He watched you, waiting. The intro played and you counted the beats, nodding your head to each note and before you could hit the mark. Thunder rumbled somewhere outside and you were suddenly reminded of a man that looked like Steve, standing and watching you like that in a room much smaller than this, lit by firelight, dressed like a fighter.

“You missed the count,” Steve sighed, exasperated.

His hair had been longer, his face bruised and bleeding, but it looked just like him. A familiar scene, like you’d maybe seen it in a movie, but it felt more like a dream you didn’t recall having. You looked down at your feet, chest heaving, lips parted in confusion and you were only more dazed when you saw your bare legs and not the long skirts you expected. Your body didn’t feel like yours, not really.

Like it was borrowed, or broken.

You turned, facing Steve as if you expected him to be dressed differently, in leathers and studs and pleats, but he was still the same, just looking at you as if you’d suddenly fallen ill. Maybe you had.

“Drink some water,” he ordered, and yes, that sounded like a really good idea. “Then we’ll go again.”

You chugged the bottle, the water tepid and hard to swallow but you gulped it down greedily, praying against heat stroke or whatever else it could be that could be plaguing you with such hallucinations. You swiped at your lips and closed your eyes before you turned back to the boy and when you did, he looked the same as he always did.

Annoyed, tired, pretty.

“C’mere,” Steve said briskly, crooking a finger at you. You stepped towards him, unsure of what he was asking you, lingering awkwardly with a few feet of space between you. Steve huffed and rolled his eyes. “Jesus, I mean— here.”

He touched you then, his hand reaching out to grasp your own as he pulled you forward, closer than you’d ever been. There was barely space for a prayer between you both.

You thought that his hand in yours would’ve made you feel something, a spark, a fizz, that buzz that you felt in your bones around him. But something else settled over you instead, a strange familiarity, a longing for a home you didn’t know or didn’t remember, like Steve touching you was hardly anything new. His touch made you think of the sea, of vast gardens, of islands and storms and great wars, ruby wine and promises that seemed impossible to keep.

From the unsettled look in Steve’s eye as he stared down at you, you thought that maybe he felt the same thing.

But then he was fussing, moving his feet into the right position and mumbling about your stance. His hand took you with him as he moved, less than an inch separating your bare stomach from his and you let him direct you as he pleased, waiting for the song to reply from the top. The drums began, a cacophony of instruments you’d never be able to name joining in.

And then Steve was counting, his eyes suddenly fixed on yours as he nodded to the beat. “And five, six, seven—”

Steve’s other hand was on your waist.

His palm felt huge, big enough to envelop your side and his thumb was pressed into the soft of your belly, just below your ribcage. His fingers were splayed out over your bare back, his skin warm against your own and you’d never felt so completely consumed by just one touch. You were reminded of white sheets and hazy mornings, the taste of fresh bread and an open window that looked out to blue skies and you could hear a fountain spraying water.

But you were moving before you could consider it, what it meant, what it was, if it was possible to have someone else’s memories trapped in your head. Steve moved and you followed, your feet chasing his step by step as he walked you back and forth, his hips turning into yours on each beat, his shoulders set and his chin held high, ever the professional.

“Don’t look at your feet,” he murmured, barely heard over the music. “Chin up. Look at me.”

You didn’t know how to tell him it hurt to do so, how looking into his eyes this close felt like giving in, it felt like being stitched back together without any medication. You had never been aware of any wounds in your body, but this man you barely knew seemed to fill the space very well.

So you did, holding your breath until your chest burned, your eyes meeting Steve’s as you clasped his hand in your own and gripped his shoulder, letting him lead you around the cabin floor. The storm raged on, louder than before, more threatening now, like it was arguing, fighting, scolding.

The rain poured harder and what little evening light there had been was now dampened, the setting sun hidden behind navy and violet coloured clouds - but the heat was just as oppressive. Steve turned you, a twist of his body that led into yours as you spun on your toes, and when he caught you— when he caught you, his hand moved lower, slipping down your overheated skin until his fingers grazed the denim waistband of your shorts.

Maybe he saw you falter, maybe he saw your lips part, but Steve sucked in a breath and kept moving, his chest brushing your own as you stepped into his space as he danced into yours, torso meeting, separating, meeting, separating, meeting—

“Keep count,” he reminded you. “Keep counting the beats.”

You nodded, Steve’s face startlingly closer than before, as if he’d forgotten his boundaries, the box he created with strong arms, the one that kept him professional as a dancer, standing tall and strong. Now his elbows were bent, his hand falling from yours so both of his palms could bracket your hips and it was too much, it was everything you’d ever wanted, it was something you felt like you’d once had.

You just couldn’t remember who had taken it away from you.

Lightning lit the cabin, the storm over the resort, the sky black.

“Remember your hips,” he whispered, and god, god, his forehead was almost touching yours, his nose drawing a line against your own as his eyelids dropped and his lashes fanned his pink cheeks. His hands guided your waist, moving you from side to side, following the rhythm. “Listen to the beat.”

You were sure he meant the music, but it was impossible to ignore the thud of his heart against your own chest. You could feel yours even more so, a constant drumming that seemed to seep into your bones, making them crack at the edges, something blooming between them, something new and old and familiar and exciting.

Like driving into your street after a long vacation, like falling into your own bed after too many weeks away, smelling the laundry detergent that clung to everyone else that you loved. It felt hopeful, like the beginning of the morning when the only thing that had entered your thoughts was the way the sun looked in the sky, how pink it was, how the clouds seemed softer than the day before.

Steve pushed at your hips, holding them as you swayed from side to side, your hands leaving the safety of his shoulders to slip up, holding the sides of his neck, the heat of his skin scalding your palms and he nodded, pupils blown wide and lips parted as he stared down at you in amazement, like he was seeing you for the very first time.

Like he was seeing you for the first time after a very long time apart.

“Good,” he told you softly, like he was still teaching you, like this was still professional. Like he hadn’t put his hand on your lower back and obliterated whatever wall someone else had built between you. Something that had once seemed so strong was knocked down so easily, like not even a god could keep it between you. “Good. Like that, just like that—”

He swore when you moved closer, emboldened by his pretty eyes and the way his gaze tracked down your chest, down your bare stomach. His fingers flexed on your hips, blunt nails tattooing your skin and you hoped the marks would stay there, you hoped they’d be there tomorrow so you could remember that this wasn’t a dream.

His leg found its way between yours, the song finally slowing to the last few drumbeats and you knew this was the time where you were supposed to spin in Steve’s arms and raise your hand in a grand finish. But Steve tucked your hips close to his instead and let his thigh push into the seam of your denim shorts.

The song that came on next was slower, lazier, languid.

The singer had a deeper voice, the drums rolling with a dirtier beat and this wasn’t the mambo, this wasn’t a salsa and it certainly wasn’t anything you’d do in a ballroom never mind on stage in front of others. You’d seen this kind of dancing once before, the night after you first arrived at Bauman’s. You hadn’t meant it, but a walk along the lake after the sun had set had led you to a larger cabin at the back of the resort, where the lights were on and the music was loud.

Music like this.

A guy at the door with long curls and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips had appraised you, one eyebrow lifted at your little white summer dress and tennis shoes.

“You work here?” He’d asked and you had shaken your head, ready to walk back the way you came. “You a snitch?” He asked after a pause.

Again, you shook your head ‘no’ and listened as the music inside got louder. The man, who you were sure you’d seen on stage during dinner, playing the guitar for the dining guests, just shrugged. He’d nodded to a stack of beer crates at the side of the building.

“Grab a case and keep your mouth shut, alright?” He’d opened the door for you, the music louder than ever, the smell of smoke and weed and sweat pouring out. You remember how’d he grinned at you as you took in the sight. “Have fun, princess.”

It’s where you’d seen Steve for the second time, in the middle of a makeshift dance floor with the bow tie and dinner jacket he’d worn during his evening performance long gone. Moving with a girl with his shirt buttons open, his hair a mess, grinding and manhandling her in a way you weren’t sure you would even call dancing. Everyone was doing the same, hips gyrating, skirts too short, men’s chests bare, the smiles meeting in an almost kiss.

It was nothing short of scandalous.

You’d left, dumping the beer on a table beside a watermelon that almost rolled to the ground in your panic, turning from the crowd and walking out the way you’d came. The curly haired man had snorted at the sight of your wide eyes, calling out a goodbye between laughs.

And here you were, not even two weeks later, doing the same, if not worse. Why worse? You and Steve were alone.

Thunder cracked again, louder than before.

It didn’t feel wrong to be doing this. In fact, for as much trouble as you’d be in if your father had had to catch you, everything about it felt right, like you’d done it before, like this man was yours to touch. But something that felt like danger lingered in the air, a threat far more serious than your dad or Mr Bauman.

But still, you let your body move with Steve’s, a slow grind of your hips into his and when your hand found the nape of his neck and your fingers twisted into his hair, Steve’s palm cupped your ass, pulling you into him, making you feel how affected he was.

It should’ve scared you. How this man was touching you, this person you barely knew, alone in a cabin and who you were so sure had hated you only a mere ten minutes before. But Steve looked as gone as you felt, eyes filled with longing, a passion that was visible, his brows knitted together as he stared down at you hungrily, lovingly, adoringly.

It was almost too much to bear. So you let your head fall back, body slack as you kept dancing, trusting the man to keep you upright and against his own chest and you heard Steve let out a breath at the sight of your exposed neck, the long line of it offered to him like a sacrifice.

“That’s it,” you heard him murmur. “You feel the beat now?” His words fell on your throat, your bare skin, the top of his nose drawing a line from the base of it to your jaw, his mouth following and you were so sure he wasn’t talking about the music anymore.

But you nodded, clinging to him when he dipped you backwards, his hands holding you like you were precious, like you were made of marble and gold and suddenly you felt like Steve could’ve been. Like someone had taken a piece of the earth and grown this man from it, just for you. Like he had something ancient in his bones, like whatever he was made of you, you were created from the same thing too.

When he pulled you back up, effortless and graceful, you were closer than before, impossibly so. Chests meeting in the middle as you both panted into each other's parted lips, noses meeting and foreheads touching. Steve’s hands were curled around your waist, fingers splayed across your naked back as if he couldn’t bear not to touch every part of you. Your hand was on his neck, your fingers brushing over two moles on his tanned skin, the ones you’d watched Nancy touch before you.

But as you pressed your fingertips to them, your lips buzzed and Steve let out a sigh, like you’d unravelled a knot in his spine, like you’d found a magic button that fixed him. Like you’d touched a place that you’d once touched before.

“You’ve never touched me before,” you whispered, voice cracking on each syllable because it suddenly was too much.

Steve looked pained, lashes fluttering as his gaze dropped to your lips and he struggled to find the right words to give you. “I— I shouldn’t be doing it now,” he murmured. “I’m not allowed.”

“Why? Because of your boss? My dad?”

He grinned, a smirk that faltered too quickly and he shook his head, still not moving from you, his nose nudging yours as he struggled to keep himself from shifting closer still. “You’d think that should’ve been enough to keep me away.” Steve licked his lips and you tracked the movement, so sure that he’d taste like summer and salt and the peach tea from the diner. “Not even the threat of losing my damn job and house can keep me away from you.”

His words had an effect on you, breath hitching, chest aching. “Then who said you’re not allowed?”

The song was still going, a lazy beat that was easy to sway to, Steve’s leg still wedged between your thighs and his hands were wandering, sensual and slow, a whole other kind of dance over your skin. Fingers gripped at your waist before one hand trailed down your hip, over your bare thigh, ghosting over the line of your torn off shorts. He brought your thigh to his hip, hitching your leg high, pressing you both together until you could feel him all, until he could feel all of you.

Laid bare enough for you to feel like he could take the very soul of you from your body.

You found that you didn’t mind the idea of it at all.

“You’ll laugh at me,” Steve murmured but he didn’t sound embarrassed at all, like he didn’t actually believe that you would.

You shook your head, nose brushing against the tip of his and if you moved another inch, just one, you could’ve been kissing him, mouth slotting against his. “I won’t,” you promised.

“I started having dreams when you came,” Steve told you. “Dreams where it always rained and the sky was always dark. And there was a man there, a thing, maybe. But he felt ancient, older than the fucking world and he told me to stay away, to keep away from you.”

You didn’t laugh. No. No, in fact, you didn’t say a damn thing.

Steve laughed, breathless and without any humour, and his hand trailed back up your thigh as your leg dropped slowly to the floor. He spun you both, lazy and languid, but the world around you both still blurred. The cabin faded away, a mix of the low lights and the colours of his quilt on the bed.

You could barely hear the storm, but god, it was the loudest it had been.

“I want to do ungodly things with you,” Steve confessed and he sounded pained, his throat tight with the same kind of emotion you felt, like you were both sharing the same heart. “I want to do ungodly things to you.”

“Steve--”

“I know it sounds crazy, but there’s somethin’-- somethin’ in the sky or in the goddamn cracks of the earth that’s telling me I shouldn’t.” His bottom lip grazed your top one, an almost kiss, a whisper of one, a mere idea of it. Hardly a touch. “That something real bad will happen if we do.”

You couldn’t explain it, just like you couldn’t explain your sudden proximity to the man, the achingly familiar closeness you felt. But you knew, somehow, some way, Steve was right.

Tears stung your eyes, a fiery nip that you tried to blink away and when the music slowed to a stop and the next song began, Steve kept moving, your body melted to his, no space between either of you to be able to determine where you ended and he began.

Your voice cracked when you spoke. “What should we do?”

Steve took a breath before he answered, one hand coming up to push against your hairline, his palm coasting down your cheek, holding you, cherishing you. His touch was hot with adoration.

“We can keep dancing.”

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rd0265667 · 16 days

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Minji x Reader: Mercy, The Fool's Errand

TW!: Warning, there is quite alot of Violence and a slight bit of Gore(but there will be a TW before hand) A/N: Trying a more action oriented fic with Spiderwoman Minji, maybe will spring into something more 👀 Permanent Taglist: @cwpiqwon @justme-idle

Dropping down silently, Spider Woman landed behind a thug who was struggling to light a cigarette. Before the thug could react, Spiderwoman snatched the cigarette away, punching the thug in the gut. As he yelped in pain, she lit the cigarette, tossing it into his mouth, before webbing his mouth shut

“Didn’t your mom ever tell you smoking kills? Lucky for you, I’m way more effective than lung cancer. And a sucker for irony too.�� Seeing more thugs, Spiderwoman webbed this thug up, swinging him and throwing him at the incoming thug. Jumping at the nearest thug, Spiderwoman webbed his mouth shut and gave him a quick uppercut, sending him sprawling into a pile of crates. The commotion caught the attention of two nearby thugs, who turned around, guns drawn. Spiderwoman launched herself at them, twisting mid-air to avoid their shots. She landed between them, delivered a rapid-fire punch to the first thug's gut, then spun around and kicked the second thug in the chest.

“I don’t get it—do you guys buy bullets in bulk? Costco membership? And seriously, where’s your safety training? Is there even safety on this gun?” Spiderwoman asked, before smacking him across the face with the butt of the rifle

The other thug staggers up, reaching for a knife. Spiderwoman webs the knife to her hand, tossing it straight into his chest. “Knife to meet you! Ha, I’ve been dying to use that one. Okay, technically I’m not the one dying, you are, but yada yada, spare me the semantics”

Another thug tried to surprise her from behind, swinging a crowbar. Spiderwoman ducked, then flipped backward, landing on the thug’s shoulders. Wrapping her arms around the thug, she jumped up, smashing his head into the ground as his neck jerked with a sickening crunch

“Crowbars? That’s cute. Didn’t know I was fighting a gang of Home Depot employees. You guys got discounts on those, or…? Meh, I don’t think dead employees get discounts. Oh well.”

SpiderWoman noticed a group of thugs at the far end of the warehouse, raising their guns. She shot a web at a nearby crate and swung it into them, knocking them down like bowling pins.

“Strike! And the crowd goes wild! Well, not really. But hey, you should see my high score at the arcade.”

As Spider woman landed, a thug swung a chain at her. She caught the chain mid-swing, yanked the thug forward, and clotheslined him.

“You know, I read somewhere that chainmail is making a comeback. But you, my friend, are not pulling it off.”

A thug sneaks up behind her, swinging a bat. Spiderwoman’s spider-sense tingles, and she ducks just in time. She webs the thug’s feet to the floor and yanks the bat out of his hands, twirling it like a baton.

“Batter up! Or should I say, ‘batter down’? No? Wow, tough crowd. Maybe I should stick to knock-knock jokes.”

She swings the bat, cracking it against the thug’s head, sending him spinning. The thug drops, twitching. Spiderwoman exaggeratedly raises her hand, running around the spot like a baseball game “And the crowd goes wild! Okay, nobody’s awake…or alive, but still. I’m a hit!”

Another thug tried to charge him with a bat. Spiderwoman sidestepped, grabbed the bat, and broke it over her knee, using the broken pieces to jab the thug in the shoulders, before a last one right in the stomach.

“Another goddamn bat? Really? What is this, amateur night? I’m expecting Joker to pop out and tell me this was all a prank.”

The last thug was backing away, visibly trembling, his gun shaking in his hands. Spiderwoman took a step forward, then another, until she was right in the thug’s face.

“Relax, man, I’m not gonna kill all of you. You, I’ll probably just ruin your evening. And maybe your dental work.”

Before the thug could respond, Spiderwoman webbed his gun to the ceiling and delivered a quick jab to the thug's stomach,followed by a punch to the face, the impact causing a crack in the ground Seeing the last thug left in the warehouse, Spiderwoman swung over, landing on the boxes next to the thug “I surrender, Don’t kill me!” The thug shouted out, dropping her gun to the ground. “Alright, but only if I get to tell you a joke.” Spiderwoman quips, twirling around a karambit she had found. “Okay!” The thug responded excitedly, relieved to have a way out. “Knock knock.” Spiderwoman started “Who’s there?” “Death.” Spiderwoman deadpanned “Death whrrg.” The thug began, before Spiderwoman dropped down, swiping the karambit across the thug's neck as she dropped to the ground, holding her neck as blood spurted wildly from the wound. “God I love Rowan Atkinson.” Spiderwoman chuckled to herself

“You know, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got a hot date. And maybe some takeout. Do bad guys even eat? I mean, it’s like you’re always here, doing the crime thing. You must have terrible Yelp reviews.”

Spiderwoman started walking toward the exit, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.

“By the way, if you’re thinking of sending more guys after me, here’s a tip: maybe hire a better interior decorator. This warehouse looks like the set of every bad action movie ever. Seriously, a potted plant wouldn’t kill you.”

She shot a web, swinging up into the rafters and disappearing into the shadows, leaving behind a warehouse full of groaning thugs and shattered crates.

As she swung away into the night, she muttered to herself, “I should really charge for this. Hero work, witty banter, interior design tips… Talk about multi-tasking.”

Her swing back to the rooftop was an uneventful one, thankfully. You were gonna kill her if you were late again, and she didn’t want to deal with that today. With a final swing, Minji soared into the air, landing with a final forward roll, jogging into the small shed at the rooftop. As she rushed into the shed, she smirked, leaning on the doorframe. “Just in time.” Minji said with a chuckle. Your eyes narrowed, staring at Minji, before shaking your head with a small sigh. “You’re cutting it close Kim. And to think I made your favourite for tonight.” “Ice cream?” Minji’s smile spread wide across her face. “Yep, mint chocolate.” You teased, Minji’s face dropping in horror. “You might be the worst person I’ve ever met. And I’ve literally met every villain in this city.” Minji said in horror “I’m kidding, its that cheesecake flavour you told me you liked that once.” You rolled your eyes, seeing Minji’s eyes widen, sparkling with excitement. “So what’s the special occasion? You even broke out the ice cream maker Auntie bought in that one garage sale?” Minji asked as she dug into the ice cream as if it was about to disappear. “If I recall, that was the garage sale you were supposed to help out in, but disappeared. Ahma was so pissed at you.” You jabbed with a chuckle, Minji wincing as she remembered those piercing, disappointed eyes that seemed to eat at her soul. Ghost Rider could never. “Not answering the question honey.” Minji teased, once again digging back into the bowl of ice cream before her. “I wanted to talk to you about reinstating your no kill rule.” You sat next to Minji, putting her hand in yours. “Nope.” Minji quickly replied, continuing to dig into the ice cream as if you had not said a word Taken aback, you quickly snatched the bowl away from Ice Cream away from Minji. You were well aware that if she wanted to, you couldn’t have taken that bowl from her if your life depended on it, but at least this proved she was listening. Somewhat at least. “I’m serious.” You gripped Minji’s hand tighter, trying to look her in the eyes “Ralph Dibny. Caitlin Luz. Joseph Wiegand. Corey Steele. Rachel Ong. 5 Dead, 236 people injured.” Minji stared at you dead in the eye. Your grip softened, you knew those names, you knew those numbers. The casualty report from the Goblin’s last attack, “If I had put the Goblin down the first time she tried anything, they would still be here. Rachel…She would still be here.” Minji seethed in rage. “Kim Minjeong.” You rebutted. “What about her?” Minji asked, clearly irritated at this line of questioning. “You fought her at Silph Labs a month ago, when she tried to steal some tech prototype.” “And?” You walked over to the computer, all it took was some typing to pull up some articles. “Have you heard of this new hero in Moapa Valley? Winter Flare? That’s Kim Minjeong.” You brought up a new message tab of communication. “I’ve been in contact with Crimson Banshee, the vigilante at Moapa Valley. She figured out what Minjeong was using that prototype for.” You took a small brown file, handing it to Minji, who looked at the file in apprehension. “Open it.” You nudged, Minji sighing before opening the file. “Her name is Yu Jimin. She was suffering from a rare genetic disease, and it was fatal. That prototype was the only thing that could save Jimin, and it did. A few days ago, the prototype was found in the office, frozen in a block of ice, and now, Moapa has a new protector.” “Your point?” Minji asked, going back to the couch.

“Some of them deserve a second chance. Not all of them, of course. The Goblin, The Chuuker, the mass murderers, the monsters, put them in the ground. I have no moral argument about that. But some of them deserve at least a shot at redemption. Like Minjeong. Good people, forced by circumstance to do bad things. That doesn’t make them villains, they’re just desperate, lost. You’re a hero, Minji, children look up to Spiderwoman everyday, but parents are afraid, Minji. They don’t want their kids to think murder is the first answer to everything. Just killing them may seem like it’s the right way out, but it’s just the easy way out. Some of these people deserve a second chance, a shot at redemption, but if they choose to turn bad again, you’ll be there to stop them again, my amazing spiderwoman.” You placed your hand on her cheek, attempting to reassure her. “But what if they change, attack again, and I can’t stop them? The lives that they’ll take, they’re on me.” Minji’s tone lowered, hands trembling as fear overcame her. “I know it’s difficult, baby, but killing isn’t the answer. It’s chipping away at your soul. Please. Think about it?” You pleaded, to which Minji nodded. “Now, I believe I promised you movie night. So what movie shall it be?” You asked, cuddling into Minji on the couch, remote in your hand as you turned on the TV. “Well, I’d say Lilo and Stitch, but I’m not paying fucking 13 bucks a month Disney.” Minji said, turning to look into what was seemingly thin air. “Who are you talking to this time?” You asked amusedly, not new to Minji’s antics “Let’s just watch the Titanic for the 20th thousand time.” Minji said, causing you to giggle. “It’s a good movie, and I expect a little more leeway with movie selection after I spent the whole day after class churning your goddamn cheesecake ice cream.” You playfully rolled your eyes, causing Minji to roll her eyes in mocking response, before pulling you in for a cuddle. “Jack would have fit on that goddamn door by the way.”

Spiderwoman clings to a steel beam high above the construction site, her eyes scanning the ground below. She had heard chatters of a new self proclaimed Genius Villain in town. Smartest in the world. “How many Smartest people in the world are there? It’s like how many first Baptist churches I see around this city. Like, one of them got to actually be first right?” Spiderwoman grabbed the screen, pulling it toward her mouth like a mic to talk to the people on the other side. “Okay okay, this is what you readers came here for. It’s showtime, grab your popcorn, turn off that music you’re playing in the background. Shits about to get real.” Spiderwoman lets go off the screen, pushing it back into the air, before cracking her knuckles

“Alright, Scipio,” Spiderwoman calls out, her voice echoing through the empty site. “Time to settle the score. And before you ask, no, I don’t have a coupon for this ass-kicking, so you’re gonna have to take it full price.”

A shadow moves in the darkness below, and Scipio steps into the light. He’s dressed in tactical gear, his posture calm and ready. A rope dart, its metal tip glinting ominously, coils in his hand.

“Nice rope dart! I guess you’re planning to make me your personal piñata. Hope you brought enough candy for the both of us!” Spiderwoman quips, assessing the threat before her

“You’ve been busy, Spiderwoman,” Scipio says, his voice smooth. “But tonight, I’m going to show you that brains can beat brawn.”

Spiderwoman drops from the beam, flipping gracefully in mid-air before landing softly on the ground. She bounces lightly on the balls of her feet, adopting a fighting stance “Brains, huh? Let’s see how smart you feel when you’re wrapped up like a mummy in webs.”

Without warning, Scipio whips the rope dart toward her, the tip slicing through the air with a deadly hiss. Spiderwoman reacts instantly, firing a webline to a nearby beam and yanking herself out of its path. She swings in a wide arc, twisting her body to deliver a flying kick to Scipio’s head. He ducks just in time, but she’s already flipping over him, landing lightly on the other side.

“Cheap Shot Buster! But you’re gonna have to be quicker than that!” she taunts, shooting another webline to a distant crane and pulling herself upward. She swings from the web, her body swaying slightly as she observes him from above. “And try not to get dizzy from all this swinging around. I know it can be a lot to handle. I’ve got a good pharmacy guy if you need him.”

Scipio doesn’t waste any time. He snaps the rope dart back, the metal tip whipping around his body as he takes aim. Spiderwoman swings toward him, her body twisting mid-air as she dodges the dart again, using a webline to redirect herself upward. She lands on a high beam, crouched and ready.

“Nice toy you got there,” she quips, firing a web to a nearby scaffold and using it to slingshot herself downward. “But mine’s better.” She somersaults through the air, aiming to land a kick on Scipio’s chest. But he’s prepared—he spins the rope dart around him, creating a whirling barrier that she narrowly avoids.

“Looks like you’re dancing with danger!” she shouts, using her webs to dodge and weave through the air. “I hope you’ve been taking dance lessons.”

Scipio growls in frustration and charges, his rope dart whipping through the air with deadly precision. Spiderwoman spins away, flipping into the air and firing webs to keep him off balance. She catches the dart mid-air and spins it around her hand, using it as a makeshift weapon to parry his next attack.

“Whoa, you’re really sticking to your guns—literally!” she jokes, a barrel role to narrowly dodge the rope dart. “But I’m afraid your aim is a little off. Better luck next time!”

Scipio narrows his eyes, clearly annoyed. He lunges at her with a series of rapid, precise strikes, but she dodges and counters, her movements a blur of agility and acrobatics. With a flourish, Scipio sends the rope dart with astonishing speed, though Spiderwoman was able to narrowly dodge, allowing the rope dart to twirl around her, sending it back at Scipio, causing him to duck, knocking him off his balance

“You’re like a cat in a laser pointer shop,” Spiderwoman quips, spinning around to land a kick to his ribs. “Always swatting at things you can’t quite catch!”

Scipio stumbles, but he catches himself, spinning around to deliver a backhand that Spiderwoman barely dodges. She retaliates with a series of punches, but Scipio blocks most of them, using her momentum against her to throw her off balance, one gap in her attack all he needed to knock her back.

Spiderwoman lands lightly on her feet, her breath coming in quick bursts. This guy is good—really good. But she’s not done yet. Not by a long shot. “Oh you’re good. As the shitheads on Mobile Legends say, Music.” Spiderwoman says, quickly followed by two quick claps, before lunging back at Scipio

She fires a web at a steel beam, yanking herself into the air. Scipio follows, leaping after her with lightning quick agility. But Spiderwoman has the advantage here—she swings from beam to beam, her experience of fighting mid swing proving advantageous as she dodged, bobbed, and parried everything Scipio tried to throw at her

“Catch me if you can!” she shouts, twisting mid-air to avoid a punch and landing a spinning kick to his head. “Or, you know, keep missing and I’ll just keep making jokes. Your call!”

Scipio reels from the kick, but he recovers quickly, grabbing her leg and pulling her down to the ground with him. They hit the concrete hard, but Spiderwoman uses the momentum to roll away, springing back to her feet. She fires a web to a nearby crane and pulls herself up, swinging in a wide arc before dropping down on Scipio from above. He raises his arms to block, but she’s too fast—she lands a solid punch to his jaw, followed by a kick to his chest that sends him crashing into a pile of rubble.

Scipio groans, struggling to get back to his feet. But Spiderwoman is already moving, her webs snapping out to wrap around his arms and legs. She yanks him off the ground, swinging him in a wide arc before slamming him into a steel beam. The impact reverberates through the site, and Scipio collapses to the ground, dazed.

Spiderwoman lands lightly beside him, breathing hard. Her fists clench and unclench as she stares down at him, her mind racing. She could end it all right now—just one more hit, and he’d be done for. “Go ahead. I’ve heard all about this before. Spiderwoman, the penumbra of this city. End me.” Scipio said, out of breath “Shut up.” Spiderwoman sighs. You were right. There was a better way to do this. With a shake of the head, Spiderwoman turns to walk away. “You’re letting me go?” Scipio questioned

Spiderwoman gazes down at him, her expression unreadable. “Because someone believes there is a better way to do things,” she says quietly. “And I’m starting to believe it too.”

She webs him to the ground, ensuring he won’t be going anywhere until the authorities arrive. “Don’t feel so smart now, do you, genius?” As she prepares to swing away, she looks back at him one last time, her voice hardening.

“Consider yourself lucky,” she says, her tone cold. “This is your one chance, repent, use that big brain for the good of society. But this is a warning, if I ever see you again, I won’t be making any more promises. And next time, bring more than just a rope dart.”

In the wreckage of the construction site, Scipio laid there, groaning in pain, though a small smile on his face. The fight might have been lost, but the war had just begun. It was not a war he anticipated being alive to see, but he wasn’t complaining. As the dot blinked on the screen on his wrist, Scipio smirked. Revenge would be swift, precise, fiery.

Exhausted, Minji walked into the shed. “How’d it go?” You asked, tossing her her usual isotonic drink. “I did it. New Guy in town, Scipio. I think he just wanted to test his skill against mine. He’s smart, and he’s good. Really good. Hopefully he uses the second chance wisely.” Minji said, leaning into the back hug you had thrown her into. “I’m proud of you.” You said, ruffling her hair as Minji smiled. “Alright, I’m going down to the chemistry labs to make some more web fluid.” Minji said, yawning as she tossed her suit to a corner, dressing down into a more comfortable jumpsuit. “Alright, I’ll do some research on Scipio while you’re gone, then maybe we'll go for supper?” You asked “You read my mind bro.” Minji chuckled, walking to you at your chair, leaving a small kiss on your forehead, before heading down the building to the chemistry lab.

Minji hummed a soft tune as she mixed the chemicals she needed. It was a slow process, but after so much time spent crime fighting, this time spent had become more or less a routine for her. She leaned back on her stool, allowing her mind to drift as she swirled the beaker in her hand. As she swirled it, however, she suddenly had a heavy feeling in her chest, the same feeling when her spidey senses go into overdrive. “Damn, I’ve been working too hard, maybe some chimichangas later.” Minji joked to herself, but as she swirled the beaker, she could not shake the horrible feeling. Now slightly wary, Minji got up from her seat, looking around the lab. “Alright, Monster in the closet, the Sonic CGI before we told Paramount they could go fuck themselves. Come out, come out wherever you are.” Minji called out, only to be met with silence, before hearing a deafening scream. Minji’s face paled. She bolted out of the lab, going as fast as her legs could take her, running up the stairs, only to recoil in horror as she saw the shed in flames. “Y/N!” She screamed out, hoping to find you amidst the rubble. Jumping into the shed, looking around, frantically looking for you. Seeing your hand sticking out amidst the dust, she jumped in, picking you up in a fireman’s carry, before running out from the shed. “Hey, babe, it’s okay, you’re safe now.” Minji whispers to you, holding you tight against her chest. “Babe?” Minji whispered, realising that you were unreactive. She placed a finger to your neck, her trembling hands realising you didn’t have a pulse. “No, No, No, Not again, this can’t be happening again.” Minji muttered under her breath Minji quickly tried CPR, her chest compressions growing more frantic as you remained unresponsive. Minji collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily as she fell back in horror. Looking to her hand, she quickly vibrated her hand, seeing small blue sparks of electricity forming on her hand. A power that she had found not too long ago, and your last hope. With trembling hands, Minji placed her hand on your chest, causing your body to jolt up in the air, but you remained unconscious. The sounds of sirens quickly flooded the area, the alarm clearly having been tripped by the fire. As the medics rushed the area, Minji let the paramedics around your body. After some checks, Minji saw the medic look to her watch, confirming her worst fear. As Minji fell back to the ground, stunned as the paramedics wheeled you away, she noticed something in the corner. Her suit. She slowly walked over to it, noticing a small blinking red light you had not noticed before, accompanied by a note. “With regards from the New Rogues, and Scipio ~Inferno.” Minji’s fist tightened, sparks flying out from her fist.

“Where are they! You have 10 seconds to tell me, before I gouge your eyeballs out.” Minji screamed, punching the thug she had found, webbing him upside down. “I don’-” Before the thug could finish his sentence, Minji punched him in the face, his head thrashing through the cinder wall behind him, jaw agape. “You next. Tell me something I want to hear or your jaw won’t even stay on like that guy’s.” Minji threatened. “Okay, okay, I heard some chatter of some gathering in a warehouse downtown. Let me go, please, I don’t want any trouble.” He screamed out. Minji nodded, turning around. “Hey, mind letting us down genius?” The thug screamed out, before Minji webbed his mouth, before giving it a rough yank, Minji swinging away from the source of the screams, his jaw hanging over his nose.

Minji’s eyes darkened as she perched atop the warehouses. Seeing light from the warehouse next to this one, she swung over, seeing Scipio, beside him being 3 other costumed figures, one with his hands over Scipio, seemingly healing him from the injuries he had suffered prior. Minji jumped down from the warehouse, landing on her toes, walking slowly into the warehouse. The other 3 villains were shocked, crouching into fighting stances as they kept their eyes on Minji. Scipio, however, chuckled as he watched Minji walking in. “Like the gift, Spiderwoman? As you can see, I’ve brought a lot more than a rope dart this time. I present to you, my new rogues. That there is Specter, this here is Gaze, and my friend over there is Inferno, the one responsible for sending you your gift.” Scipio said, winding his rope dart around his arm. “What, cat got your tongue? No more quips anymore genius?” Scipio questioned, smirking, believing he had broken Minji’s spirit. He had broken something, though he was gonna wish he hadn’t “Answer the boss when he’s talking to you!” Specter shouted, deciding to bum rush Minji. In one fluid move, Minji webbed Specter in the forehead, harshly yanking it, causing him to hit the ground hard on his face. Minji walked up to Specter, palming his head and lifting him up by his head, staring dead at the 3 other villains.

TW! Slightly Gory

Without a word, Minji’s hands began to shoot off sparks, Specter’s body shaking in Minji’s hand, the current running through his head, his eyeballs popping from his head, hanging from his eyes like a pinata at a halloween party, and his body began to smell like burnt charcoal. “What the fuck!” Scipio shouted out in shock. Tossing the body to a side, Minji shot her webs upward, pulling down the only light source in the room, causing it to crash down around the 3 villains left, as they all jumped out of the way. Minji’s eyes burned with rage, the darkness her ally as she lunged into action

“Reaper to Wildcat, I’m at the warehouse, checking out the disturbance. I’ll report back in a short while.” The figure shrouded in a black cloak, a sickle in hand said into their comlink “Roger that Reaper. Be careful, we don’t know what happened in there.” Wildcat’s voice rang through the comms, though it was quickly snuffed out by a scream from inside the warehouse. The Reaper bolted in, seeing copious amounts of blood stains on the ground, the charred body of Specter laying on the ground, eyeballs all but disconnected, skin charred, his two legs seemingly having been torn off. “What in the world?” The reaper muttered under their breath, walking cautiously into the next room, only to stop in shock. The Reaper had seen alot in their crime fighting escapades, many many atrocities, but none came even close to this sight. “What have you done!” The reaper screamed out. In the middle of the room, crouched Minji, standing upon a web the shade of dark crimson red. But this web was not spun of silk, instead, the web was formed by a grotesque collaboration of limbs, ligaments, muscles, a crimson red web of anger and gore

“I did what I had to.” Minji coldly replied, standing up and jumping in front of the Reaper. “Where are the villains?” The reaper demanded to know. “Some here, some there, some on the ceiling. But alive. For now at least. I’ll finish up in a moment. I need the web to be complete, to send a message to the wannabe villains of the world.” Minji nonchalantly said, gesturing to the corner. In the corner laid 3 bodies of the villains, all in different states of being. Missing limbs, faces burned, clawed off, jaw ripped clean off. They all laid, screaming in agony.

(We good from here on) “You can’t do this!” The Reaper shouted out in horror. “Why not? These villains don’t understand logic. So I speak the only language they speak, violence, splayed out so undeniably in their face that they’d fucking shoot themselves in the stomach before daring to step out of their houses in their shitty spandex or their half cooked schemes. “And what if villains take notice and want to kill you to make a name for themselves?” The reaper demanded to know “Then I expand my web.” Minji said

“I thought you changed recently. I heard of your fight with Scipio. You went back to how it was before the Goblin killed Rachel. But that’s gone again? I had faith in you, convinced wildcat to give you time, that in time, you’d show mercy.” The reaper said, before Minji let out a shrill chuckle “Mercy? Mercy cost me Rachel. Mercy cost me my aunt and Uncle. Mercy cost me my friends, my family. Mercy’s an easy thing to preach, when everyone you love is a goddamn superhero, Reaper. Mercy sounds good, until it bites the hand that feeds like the ungrateful dog it is, the mercy extended to these subhuman animals. Mercy cost me….it cost me Y/N. They were my second chance, my happiness after so much time of anger and hatred, and Mercy took them away from me. Hah, Mercy, the fool's errand”

#kim minji #minji x reader #minji #newjeans x reader #newjeans imagines #minji nwjns #newjeans #minji imagines #minji newjeans #new jeans x reader #kpop fic #rd0265667 #kim minji x reader #newjeans minji #minji fanfic #kim minji fanfic #new jeans kim minji fanfic

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octuscle · 4 months

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Bowling Night

"Bowling? Really?" Francis was fuming with rage. His friend was finally back home after two weeks away on business. He had dressed up. He had been looking forward to a romantic evening. And now his friend was taking him to a shabby bowling center full of fat rednecks. "Darling, please! I had five-course dinners every night for two weeks, had to make small talk in a suit every night. I was looking forward to seeing you so much. But I want to do something really simple tonight. I don't know how I came across bowling myself, but I passed this place on my way from the airport. And somehow I really felt like it now." Konstantin took his friend tenderly in his arms and gave him a kiss on the forehead. Francis tapped his pink sneakers on the floor. Konstantin knew his friend only too well. He knew he couldn't stay angry for long. He gently pulled Francis out of the parking lot and towards the bowling center. Maybe it was going to be a nice and relaxed evening after all. He had always loved going bowling as a child. He had loved celebrating his childhood birthday at the bowling alley. But it must have been…. "YUCK!" Francis cried out. "I'm not wearing those shoes in my life. They're disgusting. What brand is that anyway?" The young man at the counter rolled his eyes. Konstantin tried to calm everything down. Francis struggled to calm down. Konstantin had promised him a glass of sparkling wine. He could usually always calm Francis down with that. And it seemed to be working now too. Konstantin took Francis in his arms and they walked to their train together. Francis continued to grumble quietly to himself. "And when is my champagne coming now?" he asked. "Yo, two brewskis for two browskis?" Francis looked at the young man like an insect to be squashed

"I've already got a beer, you can have that. I'll get a second one for you, buddy." The young man pressed an ice-cold bottle into Francis' hand. He smelled of sweat and Axe. Francis almost had to hold his nose. But then he looked the waiter in the eye. Beautiful blue eyes. Damn, what a face. Features as if chiseled from granite. And even though he didn't know what was coming over him, he gave the waiter a fist bump and said, "Thanks buddy, you're such a lifesaver!" And to Konstantin he said "Come on then, let's throw some bowling balls." Shit, for supposedly still bowling, he was good. Damn good, Konstantin thought to himself. And how did Francis know the waitress? The two of them seemed so familiar, as if they'd known each other since kindergarten? A burp from Francis snapped Konstantin out of his thoughts. "Bro, like seriously? Wake up, it's totally your go!" Konstantin's eyes were almost watering from the stench of nachos, beer and cigarettes that Francis had belched out. They didn't have any nachos. And Francis didn't smoke. "Yo, Chuck! We're all thirsting for another round of brewskis, and hey, you got any cancer sticks on deck?" Francis called out to the waiter. The legs of his sweatpants were tucked into white socks that were no longer quite clean. And what had he done to his hair? Konstantin threw his ball. Strike! He turned around. And saw Francis openly grabbing the crotch of the waiter, who had just returned with beer and cigarettes, and sticking his tongue down his throat. Francis registered Konstantin's horrified look with a grin. "Yo fam, Chuck is gonna roll up later on. I'm thinking a triple threat situation would be straight fire to cap off this lit night, amirite?" Francis stood up, took Konstantin's head and pulled him towards him. And then he gave Konstantin a deep, long French kiss. Konstantin felt dizzy. Francis stank. No, he smelled male. Very masculine. And he tasted masculine. And he felt masculine. Konstantin wanted to run Francis through his curls. But there were no more curls. There was only cropped hair. Francis pressed his crotch against Konstantin's. Both their cocks were hard as steel. "We gonna have that lit threesome later, but right now, I need you, like ASAP, like yesterday! Hurry up, babe!" Francis whispered in Konstantin's ear. And pulled him towards the toilet.

Always when Stan rolled back from a away gig, Frank went total cray-cray like a hyped-up rabbit. Those two went at it like wild animals in the john. Chuck totally saw that coming, no more bowling for them today, duh. When Frank and Stan finally strolled back, Chuck was there waiting with three brewskis like a boss. "Yo, chill out outside while I dim the lights. Hope you've got some juice left for me!" Stan and Frank just grinned and nodded. They sauntered out to the lot, Stan sparking up a ciggie. The night was just getting started, y'all! 🍻💥✨

#male tf #reality change #inked man #chav tf #age reduction #trackies #ai generated

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the-froschamethyst4 · 7 months

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A Player Knows Game

𖤐Pairing: Husband! Soap x Wife! Reader

𖤐Pronouns: She/Her

𖤐Warnings: fluff, angst, mention of sex, strong language, disrespectful teenager, married couple, arguing, underage smoking and underage drinking,

𖤐Summary: Soap and Y/n's teenage son Ryker is becoming a bit disrespectful to his parents and Soap wants to put a stop to his disrespectful antics

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11:00PM

"I'm so tired," Y/n, the wife of Soap yawns.

"I know...I am too, and we can't sleep because of him and his midnight antics," Soap's eye twitched in annoyance, it's almost every night now, Ryker has brought a new girl home to fuck.

He thinks his parents are asleep but in reality they can't sleep when their son's bed frame is hitting the wall and some girls were fucking loud.

Y/n rubs her tired eyes and Soap held her to his chest, he looks down and sees that Y/n looked so tired, she had work tomorrow, and a important meeting as well.

"Okay, that's it!" Soap moves off the bed and put on some sweatpants.

"Johnny? What are you doing?" She gets off the bed and holds his arm.

"Going to put a fucking stop to this, this is almost every fucking night now, I'm tired, you're tired, I'm done, this fucking stops," he quickly and forcefully opens the master bedroom door and goes to his sons door which just a few steps away.

He knocks on his sons bedroom door, he hears rustling inside and some chuckling and giggling around in the bedroom, making Soap a little more angry.

Soon, the door opens and Ryker was face-to-face with an angry dad and a worried mother.

"What?" Ryker sounded annoyed.

"What's what, is that your mother and I are trying to sleep and we can't when you are in here making so much fucking noise," Soap says.

"We're...just having fun," Ryker raised his eyebrows and looked at Soap and Y/n.

"Too much fucking fun, Miss grab your shit and leave my house," Soap says, looking at the girl on Ryker's bed holding his blanket to her bare chest.

"Whatever," she rolls her eyes and starts grabbing her clothes as Ryker and Soap were just having a pissed off staring contest with each other. The girl walks between Soap and Ryker and left without saying another word to either of them.

"John," Y/n grabs at her husband's buff and veiny arm.

"Next time you want to have your so-called 'fun' fucking do it somewhere else, not in my house," Soap didn't care if his son was having sex as long as his son was protected but he hates hearing it almost every fucking day.

Soap and Y/n head back to their bedroom and Y/n fell on her side of the bed and passed out almost immediately as Soap leans against the headboard of the bed and soon fell asleep.

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Ryker lays on his bed looking at his phone his LED lights in the color red as he was shirtless and was texting the girl he was just with.

Kenzie: *What a buzzkill*

Ryker: *Yeah, they fucking suck, they never cared before and now all of a sudden they care, it's fucking annoying* *Anyways, do you want to go to Echoes and do it there?*

Echoes was a rec-bar that people Ryker's age went to, to play games, bowl, smoke, drinking and even do it in the bathrooms. The owner of Echoes didn't care what people did in his bar, it's basically run by teenagers.

Kenzie: *I don't know, maybe*

Ryker: *I have to know before I move to the next girl*

Yeah, Ryker is a fucking player or fuckboy which ever you prefer and basically has a LIST of girls he wants to fuck, or who asked to be fucked by him.

Kenzie: *No, move on, idc*

Ryker: *Ok*

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9:39AM

Soap had woken up to the sound of his son blasting music, he rubs his tired eyes and looks to see no Y/n next to him, she must've left for the day.

Soap groans and get out of bed, pulling his bedroom door open and walk down the hall seeing his sons bedroom door wide open and he was moving around his bedroom as Soap walked passed his bedroom.

Ryker has gotten to the point where he's disrespecting Soap and Soap's house rules. Y/n is usually busy with work that she doesn't know much that's happening with Soap and Ryker.

Soap and Ryker use to do everything together, fishing, camping, going to sports games, but once Ryker reached High School that all went out the window and Ryker became a fuckboy.

Soap wonders how it happened. If he's hanging out with the wrong group of friends, but Soap met all his friends and they all seem pretty cool, none are disrespectful and respect both Soap and Y/n.

Soap fixed himself some coffee and walked to the front door seeing the newspaper at the front door. Soap doesn't know why they still get the newspaper, he has TV and a phone that gives him the News.

"I'm heading out!" Ryker says, basically pushing passed Soap, almost making Soap spill his coffee.

"RYKER!" Soap yells, and Soap watched Ryker walk halfway down the driveway. Soap puts his arms in the air and walks back inside the house.

----------

Ryker walks to his friends house opening the door and walking inside.

"RYKER'S HERE!!" Ryker announces himself to his friends, who all yell and Ryker plops himself on the couch as his friend Zion passed him a joint.

"How was Kenzie?"

"Dude, didn't even get to finish because of my old man."

"Really!?"

"Hell yeah, dude," Ryker talked shit about Soap, Ryker didn't care.

"But didn't she feel good though?"

"Oh fuck yeah dude. I was all over that shit, but again, I didn't even fucking finish because of my dickhead of a father."

---------

1:00PM

Soap yawns and looks at the TV it was noon and Ryker was still at Zion's as far as Soap knew at least. The front door opened revealing Ryker. He places his bag by the front door and walks in.

"You reek of weed," Soap says.

"What you going to tell mom?" Ryker snickers.

"Ryker. I don't fucking know what has gotten into you, but you are not the son I fucking raised."

"Yes, it fucking is," Ryker says.

"I didn't raise you, to drink and smoke at a young age, I didn't teach you to have sex at 16, are you even protecting yourself? I don't know because you are not talking to me...you use to tell me...everything, Ryker...what the fuck happened?"

"I grew up," Ryker says before walking upstairs to his bedroom and Soap hears the bedroom door slam shut.

----------

3:16PM

Soap places his head in his hands and he hears the front door open.

"I'm home!" Y/n says. Soap lifts his head up and Y/n made eye contact with a red eyed Soap. "Soap? What's wrong?" Y/n drops everything and walks to him, taking his head and holding him closer to her chest.

"I feel like I failed as a father...I failed my son...I failed you."

"You didn't fail me or Ryker."

"Angel, you don't understand."

"What do I not understand?" She asked him, looking down at him.

"I raised my son to be respectful to anyone and everyone...and he turned into a fuckboy...and he's disrespectful to us...what did I do wrong?"

"You did nothing wrong, John. You did your absolute best as a father...he's...he's just hitting a phase where if he's disrespectful he'll get friends, he's still your little boy."

"He's not a baby anymore, angel...he's a teenager..."

Only if Soap knew that Ryker heard everything. Ryker was around the corner before heading to the living room, he stops when hearing Soap's breaking voice and his moms soft voice trying to comfort him.

-----------

5:00PM

"Mom...do you want help with dinner?" Ryker had come downstairs seeing his mom get ready for dinner.

"If you want to peel the potatoes. Your father usually does it for me."

"Where's he?"

"Bed, he's taking a nap...he's a little stressed right now," she says. Ryker has a feeling on why he may be stressed.

"Dad's pissed at me."

"Ryker-"

"I know, I'm sorry."

"No...your father told me what's going on...why are you doing this?"

"I don't know, mom...it was like a switch when I stepped in High School. Guess it was all those Disney shows that show when you're in High School you have to be a badass to get by."

"Be serious, Ryker..."

"I don't know, mom."

"Where you afraid you might not be liked?" Ryker just shrugs. "Your father has done so much for you and I, I hope you know that."

"I do, mom...I know..." Ryker placed all the peeled potatoes on a napkin and moved them to the stove and plopped them in a boiling pot.

Ryker watched his mom make dinner and he leans on the counter rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry for keeping you both up last night."

"It's okay, Ryker." She smiles at her son and kissed his temple.

"Mom, I'm too old for kisses."

"You will love my kisses rather you like them or not," she starts kissing all over his face making him laugh and her laugh as well. Soap watched from a distance as Ryker was smiling, a smile he hasn't seen in a long time.

Soap steps closer to Y/n and his son. Y/n smiles up at Soap and kissed his lips before he looks at Ryker and rubs his fluffy hair.

"I'm sorry."

"I know, you are."

"You McTavish boys are so emotional," Y/n jokes.

"Whatever," John then attacks Y/n with kisses. Ryker watched as his parents showed their love to each other.

---------

Next Day (12:00PM)

Zion: *Yo, you coming over? Lily, Avery, and Winter are coming over, you wanna round?* *Hello?* *Dude?* *Earth* *To* *Ryker?*

Ryker hears his phone blowing up by Zion. Ryker looks at the messages and turns his phone to 'Do Not Disturb' him and Soap were at the lake. Do a long do fishing trip.

"This is nice," Soap says.

"Oh yeah," Ryker says.

"This is fun...later do you want food?" Soap asked.

"Yep," Ryker says popping the 'p'.

"We'll see what you mom wants after this."

"Okay."

#cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #fandom #fanfic #call of duty #mw2 #cod #john soap mctavish x you #john soap mctavish x reader #soap mactavish #soap x you #soap x reader #soap call of duty #soap cod #soap mw2 #john soap mactavish

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sc0tters · 1 year

Text

Birthday Do Over | Quinn Hughes

summary: it’s Quinn’s birthday and you can’t help but fuel your need to see him.

request: yes/no

warnings: swearing?

word count: 1.53k

authors note: I wasn’t going to write this but when the request came in and it being Quinn’s birthday the opportunity was too great to pass up. Kaylin if you see that I used your answers to my cake questions, surprise? This piece is a lot of flashbacks people so pay attention to the regular italics!

You knew you shouldn’t have been doing this.

But as the three red bulls in your system kept you up you couldn’t help it as you stood in the kitchen baking.

October 14th, Quinn’s birthday and his first since you two were no longer talking.

Surely you should have been fine staying at home enjoying the comfort of your bed but instead you were in the bakery.

Quinn watched you start your dream as you bought the bakery but he never got to watch you fully live out the dream as you two broke up before it opened.

So the cake you made was from your memories of what he liked eating at late hours of the night in your apartment.

Bowls of different icing flavours were in a line “why can’t I try it yet? Quinn complained watching your hand swat his away “because I’m not ready so you need to wait.” You explained in a duh tone.

Over the last week you had been building a menu that had each of your favourite flavours that you had made throughout the years, as well as some new ones and those were what he was meant to try.

Quinn let out a huff causing you to smile “shut your eyes.” You brought your spoon into one of the bowls as the boy listened to you.

His eyes screwed shut as his mouth hung open “let me know what you think of when you taste this.” The spoon dropped a bit of icing onto his tongue causing him to close his mouth.

The sweet flavours melted into his tongue as he moved his arms getting excited “that was delicious.” Quinn announced as he opened his eyes to look at you again.

It made you laugh “that isn’t a flavour,” you shook your head as you sent him a look waiting for an answer “give me a hint baby.” The hockey player pouted as he reached over the counter to bring you to him.

His hands wrapped around your waist as you stood between his legs “it’s this one.” You brought the bowl to his nose but he still couldn’t get it “it’s my take on cream cheese-” the gasp Quinn let out made him sound like a child who just learnt Santa wasn’t real.

You smiled shaking your head “it was cheese!” The American grabbed a spoon again so that he could taste it again.

It was clear that the dials in his brain were turning as he came to terms with it “you make cheese good.” His words made you laugh “you give me too much credit.” You corrected him placing the bowl back on the table.

Quinn brought his hands from your waist to your jaw “don’t think I give you enough at all.” He mumbled running his hand over that bone as you leaned down to kiss him.

Both of you got sucked into it as the world felt like it stopped around you.

But it didn’t and the smoke alarm started going off “shit!” You groaned quickly pulling away from him.

As you whipped your icing you smiled remembering that night in the apartment that you now moved out of with the extra cash you had been making you were able to use to get more space.

It was another reminder of a milestone that Quinn missed yet still it wasn’t out of his own choice.

Part of you should have felt sorry for his neighbours as you two argued for what felt like the twentieth day in a row.

Your hand raked through your messy hair as you tried to remain calm “maybe I should go.” You shrugged avoiding Quinn’s irritated scoff “you always leave when things get fucking tough y/n!” He complained totally unaware of how much smaller you got in that moment.

If you chewed at your cheek any harder you would have drawn blood “look Quinn I love you.” You blurted out as you dug your nails into your palm “but this isn’t working anymore.” The hockey player was your world, that’s what happens when you date someone for three years.

But the reality that the arguments were now outweighing the normal conversations that you two had was weighing on you and the t was no longer at a point where you could act like it wasn’t around anymore “what are you trying to say?” The American knew what you were trying to say but he prayed that this was one time that he was so wrong.

Tears formed in your eyes “this is goodbye Q,” you frowned walking over to him as you pressed your lips against his cheek.

Before Quinn could process that you had left him the door to his apartment shut with a slam.

You were gone.

The final touches always scared you the most. It was like the moments when you screwed here were the ones where you wanted to cry.

Which was why you did a happy dance as Quinn’s birthday message was written out perfectly “perfect!” You smiled placing the piping bag on the table.

Below you sat absolute cake of his dreams, the red velvet cake and cream cheese frosting were complimented by the blue, green and white icing colours that you used.

The gold edible topper balls were for how you saw Quinn. Your shining star that could guide you anywhere.

If you had to find Quinn as a cake you would be looking right at it.

The boy grew impatient as he watched you work “this is an art Quinn.” You explained joy giving him the chance to complain “you put too much pressure on yourself.” You had been tasked with making a cake for Luke’s birthday and you weren’t going to screw this up.

You sent him a look trying to tell him to shut up “I’m trying to make this perfect.” You spoke in a duh tone as you were working on making the icing the perfect shade of red “you could give Luke cake batter and he’d love you.” Quinn’s voice made you laugh as you shook your head.

Luke was definitely the easiest man to impress.

You prayed that Quinn still lived in the same apartment that he was in before the summer. Fears that someone new occupied his home were greater than the ones you held about the ideas of him moving on.

As the sun had barely came over Vancouver you were just grateful that the doorman of the building recognised you because you would have been waiting for hours without him.

It was quiet in the building though as once you stepped into the elevator you hadn’t seen another person. Which is why you thought you were successful in getting to Quinn’s front door unnoticed.

But of course the universe wasn’t going to make your life that straight forward so as you placed the box on his doormat a laugh let you know that you were no longer alone.

Quinn leaned against the wall as he pulled his headphones out of his ears “you’re up early.” He smirked remembering how he could never get you out of bed early.

His bed was warm, and that was your excuse “Quinn!” You groaned reaching out to feel him no longer there “yeah baby?” He smiled seeing your eyes barely open.

Your pout was clear “come back to bed.” You tapped his side of the mattress “I’ve got to get to the rink.” The hockey player sat on your bed next to you as you let your head rest on your pillow once more.

He watched as your breathing slowed once more signalling that you were asleep “I’ll see you soon love.” The boy leaned over to press a kiss to your temple before he quietly tucked you into the duvet letting you bask in the comfort of his beds warmth.

You awkwardly picked the box up “I came to drop this off for you.” You explained turning to show him what you were holding.

Being a hockey player a cake wasn’t something you got in the middle of the season “thank you y/n.” He smiled seeing your cheeks turn red “I should get going.” You sucked at your teeth as you sent him a nod trying to move past him.

Quinn knew that he couldn’t let you leave again “wait,” the hockey player sighed feeling his shoulders grow lighter.

Your nod made him smile “you want to come inside?” Quinn’s offer made him feel nervous as you stayed quiet “I won’t be able to eat this cake by myself and if I get Brock over I won’t get any-” he began to ramble before you cut him off.

The giggle you let out made him go quiet “you know I’ll never say no to cake.” Your confession made him nod as he opened his door “it’s about time we caught up.” The door shut behind you both but this time it wasn’t the end of a chapter.

No this was the start of your second chance, the redo if you will. And this time you two were going to make sure that you didn’t screw it up.

This time was going to count.

#quinn hughes oneshot #Quinn Hughes imagines #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x y/n #oneshots #imagines #hockey imagines #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #nhl oneshot #amber writes fics

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saintmurd0ck · 1 year

Text

all up in smoke

masterlist

pairing: frank castle x f!reader

summary: based on the prompt: 'sit on my lap and let's smoke a joint'

warnings: alcohol, weed (rolling a joint, smoking, shotgunning), frank being a cute little whore, heavy petting/teasing but no sex, high epiphanies (mostly fluff!)

a/n: happy late birthday to the ever lovely @chelseasdagger , this one is for you babeyyyyy 💗

Home is a solace on your lips as you step inside, your keys joining the others in the bowl by the front door. Despite the events of your day, still fresh in your mind, you feel the knotted tension in your body begin to dissipate, the pressure easing in your temples. The few lights that have been left on are dimmed, filling the house with the kind of ambient coziness you’ve been longing for all day.

You round the corner, and there he is on the couch: feet kicked up on the coffee table, immersed in a hardcover book you swore he’d never touch. A pang of emotion stirs in your stomach — a cross between yearning and consolation; something you just can’t place, but are grateful for nevertheless.

“Hi, Frankie,” you smile, drawing the curtains open, letting the cool night air filter into the living room.

He lifts an eyebrow, glancing up at you from behind the book. “Hey, sweetheart. Long day?”

You stretch your arms over your head, nevermind that his voice stirs something in you, and set your bag up on the kitchen counter. “Mmhm. Glad to be home.”

Frank leans forwards, fingers closing around the drink he’s left on the coffee table. His eyes flick to yours as he takes a sip, caring not to break contact, before jerking his chin at the bottle of scotch next to your bag. “You want some of that?”

He points at you, clicking his tongue as you move to pick the bottle up. “Don’t move. Stay right there.” Setting his book aside, the pages splayed face-down onto the table, he makes his way over, utterly impervious to your flurried attempts in getting him to remain where he is.

“D’ya really think I’d let you pour your own drink?” Frank says, looking affronted, but a furtive smile spreads along his face as you shake your head.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let me take care of ‘ya,” he adds, delicately.

Carting you gently to the side, he digs around in the freezer, reaching for a couple of ice cubes that clink mellifluously in the glass. You watch intently as they bob in line with the whiskey streaming in, and then as he inspects the amber liquid closely, as if to examine its quality.

When he’s satisfied, he turns to you, and raises the rim of the glass to your mouth. “Here,” Frank murmurs, condensation collecting around his fingertips. “Drink up.”

You shudder as the whiskey cascades hotly through your veins — each note of pepper, caramel and nutmeg lingering on the surface of your tongue like molten honey. You swallow another mouthful before pushing the glass away, not taking your eyes off of him for a second as he sets it down.

Frank runs his tongue over his teeth, raking his eyes across your face. He focuses on a stray drop of whiskey at the corner of your mouth, using a knuckle to brush it away. Your heart thunders at his calloused touch; as he pauses to swipe his broad thumb over your bottom lip. There’s a faint throbbing within you — a wild drumbeat steering you towards nothing but desire — so you flick your tongue out, circling his fingertip, relishing in his taste of salt, earth and whiskey.

He lets out a soft groan, mumbling something that sounds like your name; maybe even a plea to slow down. You’re attentive, knowing he doesn’t want this night over yet, that he wants to wait before taking you to bed.

It’s a good thing then, that you have something planned.

You inch forwards, swallowing as Frank’s hand sweeps over the contours of your face, coming to rest at a spot near your ear. He tips your chin upwards, letting his ragged breathing fan over you. He stalls, allowing his dark eyes to bore into yours, and for a moment you forget where you are, the stressors of the day long gone.

All you know is him.

His beard prickles your skin as he captures your mouth with his own, but you lean into the kiss, savouring his ardent warmth. He moves with you, deepening the kiss as you slide a hand into his hair, curling your fingers at the nape. Your thighs squeeze together as he pivots you around, pushing you against the counter while his tongue melts against yours. Using his leg to knock your knees apart, you arch into his touch, gasping as the bulge in his jeans settles where you need him the most.

You won’t be able to stop if you don’t pull away now.

“Frank,” you whisper. “Frank.”

He looks at you, placing a small kiss to your jaw. “Mm?”

“Before… uh,” you start, lightheaded and fuzzy, unable to comprehend anything but the heady weight of the whiskey and the ache between your legs. “I've got something for us. A little surprise. And I think,” you indicate, wagging a finger from him to you, “we should save this for later.”

He arches his eyebrows, smiling inquisitively. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

You step aside to rummage through your bag, taking only a few seconds for you to find what it is you’re looking for. You hold up a clear plastic container, giving it a little shake in front of Frank’s face. His eyes widen in comprehension.

“God, I love you.”

“Hey,” you smirk, “not God. Just me.”

He chokes on his own laughter, draining the last of your whiskey. “You got it, sweet girl.”

You bite down on your growing smile. “Anyway, I was thinking the plan could go something like… get a little high, have some fun. You know what I mean, right?”

“S’that right?”

“We both deserve it.”

“You need some help with that?” he asks, pointing at the rolling papers you’ve set down on the counter.

“Nope. Walk away.”

You’re an image of rapt focus with your tongue between your teeth, cautiously grinding the weed before packing it into the rolling paper. You slip a filter on one end of the joint, and using your thumb and forefingers, you roll it into place. Bringing the free edge of rolling paper up to your mouth, you skirt your tongue along the narrow strip of glue, quickly moving to seal the joint.

You shoot Frank a resolute look of determination. “Not bad, huh?”

He folds his arms over his chest, leaning back into the couch. Almost hidden in the tangle of his beard, the corners of his mouth tick upwards. You can’t quite tell if he’s astonished, impressed, or a mixture of everything in between, but the expression on his face is a priceless ego boost. “Attagirl.”

“Mmhm,” you reply drily, admiring your handiwork from up close.

“Baby?” Frank calls, breaking your tethered focus. A glimmer of a smile in your periphery catches your eye.

“Yeah?”

There’s a sound of rustling fabric as Frank spreads his legs, motioning you over to him by patting his thigh. “C’mere.”

Your gaze softens at his request. “That sounds good, Frankie. Let me grab my lighter.”

“Got it right here,” Frank chuckles, holding it up and thumbing it open.

Twirling the joint in your fingers, you meander over to his spot on the couch, watching the tiny orange flame dance in his eyes as he holds down the lighter button.

He’s a solid comfort under you as you sit down on his lap, shuffling back until the side of your body is angled to his chest, using the armrest as additional support. His scent is a blissful, pacifying force – distilling in you where it matters.

Frank wrests the joint from your grip, assiduous in the way he places it between your lips, then as he lights it for you. The lit end glows as the papered edges begin to burn, flickering in its reflection in the window ahead. You take a drag, letting the smoke fill your mouth before inhaling it into your lungs. Maybe it’s in your head, but your body feels lighter already; even more so as you exhale.

The grey-tinged smoke remains opaque for only a second, vanishing into the air as soon as you pass the joint to Frank. You breathe out again, more deeply this time, allowing the grassy, herbal scent of the weed wash over you in waves of tranquil calm.

You cock your head to the side, studying the normally terse man before you leisurely smoking the joint, taking two drags instead of one. Gratitude forms a lump in your throat — nights like these are rare, and to see him so carefree, his mind unoccupied by the workings of the larger world, is a luxury you’ll never get tired of.

After tapping the gathering ashes into his empty whiskey glass, Frank hands the joint back to you, closing his eyes while he waits for your next pass. As the weed-induced euphoria starts to take effect, you wrench one of Frank’s hands from its spot on your thigh, interlacing your fingers together. You take your time in mapping his knuckles, tracing over every crease, scar and perfect imperfection.

You tap on Frank’s shoulder, wanting him as a credible witness for a successful smoke ring, but like all your past attempts, it morphs back into a cloud, hanging there in contempt.

He laughs softly, putting you right to shame with a series of flawless rings that fall forwards in an arc towards the coffee table.

You giggle, jabbing him in the chest with an expertly-placed elbow. “Don’t get too cocky now, Castle.”

His mouth quirks to the side. “Yeah? What are you gonna do, hm?”

“I’ll…” you search around the room for something to say. “I’ll withhold sex!”

He gasps, feigning an expression of outrageous offense. “That’s cruel, darlin’.”

Laughing, you reassure him you wouldn’t, really, but he takes the opportunity to soar through the cracks of your defense, hauling you backwards until his face is flush with the shell of your ear. “Really think you could resist it? Not havin' sex?”

The retorts crumble away as he tells you to ‘open up, sweetheart’, lifting the joint back to his lips. He breathes in deeply, turning his head to then exhale the smoke into your parted mouth. Your eyes roll back as he seals it with a kiss, and it catches you a little by surprise, but you run with it, inhaling as much as you can.

Not quite ready to let go of your earlier comments, Frank does it again, shotgunning into your mouth until you're left with nothing but a dreamy expression and no thoughts left in your mind.

You let out a contented sigh as the weed goes to your head, absentmindedly rubbing the spot where his beard scratched your lip.

Eyes drooping, Frank wraps his arms tightly around you, holding you as close as he can, trailing kisses along your shoulder blades, down your arm, whispering sweet nothings and notes of ‘I love you’ until you slacken in his grip. You touch your lips to his forehead, now resting in the crook of your neck, his steady breathing keeping you anchored to your reality.

The next hour passes by in a haze — you’re mildly aware that there was another joint rolled in that time, courtesy of Frank, probably, but your memory retains the best parts: the giddy, high epiphanies, the smoke-filled kisses, the long-drawn-out touches… the fact that his skin has never felt so soft.

Exceptionally and utterly stoned, you move, draping your legs over his lap, clinging onto his neck so you can bury your face in his shirt – so spaced out that you barely register him talking.

“...Who the fuck is “Drake” anyway?”

“What?!” you sputter, snickering as if it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. “He’s a rapper, Frankie.”

“He’s off limits, so don’t even try” — you stumble over your words — “enacting your justice or… whatever.”

Frank frowns at you, pressing his lips into a thin line.

And then he bursts into laughter. Unequivocal, heaving sobs of hysterical laughter. And it might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Enacting my justice? That what you think it is?” he howls, bringing his fist down onto the couch. “You really think I’ve got nothin’ better to do than hunt down rappers?!”

“A little bit,” you sniffle, wiping away the tears of joy streaming down your face. “You know who’d love this conversation?”

He shakes his head as you continue. “Micro.”

“Micro,” he nods, affirming your point. “Bet he’d know more about “Drake” than me.”

You chortle at his aggressive hand gestures. “You don’t need air-quotations every time you say Drake, you know.”

He waves a hand in the air. “Ahh, I know.”

“Frank Castle,” you say, kissing his cheek once, then twice, “I think this is the wisest you’ve ever been.”

“Oh, c’mon. Really?”

You gesture at the stub of your second joint, floating in the bottom of his whiskey glass. “Yep. You might have to do this more.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

“Better me than what’s out there. Right, Frank?” you croon, batting your eyes at him.

“S’right, darlin’. That’s right.”

tags {x} @darlingshane @castlesnchurches @reborn-rekall @marvelswh0re @itwasthereaminuteago @simple-lovebot @chvoswxtch @pedrito-friskito @chellestrash @theradioactivespidergwen @twilightbarnes @splendiferous-bitch @bl4ckpr1ncess @kaybeeboop @kdogreads @swearwolf13 @rqgnarok @qu1etwolf @honeyedheartss @runa-falls @whistle1whistle @awkwardalie

#frank castle x reader #frank castle #frank castle smut #frank castle fluff #frank castle fanfic #the punisher #the punisher x reader #the punisher fanfic #frank castle fanfiction #x reader #rhi writes 💻#tw weed #cw drugs

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answer2jeff · 8 months

Text

not a lot, just forever.

carmen's opening up, but he wishes you'd do the same.

warnings: fluff + angst. fem!reader who is also a big reader (mostly poetry) and occasionally journals. unestablished relationship (friends to lovers, mutual pinning.) very touchy-feely. writing is overly detailed and so painfully poetic you might vomit.

word count : 2.4k

hey. i think i left my book at ur place. 11:15pm.

sorry, just got home. i can bring it over now 11:36pm.

oh yeah that'd be great! thank you. (sorry for the inconvenience) 11:38pm.

no worries 11:41pm.

lmk when ur here. xx 11:45pm.

Carmen had some idea of what that meant: xx. He knew what it meant when girls signed notes with xoxo in replacement of red kiss marks and strokes of long acrylic nails through their secret lovers hair—not that he ever received one, no. But your occasional visits practically felt just as intoxicating. If the order was x-o-x-o, and the worded statement being hugs-and-kisses, then xx must've been hugs, right? Two hugs. Like the one you shared the first time you met at Natalie's baby shower. He smelled like authentic Italian cologne with a hint of cigarette smoke diluted by dish soap and warm water. His grasp was hesitant, but ever-all-consuming once his shoulders relaxed. It was like metamorphosis. The way he wrapped his arms underneath while you tossed yours up around his neck, his gold chain feeling cold and hard against your skin, unlike the rest of him.

He was an under-hugger. He kept the ones he cared for unsuspectingly close to him. Such physical touch felt familiar. Maybe you'd just remembered stories and inside jokes about him through Natalie so well his tenderness and anxious nature was fitting to the idea of him you had in your head.

That was almost 6 months ago. And surprisingly, you'd become pretty good friends. Not that either of you really did friends at your age...but somehow it worked. You'd come to realize that he was so much kinder than anyone painted him out to be. And yet, you never really talked about yourselves.

Not in a way that really mattered, anyway.

The articles you'd written, the interviews you conducted with snobby assholes, the dozens of freelancing jobs with horrific schedules you had before, what you loved about writing and what you hated about the world around you—those were topics of discussion. Carmen's favorite restaurants he ever expanded his career with, the odd relationship he had with his sister that flipped like a rusty switch after highschool, candle scents he loved and bought over and over again despite their poor quality wicks, the first time he got drunk and how he swore he'd never let another drop of alcohol touch his tongue—those were normal methods of late night conversations.

But what about your dream to publish a novel? Or the memoir you read that completely changed your views on love as a whole. What about Carmen's uncle being his only friend his entire life? Oh, how he would've become a starving, broken artist if he ever believed he had enough talent for it. Hell, what about the girl you met in middle school who mysteriously moved away and shared all her secrets on the true meaning of life, death, and everything in between? Why didn't you ever talk about those things? Maybe it was too close, too personal. If he knew you too well, maybe he'd see you as you saw yourself.

Carmen had been thinking about those colored pencils you bought him for his birthday and can't get himself to tell you he uses them every day. Not just to illustrate his dishes...but you, sometimes. Your hair, your smile. He used that photo you begged him to snap of you staring out your window melodramatically with a bowl of pasta carbonara and a glass of bubbling champagne in front of you as reference. How could he ever show you the endless amount of pages containing the essence of your existence in that goddamn sketch book?

Questions. Questions. Questions.

Thoughts of potential ate away at your patience with every pacing step you took around your bedroom.

Answers. Answers. Answers.

—

"Do people even have deep conversations over pasta and wine anymore?" You trace the pad of your middle finger against the rim of your glass, your elbow propped up on the counter so your chin can rest in your hand.

Carmen draws his eyebrows together, the little crinkle in his forehead showing. You glance up at it and struggle to stifle a growing smile. He cocks his head before barring his bottom lip behind his teeth, picking at the skin with the tips of his fingers. That signature pose; where his left arm is crossed against his chest and his hand holds the elbow of his right arm. It's a habit you almost immediately picked up on. It told you time and time again that he was nervous.

Thinking. Contemplating.

"Is that, like—" he breaths a chuckle, but it comes out more as an accidental huff than anything. Smug bastard, he is. Especially when he drags his gold chain across his neck as it loops around the finger that once picked at the dry skin of his mouth.

"Your way of..asking me for a deep conversation over wine and pasta?"

Ah. He's called you out. The one thing he couldn't shake was his annoyance when you were so completely and utterly vague about your wants, your needs, your desires. Hell, Carmen Berzatto would wrap a lasso around the moon, or any planet you put your claim on, and drag it down so it could be yours and only yours. Only if it meant you'd stop feeling so complacent. You knew this. At least to some extent. His little favors buttered you up until you a mushy mess of adoration. What really scratched at your urges and your patience was how blissfully unaware he was of his show of affection toward you. Part of you feared that if you ever told him how much it caressed that bruised, fruit fly infested, rotted spot of your heart so gently it felt like a kiss, despite the sting, he'd stop.

"Y'know what? Yeah. I'm asking."

You shrug your shoulders and stare down at your nearly finished bowl of penne with vodka sauce. Stabbing a stack of pasta onto your fork and the clinking sound of the metal banging against the ceramic bowl seemed to fill the silence before Carmen finally spoke again, though with much hesitation.

"Okay," he barely whispers, nodding his head and fumbling to take a seat in the barstool underneath the counter. Sitting across from you gives him the constant justification to just look at you.

Starting off this session with a question was quite a kicker.

"Y'know Sade Zabala? Author of that book you brought back for me."

Carmen blinks slowly. He pretends to dig deep in his memory to identify the name, wondering if you'd ever mentioned her. But he fails, pulling his lips taught, so as to say 'I've got nothin.' The sound of your dramatic sigh and the 'tsk' sound of your lips separating makes his palms sweat.

"She's a wonderful writer. A poet. I mean, really, her book Coffee and Cigarettes was one of the most gut-wrenchingly beautiful and altruistic collections of.. of love, pain, rejuvenation—all of it."

If he was completely honest, he doesn't have a clear image of what those words meant. But it doesn't seem to matter what comes out of your mouth or how you phrase it. Your use of specific language fascinates him. There is nothing else he can do in this moment but nod and allow the corners of his lips to curl into a smile strong enough to make the apples of his cheeks go pink.

"I'll tell you one line of one of the greatest poems she had ever written in that book. In the humble opinion of yours truly, of course."

"Sure," he assures you. "Of course, of course."

"Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway."

Saliva pools in your mouth as you speak the quote, the taste of every vowel washing down your throat as if you dedicate them to Carmen himself. Which, in bare and naked truth, you do. The only thing you could ever ask of Carmen was to let himself tear himself open with the hope and belief that you would crawl into his fears and convert them into profound discoveries. And the trust that you would not stitch him up with your own hands, but rather clasp your fists around the circumference of his wrists as he carefully closes the wound his trajectory of life has created.

"Wow." Carmen's eyes go another centimeter wider, the language still processing in his mind. He interprets it over and over again.

"I know. And—" you set your fork down so you can have complete focus as you recite your following question, "I was just wondering what you'd say if someone told you that, y'know? What would you tell them?"

Vulnerability, he thinks. Fuck.

"I mean...fuck that's—that's a good question. Um.." he chews on the flesh of his bottom lip once again, looking above at the warm glow of the light that hangs over your island counter as if he'll find the answer up there.

"I don't even like the good stuff about me, so. I'm not sure how to, like, articulate that? Is that the word?"

Now the quickening pace has started.

"And what do you think the good stuff about you is?"

Probing questions like this are somewhat too-close-for-comfort inquiries for friends. But Carmen would be stupid to mind it. He relishes in it, actually. With much guilt. But it's tainted with the secret pleasure of being cared for by someone he so deeply valued the opinions and thoughts of.

Since the first day you met, Carmen knew he would never go to anyone else for some piece of mind. For some sanity. Or even just for someone to explain the method to his madness. You understood it—what he believed.

"I care a lot, I think. But that's not always practical. It hardly ever is now that I think about it."

"You do. You care so much." You soften your tone, hesitantly reaching for Carmen's tattooed hand that rests on the cold marble counter.

"Sometimes it freaks me out."

"Like, this whole thing, the—the restaurant, where my life is right now, it makes me crazy. But it also keeps me..."

"Human," you finish.

"Yeah, human."

Though it takes him a couple seconds for his digits to not second guess themselves, he gently takes your hand in his. The slow pace in which he intertwines his fingers with yours is enough to kill you.

"Can I tell you something?" Carmen asks.

"Anything."

"You take good care of me. Of everyone, really." . His thumb gently rubs your warm skin, the rough and calloused mounds over his fingerprints soothing you. A deep breath moves in and out from his lungs as he meets your eyes again. This time, he won't look away.

"It's like you were made to just be good."

You smile, but you're not convinced you're certain on what he means. "Thank you, Carm. But—good?"

"I don't know. You're warm. I'm—I'm not like that. I'm not warm."

This, this is where truths as bare as untraveled paws of loyal dogs that roamed the streets in search of security uncover themselves.

"What? Of course you are." You lean forward, feeling your heart pound so hard it could leap out of your body.

"I don't think I am."

To think—no, to know that Carmen Berzatto cannot share at least one feature of his layered soul he genuinely likes. God, that pains you. You could write a million sonnets listing every little thing you adored about your friend.

"Carmen, you—" you sigh, your head dropping for a fraction of a second. "You have such a big heart. You're not cold or...or out of reach, or anything like that, okay?"

Even with Carmen's tendency for rage and his tattoos that displayed yet another callback to his culinary career—his way of speaking: so gentle and unsupported, you're certain that he is something so much greater than just a chef. He took care of people too. His staff, his clientele, his family—of you. Whether it was home cooked meals when you were sick, or when you needed to complain about Natalie. Carmen listened. Not as her brother, but as your friend. You don't really remember when you started to regularly see each other during his leisure. Either at the restaurant, or a coffee shop next door to your complex, and eventually his living room.

"This is so fucking selfish, but—"

No, Carmen. You could never be selfish.

But you let him be hungry. You want him to be hungry. Starving for reassurance. Because you'll feed him until the empty space in his existence is filled.

"I just wish you'd look after yourself the way you take care of me. Like, fuck, hearing you look at yourself and point out all this shit that nobody notices—which I wish they fucking would—because I notice them and I still love those things about you is..."

Oh, what a beautiful mind you've always had. He'll always store all the love you can't have for yourself in his own heart. Your wit, your intelligence, your smile, even down to the way you have to readjust the grip of your fountain pen as you inscribe your thoughts into your journal

"Wrong." He completed his thought with just one word. "I don't like it. It makes me sad," he says again.

That breaks you. So much that a tear sure to be followed by many more wells up in your waterline. The glisten of the salty liquid in your eyes startles the wonderful man across you. You can see the immediate guilt in his face, his blue eyes filled with concern and regret. But you shake your head, holding onto his forearm as he raises his hand to your cheek to catch the falling tear. Fuck being friends. Fuck small talk. Fuck jokes and laughs and cigarettes and poor communication that just ended in silence.

This was here and now. There was no going back.

With that, you cupped Carmen's own cheek, leaning closer and closer to his lips before he desperately kissed you. His free hand anchored itself on your shoulder blade while yours crawled to the back of his head to burry itself in his golden curls. Your taste was everything. Salty with pasta with a sweet aftertaste that echoed from your fruity lip balm, followed by a final twinge of bitterness from your glass of red wine. He tasted of comfort, of acceptance, something you'd never felt against your tastebuds from the previous years of the dating pool. With every separation of your lips to swallow gasps of air, the further the two of you hovered over the counter in a needy attempt to get closer.

You didn't need answers. Not a lot from him either. Just him. Forever.

tags: @lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber @sexyyounglatinoboy @febris-amatoria @diorrfairy

#carmen berzatto #the bear #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto fluff #carmen berzatto angst #carmen berzatto blurb #this took way too long #writers block is really killing me #im running out of ideas

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 1 year

Text

MORE Spider Society Headcanons

Halloween: Spiderween

First of all: DECORATIONS??????

The ENTIRE campus done up with jack-o'-lanterns and lights and smoke machines and COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF SPIDERWEBS for the Spooky vibes???!!!

Spider decorations EVERYWHERE. From October 1st.

There's a haunted house on campus - filled with volunteers AND REALLY REALLY good jumpscare holograms made by Lyla

The food court starts serving Halloween specific food. Like a Vampire Miguel Milkshake at McMiguels.

COSTUMES??!!! COSTUMES BUT OVER THE SUITS.

TRICK OR TREATING Some people stay home at their universe and people portal over for candy and they get to see a glimpse of your universe

Or you get to hop universe to universe dressed like a Spider-person dressed like a giraffe. And since it's Halloween, it's fine if a bunch of Spider-people are running around dressed ridiculous because so is everyone else on most Earth's, Miguel's like 'yeah sure okay'

BIG BONUS POINTS if they dress up like ANOTHER Spider-person but like... Still over the suit.

Like wearing the crappy costume Miles had over your actual suit and 'acting' like someone else.

And EVERY TIME you see someone dressed as you, or wearing the same costume -

You know what you must to do.

One year Hobie comes as Ben Reilly. All dressed up in punk but with a blue hoodie crop top to match . He spends the whole day wailing about the harrowing memories and crouching on ledges. Dramatically collapsing in people's arms

Is your Spidersona small? Imagine them dressed as Miguel. Walking around acting and irritated and fake angry and DOING THIS TO MIGUEL

Miguels like 'are you serious? Cut that out-'

"aRe yOu SeRiOuS?? cUt ThAt OuT'

(and Lyla's like 'oooo that was good. They sound JUST like you Migs')

Lyla being a very popular costume

A bunch of Spider-people wearing fur coats and heart glass and they just decide to spend the whole day being useless to Miguel.

Which LYLA ADORES SHE'S LOVES ATTENTION

They all lounge around on all the seats like her, some even in bob cut wigs, and they follow Miguel and trying to get selfies with him LMAO

The Lyla with the cutest or funniest Miguel selfie gets put in the Campus newspaper

MJs A POPULAR ONE TOO -

ALL the lazy Spider-people wanna throw a red party city wig over their suit and be like 'I'm MJ'. NO YOU'RE NOT.

Or some will even wear their MJ's clothes. Walking around calling everybody, Tiger. (Mayday gets the joke - they're supposed to be her mom - she thinks it's HILARIOUS and giggles the whole day)

Sidebar - can you image Gwen with a wig over her suit BUT LIKE under her hood??? SO SHE WOULDN'T LOOK BALD?? I'M SCREAMING AIRPOD LOOKING AHH

VILLAIN COSTUMES - Spider people dressed as Doc Ock over their suits, coming in with fish bowls on their head and going 'Look, I'm Mysterio!! Lol'

While the caged villains are looking at them like

('y'all mfers got a lotta nerve')

I bet some people get REALLY REALLY into it and go all out, designing everything to a T. (Like the perfectionist!pavitr)

Some friends even do joint costumes - WebSlinger makes a costume for Willow so they match. Hobie does all his costumes DIY and it's like the ONE thing on campus he participates in.

Because he loves the DIY spirit. And the chance to mock his bosses on company hours.

Goes ALL IN on him and Gwen's (he wants to match) costumes. Or maybe he doesn't participate cause-

What's even better is people 'Punkifying' their suit to be like Spider-punk is a popular costume too!!

They throw together their own vest and jeans and jewelry and boots. And follow Hobie around, hands in pockets, and they all act all cool and fake punk all day , Hobie hams up the act for the occasion

Hobie of course weaponizes this by annoying Miguel with his 'clones'.

Ten Hobies outside his office sturming untuned guitars REALLY badly and Hobies likes 'Keep it up you !! U sound great!!'

Miguel's office full of Hobies and Lylas, Last year Margo went as Jess and Jess was touched

Then there's some Spider-people that are broke as hell. But since they all have top tier humor they make the intentionally cheap or out of the closet costumes. that ends up being stupidly hilarious.

Like wearing boxes and drawing a Spider-suit on it. Boom - Lego Spider-man.

Sometimes people might wear their makeshift suit over their new suit. So like a Spider-person having this as their costume OVER their suit

And arguably the funniest of them all - having a really elaborate overdone homemade costume of a specific hero on campus, and everyone is like woah so cool have they seen you in it yet?

And you take off the costume mask... And it's just you... AS YOURSELF Like it's just the same mask underneath LIKE A HAT ON A HAT

THERE'S SO MANY POSSIBILITIES THIS JUST BRINGS ME JOY

But the ONLY TWO THINGS YOU CAN'T DRESS AS AT ALL-

Venom and Deadpool.

Venom is too risky. Deadpool is not allowed on campus and if THE REAL ONES seen they have to evacuate and deploy the capture team cause he gets too excited (you'd be surprised of what one man is capable of in the need of Spider-attention)

Anything else is fine though-

CAN YOU SEE IT ARE YOU SEEING SPIDERWEEN????? HUH

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from-the-clouds · 1 year

Text

texas sun - joel miller x f!reader - vol. ix

series masterlist | series playlist | writing masterlist | previous chapter |

chapter summary: “When you're born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it's not.” - Richard Kadrey, Aloha from Hell. But maybe it's about to be. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 5.0k chapter warnings: HEAVY ANGST. Panic attacks. Referenced death of a parent. References to abusive/neglectful parents. Complicated sibling/familial relationships. Alcohol consumption, smoking. As always please dm if you have questions. a/n: I know it's annoying, but the thing about me is that I’m never able to write compelling things if I don’t include complex family/sibling relationships. Like I’m so obsessed with putting them in everything, even my stupid little love stories. But it does serve a purpose, I promise. There is an important character in this chapter….just saying.

**ALSO! I got rid of my taglist. Please follow @ftcwriting and turn on notifs if you would like to be notified when I update my works :) **

-September 15, 2003-

Joel can sense that something is off with you the minute you get home from work.

For starters, your voice sounds a bit too syrupy-sweet when you come through your garage door, and chirp out ‘Hey!’ when you spot him sitting on the couch in your front room, your cat curled up on his lap.

Just ten minutes earlier, he’d let himself in, using the spare key you’d given him and Sarah. Your house felt vacant, dark, and shockingly quiet without you there, and so he’d turned on the lights, put on a record, and washed the plate, two mugs, and a bowl that were sitting in your sink.

Joel stirs, and Martini immediately jumps off his lap as though he’d personally offended him in some way. “Hey, darlin,” he stands, accepting your affectionate kiss on the cheek. “How was your day?”

When you pretend you don’t hear him, that’s the second thing that tips him off. You turn to hang your messenger bag over the hook in your front closet. And then you flex your fingers like you’re trying to stretch them out, cracking your knuckles one at a time with your thumbs, and rolling your shoulders back before heading into the kitchen and gesturing for him to follow.

“Do you…uh….do you want something?” you turn your head slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. “Let me get you something.”

He follows after you tentatively, remaining silent until he figures out what's going on. Martini, who was walking underfoot, scatters out of the way as your heels click over the tile and retreats to a safe distance alongside Joel, who pauses to lean against the threshold.

Even despite the clear tension in the room, he can’t help but check you out. Before, Joel wouldn’t say that he necessarily had a type, it still is a little shocking that he ended up with someone like you.

Before you speak again, you retrieve two lowball glasses out of your cabinet along with a bottle of his favorite whiskey, and pour two drinks, turning to offer him one. He accepts it cautiously, and you nod at him before taking a long pull of your drink.

“So uh,” you say. “There’s something I kind of need to talk to you about.”

You take another sip and then unbutton your blazer, shimmying out of it and tossing it over a barstool. Pushing the sleeves of your blouse up to your wrists, you cross your arms and chew on your bottom lip, like you are trying to decide how to break some sort of horrible news to him. Joel prepares for the worst. He racks his brain for anything he could’ve done or said recently that might have upset you, maybe even scared you off. But he’s coming up with nothing. What could he have done?

At this point, his parents even know about you, even if he hasn’t had the chance to introduce you. His mother tries, in her I’m-not-prying-but-I’m-definitely-prying type of way, to get more information out of him. She asks him questions like ‘Do you think she’s the one?’ and he doesn’t answer directly but it does make him think. He already knows you’re his one. He just wonders if he is yours.

It’s consistently been his fatal flaw. Joel falls hard, even when it’s not right. It’s how he has always been, and that’s how he ended up alone with Sarah in the first place. The very thought of you ending things makes him feel sick. He knows he’s in love with you, that he doesn’t want to look elsewhere. It’s becoming harder and harder to hold back. You’ve filled up all this space in his life that he didn’t even know existed. What is he going to do with it once you leave?

“What’s going on?” Joel asks, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as pinched as his throat feels.

“I should’ve told you this earlier,” you begin. “But….my dad has been sick the past few months.”

“Oh,” Joel says, but relaxes just a little, which feels a little selfish because it’s still unfortunate news. “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”

“It’s fine. I’m not really sure. Just…my brother called me today and apparently he’s taken a turn for the worse. The doctors…they think he doesn’t have that much time left. I…I need to go see him, I think. Before…” you don’t finish your sentence, you just shrug and look down.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” you say dismissively. “I actually booked a redeye that leaves tomorrow night. I wanted to make sure I could still take Sarah to the office with me for her career day and everything, so you don’t have to worry about that. So yeah.”

“Do you need to leave earlier?” He asks. “She can always come to work with me.”

“No, no…” you give a soft smile. “I made a commitment, and….I want her to see how boring my job really is.”

Joel wants to smile back at you, but he doesn’t. Because despite the jokes, when you meet his eyes for a second, they look so dull and desolate it feels like it’d be inappropriate.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” Joel sets his glass down just as you pick up yours for another hearty gulp before continuing. “I got my company to approve me working remotely for two weeks. I don’t think it will be that long, but…I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Joel reaches out and rests a hand on your own. “You should go be with your family. Sarah and I will be fine.”

“I know that. I just…I don’t really want to go,” you say. “But I’ll feel bad for the rest of my life if I don’t…and at the very least, I need to be there for my brother. He’s closer with my dad than I am.”

Bringing the glass back to your mouth, you take another sip – at this point, the drink is nearly gone. Joel steps behind you, because he can’t really hug you the way you are now, facing forward and bracing yourself on the countertop. “Come ‘ere,” he murmurs softly, pulling you back against his chest. For a second, you tense. It’s like you’re surprised, still, that all he wants to do is be gentle with you. Once you remember, he feels your body relax, and your head falls back to tuck under his chin, one of your hands clutches his arm that wraps across your collarbone. “I wish you could come with me,” you say.

“Me too,” Joel says against the top of your head. He knows he can’t. Not with Sarah, and not with work being the way it has been. Unfortunately, the excuse probably wouldn’t go over well with the guys there. Not that he cares that much what they think, but he can’t jump ship right now. “But I’d have to find someone to look after Sarah….maybe I could ask my parents.”

“No,” you shake your head. “No, no. I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine,” you insist. “Everything will be fine.”

“Well at the very least, do you need me to take you to the airport?”

“You’d endure rush hour traffic for me?” you tilt your head back to look up at him.

Joel laughs softly, leans down for a kiss. “That and more.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-September 17th, 2003-

The room you’re in is dark, but the lack of awareness of your surroundings seems to be the only thing keeping you from suffocating. You’re standing in your childhood bedroom, which doesn’t look much like it used to. It's a guest room now, but it never really felt like yours all the way, did it? You clutch at your stomach – you’ve been nauseous ever since your plane touched down at JFK – and reach towards your old dresser to steady yourself.

The vanity that had once been scattered with trinkets and trophies and photos of childhood memories was now vacant – pristine and polished. You wondered if the items had been thrown out, or dumped in a box somewhere in your old closet. It almost doesn’t matter – you aren’t interested in digging up any more memories. The feeling of your fathers hand clasped around your own had done enough.

You inhale deeply, bracing yourself against the glass top as you try not to throw up or pass out. For some reason, you had underestimated what you were walking into, and hadn’t expected your body to react so….viscerally. On the other side of the closed door, you hear your name, muffled from down the hall.

It’s hard to make out who it is, perhaps your stepmother, Meredith, or some other distant relative you hadn’t seen in years who had crawled out of the woodwork and now lingered in the apartment, hoping to get their piece. But you’ve locked yourself away. That’s what you had gotten so good at whilst living here. Hiding.

Until the door opens, and you squint against the light that floods the room to find the only person who has always known where to find you. Your brother.

“Hey. Ethan and Elizabeth are on their way up,” he says, then pauses. “Why are you standing in the dark?”

The lightswitch clicks, and the harsh ceiling lamp illuminates, starting the fan up with it and causing you to shiver. Vincent is frowning, standing halfway into the doorframe, his brows pinched.

You widen your eyes at him. Come on, don’t give me away yet. “Will you please turn that off?”

Vincent rolls his eyes, but obeys, switches on your desk lamp instead and closes the door behind him. “Are you okay?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know that you aren’t.

“It was a lot…being in there with him,” you look at the floor.

“Well, at least you know he still likes you. He’s not going to take you out of the will.”

It feels like a smack across the face, and your jaw drops. How could he be so oblivious to your pain, when he’s the only person in this house, in the world, maybe, who understands exactly how you are feeling right now. “Is that all you think I care about?”

“No, I-”

“I’m here because of you,” you say. “You wanted me here. So I came, and I shouldn’t have.”

“Oh come on,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“I wish I wasn’t here,” you continue on, despite his wishes. “I wish I didn’t have to wait my entire life to hear him say those things.”

Vincent’s expression shifts. He had been in the room. He had heard it. Your dad had been so….sweet. Gentle. Whispering praises even though his eyes were closed. You had expected, had wanted cruelty. This was somehow worse. Maybe he had known what you wanted all along, held it over your head, and waited only until the end of his life to give it to you. Even his admission of love was somehow malicious. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop you from regretting everything you’d done to get away from him.

Just outside the door is the flight of stairs that leads to your father’s room. And suddenly you aren’t an adult. You feel as helpless and as scared as you did when you were just a little girl – looking up at him, the view of his figure obscured by your brother’s shoulder.

“God, it’s so fucked up.” you choke out.

Vincent steps forward wordlessly, pulls you into a hug, and it’s only after you hear a quiet sob leave him that you let your own tears fall. There’s nothing either of you can say to fix the damage that has been done, so all you can do is cling to each other and cry.

“I know it’s fucked up,” he says. “I know. Maybe I should’ve….I could’ve done more.”

You pull back, relieved to see your tears didn’t ruin his cashmere sweater. “What could you have done?” you ask, dejectedly. “We were kids.”

Vincent doesn’t know how to answer that, but he wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and looks at the ground a moment before lifting his head. “We’ve got each other.”

But that’s hardly true anymore, and he knows it. You’ll always resent each other for different reasons – he had adapted to the circumstances, and you had left them. Neither strategy did anything to fix the damage.

You’re still weeping, but softer now, face wet with tears that fall everytime you blink. Swiping under your eyes, you sigh and attempt to compose yourself.

“Come on,” Vincent says. “Say hi to Ethan and Elizabeth. Dad is stable for the time being. We can take a walk or something. Get some fresh air.”

“Okay,” you agree. “I’ll be out in a second. I have to get my shit together.”

After he leaves, you check your makeup in the vanity, wiping away some smudged mascara before following him out. When you enter the front room, still sniffling, you pray that you don’t have a run-in with any other family members. But the only person you see besides Vincent is your sister-in-law coming through the door.

Elizabeth’s face is pinched in concentration as she tries to wrangle your nephew out of his coat. “What up, champ?” Vincent holds a hand out for a high five, just in time for her to free Ethan’s arms so he can reach towards his father, who stoops to accept his hug.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Elizabeth steps back and makes eye contact with you as you approach. In the past, you pitied her for the decision to marry into your family and then go on to have children with your brother. She was a little too good for him. But now, you feel like that was kind of a callous way of looking at things. You wonder if your brother would feel the same way about Joel for getting mixed up with you. Fortunately, Joel is still a well-kept secret.

“Hey, it’s good to see you,” Elizabeth says. “I’m so sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

“It’s alright,” you accept her hug and return her kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you, too.”

She looks down at her son. “Honey, do you remember your aunt?”

“Hey, Ethan,” you crouch alongside your brother, and he nods, but still side-steps closer to his dad and smiles over at you bashfully. “How are you doing?”

“Good.”

“Don’t be shy,” Vincent encourages, but your nephew doesn’t seem interested in your attempt at an embrace, so you let them drop by your side.

“It’s okay,” you stand up, feeling a fresh batch of tears threatening their way to your waterline. Ethan’s treating you like a stranger because you basically are one.

“You’ve met a lot of new people the last few days, haven't you?” Elizabeth asks, then looks over at you. “He might be a little overwhelmed. He’ll warm up.”

Vincent stands at the sight of you starting to cry. “I am going to take her to get some air,” your brother puts a hand on your shoulder, speaking about you as if you are not in the room with them. You feel so useless, you might as well not be.

“That sounds good,” Elizabeth says. “We can catch up later. I ought to say hello to Meredith.”

You both nod, stepping into the hallway.

The fresh air helps, even if you can’t go far from the apartment. You walk around the block in silence, which gives you a chance to compose yourself. It’s a surprisingly warm day, although it’s much colder in New York than it is in Austin this time of year. In early fall, the leaves have only just begun turning.

You’re about to turn the corner to the stretch of sidewalk that leads back home, when Vincent plops himself down on a bench without warning. He fishes through the front pocket of his jacket and retrieves a flask.

“Jesus, Vincent,” you mutter under your breath. “Right now?”

“Uhm, yeah,” he answers. When you scoff, he continues, rolling his eyes. “Oh, get off your high horse. It’s just a little.”

“Aren’t you sad?”

“Of course I’m fucking sad,” he defends. “But I go to therapy now, so….I’m better at processing.”

“Yeah?” you gesture towards the flask. “Is that what this is called?”

“No. But it is the only way I can deal with Meredith.”

“You’re insane,” you say, but can already feel your exasperation fading. In your absence, he’s been dealing with all this alone. “Give me that.” Reaching forward towards the flask, he jerks his hand away just before you make contact.

“I’m not sharing.”

You pout at him. Come on. He rolls his eyes and passes it over. “Fine.”

While you take a sip, he produces a pack of cigarettes and plucks one out of the carton. “You don’t smoke these anymore, do you?”

“Not really. But I still have not managed to kick the weed habit.”

“Well I’m jealous,” he says, lighting it. “Now that Elizabeth and Ethan live with me again, I really have had to get my shit together.”

I’m sure you’ll fuck it up soon enough, you’re primed to say, but even as a joke, you feel like it’s a little too mean. It’s okay to let this be a nice moment.

“You know, if you wanted,” he says. “You could stay here for a couple months. I can get you set up with a place in the city. It might be good to be home…after…” You do your best to ignore his reference to the inevitable storm that hangs over your heads.

Any other time, and the offer might tempt you. This is your home, always would be, and you will always feel called to it. If you came back, all your family and childhood friends would be here. And without your father, things may be different. But now you have other priorities. “I can’t do that,” you shake your head.

“Why not?” He asks. You sit down on the bench, swipe the pack of cigarettes from where they sit between you, and take one for yourself. “Didn’t you say you were approved to work remotely?”

“No, it’s not that,” you light the cigarette and take a pull, coughing when you inhale too deeply. It’s not a joint. “I actually….met someone.”

Vincent frowns like he doesn’t believe you. “Really?”

“Yeah….he’s actually my next door neighbor.”

“Oh, you managed to wrangle a fucking cowboy-”

“How many times have I told you? I don’t live on a farm. You know what? Nevermind,” you roll your eyes, shake your head. “Forget I mentioned it..”

“Relax, I’m joking. Always so emotional-”

“Emotional? Emotional?” you ask. “Remind me which one of us was the one who had to be sent to a-”

Vincent’s eyes roll back, and his head tilts with them. “Oh, here we go.”

“It’s not a joke to me,” you say, desperate to end the argument, and it actually works.

“So is this….serious?”

You shake your head. “I mean, I…I think I’m in love.” It’s not as insane to say out loud as you had expected.

“I didn’t think you cared about that sort of thing.”

“I didn’t either. But…I don’t know. It just sort of happened.”

“What’s his name?”

“Joel,” you say. “He’s got a daughter, Sarah…she’s sweet. So is he…hardworking, thoughtful, kind….” you trail off, and veer away from becoming too sincere. “In other words, he’d fucking hate you.”

“Yeah, you know I repel the honest type.”

“No,” you correct him. “I actually think you’d get along. And you’d like Sarah. She’s funny.”

“I’m sure you’re a great influence on her,” he quips, sarcastically.

“I’m good with kids. I’ve always been a good aunt to Ethan?” you insist. “....when he knows who I am, at least.”

Vincent chuckles. “He knows who you are, he’s just in a shy phase. That or I’ve already fucked him up.”

You’ve heard some variation of the same from Joel while talking about Sarah, and it makes you smile, just a little, and wonder how terrifying it must be to have a child of your own.

“You couldn’t,” you tease. “Elizabeth wouldn’t allow it.”

He nods as if you’ve made a good point. “So that’s it? You’re really never coming home?”

“I mean, never say never,” you say. “At the very least, I should probably visit more often. I could bring them sometime to meet everyone. We could try to be a normal family.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Only your brother could find a way to make you laugh even under such dire circumstances. For a while, you’re quiet, and then you speak up again. “Being in love….it’s fucking scary.”

“That’s part of it,” he says. You sigh, shake your head, and put out your cigarette. “I’m happy for you,” he says, after a while.

“Thanks,” you smile. “I’m happy for you, too.”

Despite the fact that your stomach still hurts, you’re sleep deprived from the flight, and your father is standing at death’s door, you are thankful for what feels like a huge step forward.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-September 19, 2003-

Joel’s hand stretches out to stop whatever thing is ringing in his ear at such an ungodly hour. His phone. He doesn’t even think, just answers it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers it might be important.

“Hello?” he grumbles.

“Hey,” He can tell instantly that something is wrong. “I’m sorry, did I wake you? I didn’t check the time.”

Joel looks at the clock. It’s six in the morning for you, and he’s never known you to be an early riser. He already knows what you’re going to tell him, but he asks anyway. “Yes but it’s alright. Are you okay?”

“My dad is gone.”

“Oh, baby,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, shockingly stoic. “It will be okay. I just, I wanted you to know I’ll be staying longer than I thought. I’ve got to help my-” you clear your throat. “I’ve got to help Vincent with the arrangements and then my dad wanted his ashes scattered somewhere in Colorado. It’s where he grew up, so I’ll probably go there before I fly back, and-” You keep rambling, and Joel cuts you off.

“Hey that’s fine, that’s okay. Don’t you worry about that.”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna miss your birthday,” you say. “I had this whole thing planned where I was gonna take you and Sarah out to dinner, and it was gonna be really nice and-”

“We can celebrate another time,” Joel insists. “It’s okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, so quick it sounds like a reflex. “I knew it was going to happen, so...”

“Are you sure?” He doesn’t want to push you, but it’s very clear you’re holding something back.

“Yeah, I…” you trail off. “I don’t know.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away, just gives you a little space to process. The silence is excruciating, and lasts so long that he wonders if you’ve hung up. But eventually, you speak again.

“I don’t….I don’t feel anything,” your voice breaks, all strained and choked and horrible. “I feel like I should.” You’re hundreds of miles away, and Joel has never felt so helpless. “Something….something is really wrong with me. I can’t-”

“Babygirl,” he hears himself say, doing everything he can to calm you down. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

He hears you take in a sharp, staggered inhale on the other line, struggling to catch your breath. “I wish you were here with me.”

Me too, I wish I was too. He wants to say, but all he feels is panic, tight around his throat. He feels like if he can’t get to you, something horrible will happen. What had he been thinking, letting you walk into this alone? Things must have been worse than you had let on. “Maybe I can try to figure something out.”

But almost as quickly as you lose control of yourself, he hears you clear your throat, a hard swallow. “It’s….it’s…it will all be fine. I will be okay, sorry, I just…” Joel can’t tell if you’re answering him, or if you’re talking to yourself.

Joel knows the routine pretty well at this point, each time you show any sort of vulnerability, you immediately pull back – like there’s some invisible boundary you’ve crossed that snaps you back into place if you test it. He’d be able to actually help you if he was there. In some ways, you being so open with him, but only over the phone….makes sense. It’s just another way to avoid him. He won’t resent you for it, but it doesn’t make him hurt any less.

“What can I do?” Joel asks. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’ll be fine, Joel. I promise,” you sniffle, clearing your throat, pulling yourself together. “I’ll be home soon and everything can just…go back to normal.”

“Yes, it will,” he says. “You’ll get through this. And you’ll come home to Sarah and I. I’ll have a martini and a back rub waiting for you the second you walk in the door.

“God,” you say. “You’re so hot.”

Joel chuckles, relieved to hear your smile.

“You know,” your breathing steadies. “I would like you and Sarah to come out here. Not now. But another time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I was thinking about it. My brother has plenty of room. We could crash here, and you could meet everyone. I mean, Vincent comes across as like….such an fucking asshole, really, truly…but I don’t know. I think ultimately you’ll get along.”

“I’m sure we will,” Joel breathes softly.

“You just have to promise you won’t leave me if you don’t.”

“That wouldn’t make me leave you.” It’s you I love. He’s not going to tell you that over the phone. So he settles. “You are what I care about.”

“I feel the same,” you say softly.

You’re silent for a spell.

“I probably should go and eat something. I’ve felt awful for like three days straight and I finally have an appetite. And there’s really no problem that can’t be solved by a bodega sandwich.”

Joel chuckles. “I’m sure you’ll feel better if you eat something.”

“I will call you later, okay?” you say. “Thank you, Joel. I miss you, and I’ll see you soon.”

“I miss you too,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you soon.”

See you soon. For the next few days, everytime you call each other, every conversation ends with the same promise. Neither of you are aware it’s one you can’t keep.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-September 26th, 2003-

Joel sits in the front seat of Tommy’s car, and tries to hide the fact that his hands are shaking. There’s blood spattered on the front of his shirt, blood that didn’t belong to him. He’s done a lot of things to protect Sarah. To protect his family. He’d used that turn of phrase, that he’d kill for them, in passing, but never actually thought he’d have to do it. He did. He did. And he’s suddenly scared of what else he might be capable of.

He does not want this burden, to be a protector, but he has no choice. It has been his entire life. First an older brother. Then, a father. It’s worth more than his own peace, than his own life. He would sacrifice that every time if it kept his family safe.

And you, too.

He’s only just now looking down at his phone, trying to block out the noise of the voices on the radio that cut in and out of static. And it’s not because it’s broken. The world he knows is crumbling, he’s freefalling towards the earth, and he’s gotta grab the only things that matter or they will perish upon impact.

Sarah says your name from behind him. “Do you think she’s okay?”

It’s the first minute he’s had to think since he arrived at the prison to bail out Tommy. He has several missed calls from you and one voicemail. He doesn’t even think to listen, just immediately tries to call you back.

“I don’t know, babygirl.” The phone doesn’t even ring. Sarah’s hand falls to his shoulder and he squeezes it tightly, hoping she can’t feel that it’s still trembling. Joel has no cell service, and none of the calls are going through even after trying several times over.

Joel looks down at his watch to see what time it is. It’s working now, thanks to Sarah, who had told him that she’d got it fixed at a place you had recommended before you left. It’s delusional, but he hopes maybe this isn’t happening in Colorado. You’d called him this morning to wish him a happy birthday, things had been fine then. How could it all fall apart so quickly?

He accepts that he can’t reach you, and listens to the voicemail you’ve left.

“Hey Joel, I….something is going on here. I don’t know if it’s happening everywhere. People are sick. It’s….it’s…If I don’t see you again I hope I- I want you to know that I love you. Okay? You and Sarah. Thank you, Joel. Please…please stay safe.”

I love you, too. Why didn’t he just say it when he had the opportunity to? What had he been thinking?

Joel tells himself that this is not the end. Things will settle, even if it takes time, and you will keep yourself safe. You won’t get sick. All the promises you made to each other will be kept. Even as he tells himself this, he knows it’s probably a lie.

Still, he indulges. Things will go back to normal. As long as he keeps himself safe, he’ll find his way back to you again. It’s just a matter of time.

But his hope for the future, for anything else, dies an hour later.

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rosicheeks · 2 years

Text

🥰

#boy oh boyyyyyyyyyy I missed being high 🥰#I smoked a joint on the way home and I’m feeling some thangs #ngl my head is split #one side is thinking about a super cute scenario #where I’m all cuddled up in someone’s arms and we are smoking and listening to music #everything is just soft and gentle and maybe I’ll look into their eyes and lean in for a kiss and uhhhhmmm it’ll lead into something else 🫣#orrrrrrrrr #I’m thinking about a fantasy #where someone gets me super high and maybe even crossfaded???? keep rolling joints and packing bowls and giving me shots #before I know it I’m a fucking mess #just a needy slutty toy begging to be used 😇#oh and then another part of me is thinking about gangbangs ya know the usual 🫣😇#shut up rosie

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devildom-moss · 1 year

Text

June poll story

(Mammon x gn!MC)

(NSFW) (sub!Mammon) (dom!MC) (NSFW tags: anal on Mammon, MC with a dick or strap-on - called a"cock" regardless, marking/biting, slight degradation/calling Mammon a "slut" and "greedy" affectionately, but mostly praise, lots of "good boy"/"baby boy"/"baby", missionary position, kind of vanilla maybe? a little bit of malewife Mammon at the beginning, so soft for this man)

Word Count: +1,900

Mammon gently tapped his notebook on the top of your head before you both left for school that morning. Despite the embarrassment that rose inside of him, he tried to sound cool as he told you, “hey, clear your plans for tonight, ‘kay?”

“What for?” you asked him.

“Cause I said so. I know ya got your little Solomon lessons after class, so just come straight to my room when you get home, got it?”

“Can I at least shower after I get back?”

“Huh.” Mammon thought about it. That would give him a bit of extra time. “Yeah, that works. Just text me when ya get back. After your shower, come over.”

“Deal.” You figured you could amuse Mammon for the night. It would be nice to spend a bit of time with him anyway. “So, what are we doing?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re gonna have a relaxin’ night in.”

It had been a long week. Mammon had picked up on your rising stress – especially in the last two days. If Solomon tried to cook for you during his tutoring today, Mammon wasn’t certain that the old sorcerer would make it through his lesson unscathed. Although there was no way Mammon would tell you he wanted to help you de-stress, demanding your time was his way of trying to help.

You did as Mammon asked. Nice and clean, and with the scent of smoke from your failed potion finally washed from your skin, you headed to Mammon’s room. Out of politeness, you knocked on his door and waited for a response – something you hoped Mammon would someday learn by example. Although, at least (thus far) you had avoided anything too awkward with your one-way open door policy.

A very quiet “shit” was whispered before Mammon replied at full volume: “one sec, MC.”

When Mammon opened his door, you immediately noticed that he had tidied up his room recently such as two seconds ago. It was sweet of him. The next thing you noticed was that something smelled good in there – like homemade food.

“Ya hungry?”

“A little, yeah.”

“We’re eatin’ in here tonight. I made ramen for ya, com’ere.” Mammon pulled you to his couch. On the table in front of it were two large bowls of ramen – along with a bottle of Demonus and two glasses. The only issue was that when Mammon said he made ramen, you didn’t expect it to actually look delicious. There were chopped vegetables in there – Mammon had even gone through the trouble of cutting carrots and tofu into small flowers and shaped the soft-boiled egg into a heart.

“You made this?” you asked, surprised.

“Hey, I can cook if I gotta,” Mammon got defensive, “or if I wanna.”

You couldn’t suppress the grin. You pulled Mammon in for a quick kiss. “Thank you, baby.”

“Hm, I could get used to you thankin’ me.” Mammon played cocky to distract from his embarrassment. “Dig in, already.”

You didn’t expect the food to taste as good as it looked. Mammon must have gotten help some way or another; all you knew was that he was trying so hard to make you happy – and it was working.

After dinner and a glass of Demonus, Mammon put on an action movie that he had brought up a few days ago. He was going on about how cool the trailer made the villain look and how you just had to root for him. Mammon tangled his body up with yours on the couch. With all of the enthusiasm about the movie from the other day, you expected Mammon’s attention to be fixed on the screen. However, he wasn’t even watching the movie; he was staring at you. It was a hungry sort of stare, and you knew he wanted something.

“What’s the matter, Mammon?” His face burned when you asked him. Somehow, he believed that his staring wasn’t so obvious. Still, he might as well say something.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Mammon asked, shy-sounding and slightly nervous. What he meant was that he wanted you to fuck him, but he figured if he phrased it like an invitation, you’d take him up on the offer without him having to voice his desires. Sometimes, his trouble expressing his wants was difficult, but right now, when you knew exactly what he really meant, it was adorable.

You didn’t say anything – just pulled Mammon into a more desirable position. You had Mammon on his knees with his back against you, half-pressed into the back of his sofa. His ass was flush against your body as you boxed him in. There was only so much room on the couch, after all; you had to get close.

Your hand snaked around him, under his shirt, and up his chest so you could caress his neck. As you did, you nibbled on his ear. You could feel the rising heat hit his ears as they reddened slightly. A deep, desperate moan escaped Mammon’s throat. He hadn’t expected you to get into this so quickly.

Between switching from one ear to the other, you pulled Mammon’s shirt off and tossed it to the side. You felt a brief moment of guilt. He had just cleaned up in here, and now you were tossing clothes on his tidy floor. But when Mammon tilted his head back to rest on your shoulder, you didn’t care anymore. The rest of his clothes, and most of yours joined his shirt in a messy pile – except for his underwear that you had accidentally tossed on his staircase because of your own eagerness. Your hands were all over him as you kissed his neck.

“Ya can’t get enough of me, can ya?” Mammon asked, shakily.

“Not when you react so cutely,” you smirked. “Lube?”

“Under the table.”

You chuckled. Did he usually keep a bottle of lube under there or had he been expecting this? It didn’t matter. You grabbed the bottle and coated your index, middle, and ring fingers. You rubbed a slow circle around him before slowly giving him your index finger. The sharp gasp followed by a shaky sigh said enough. He was so eager to take you.

“Were you thinking about this all day?” you questioned him – low and seductive – while running your other hand up his thigh.

“N-no.” He shuddered under your touch.

“Liar,” you teased. “You’re acting like such a pretty little slut for me.”

“Only because it’s you,” he admitted with a faint blush on his cheeks.

“Such a good boy.” You kissed his cheek, causing him to close his eyes and scrunch up his nose, and gave him another finger.

You continued kissing his neck, stretching him out at the same time. In response, Mammon was left moaning and rocking his hips back onto your hand. You bit his shoulder lightly.

“You can bite a little harder than that.”

“Of course,” you whispered and got closer to his ear, “sometimes I forget what a little masochist you are. Should I call you a little pain slut, instead?”

You bit him harshly, and he groaned. Through that desperate sound, he corrected you, “it doesn’t hurt – if it’s you. I just feel good.”

He was so cute.

You licked over your teeth indents in his skin, blowing over the drying saliva. There were so many marks left on his neck that you were going to have to make him cover up tomorrow. If anyone saw the extent of what you did to him, chaos would erupt. Then again, he might not listen and start showing off the second you left him alone. He wanted everyone to know that he was yours – that you claimed and marked him.

“M-more, gimme more. I can take it.”

“Oh? What can you take? Say it if you want it that bad.”

“Gimme your cock, hurry.” As much as he wanted that “hurry” to sound demanding, he just sounded desperate.

“Greedy boy.”

You pulled your fingers out of Mammon. He waited patiently while you prepared yourself. You warmed the lube up in your hands before coating your cock/strap-on generously. (If you’re using a strap-on, you cannot convince me that Mammon wouldn’t insist that you keep one in his room for convenience but also so he could masturbate with it when you aren’t around and imagine that you’re fucking him.) With Mammon still pressed against the back of the couch, you teased his hole from behind without inserting into him. He reached back and grabbed your thighs, squeezing firmly.

“Stop teasing, yeah?” He was panting already.

You obliged and pushed into him. Your hand snaked around his front to rub his chest gently. He whined in response. With your other hand on his boney hip, you squeezed him and pulled him closer, filling him deeper.

“F-fuck. I – I, MC,” Mammon tried to find the words.

“Yes, baby boy?” you cooed in his ear.

“So deep, but – but it isn’t enough.”

You hummed and slid your hand down his stomach and to his cock. You stroked him slowly while continuing to rock your hips against him in steady, deep thrusts. “Like this?”

“No,” he whined. “Not enough of you.”

“I don’t have any more inches to give you, baby.”

“No, I wanna look at ya. I wanna see your face.”

You chuckled and pulled out of him. The little noise he made in response was adorable.

“Look at me,” you commanded.

Mammon turned around. His eyes were starry and wide – blissed out from pleasure and affection. You pushed him on his back gently and grabbed his legs to wrap them around your hips. As you stared down at his pretty little face, you caressed his cheek; he nuzzled into your hand.

“Ready, baby boy? I want you to take all of it at once, okay?”

Mammon nodded, still nuzzling into your hand. With your thumb, you brushed over his lower lip. You loved seeing him like this.

“Good boy.” You pushed into him, and he nearly screamed – covering his mouth with the back of his hand to muffle his voice. You forced his hand away and pinned it above his head. “No, baby. I want to hear you.”

“But I’m too loud.” It was a feeble, little protest.

“Then I’ll shut you up.” Leaning down, you kissed him roughly, picking up your pace as you thrust into him. His nails scratched down your back, leaving long red marks along your skin. All you could hear was kissing, moaning, and the sound of slapping skin. The movie seemingly faded away.

You were eager to make him feel even better and reached your hand down between your bodies to stroke Mammon’s throbbing cock. More moans escaped his mouth. You could feel him getting closer, and you pulled away so you could look at him while he came. The desire to see that pretty face twisted up in pleasure felt more like a need. Your fingers slowly traced down his neck. Mammon writhed under your touch, making the cutest noise as he arched his back off the couch. He clenched around you and came all over your hand and his stomach. He craned his neck and shut his eyes. Mouth wide, he moaned so beautifully that you couldn’t believe that sound came from a demon.

When Mammon opened his eyes and saw you above him, staring down lovingly, he felt like he had somehow entered a world more heavenly than the Celestial Realm. You were both panting, but an infectious smile creeped up on Mammon’s lips.

Mammon’s eyes locked on yours, still filled to the brim with lust. His kiss-bruised lips parted to speak, “more.”

#mammon #gn!mc #spice tier #moss poll fic #obey me #obey me mammon #mammon smut #obey me smut #mammon x reader #A little late but I still got it done! yay

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lostbetweenvampiresandmusic · 7 months

Text

Homes and hotels

He had nightmares about that night. He heard the screams of his brother still, and the angry growls of the vampires. He still had nightmares about the what ifs. He and his friends could have been killed, or maybe if they had been lucky, they could have managed to kill all the vampires. Maybe they could all have survived, on the condition that they had to be turned into a vampire as well. But none of that happened. No one died. Well, except for Max, that is. But still, as he thought about it, it could have been a lot worse.

He was okay. Mom was okay, even if she was still recovering from a nasty break up with the head vampire. His Grandpa was okay, still happily going out with the widow. And Michael was okay. His relationship with Star had watered a little after the whole affair, but things were looking up for them.

Yeah, Sam sighed as he got out of the bathroom. Things could have been way worse. Max was dead, Michael was human again. Things were almost like before. Almost, because now they sometimes had random immortal visitors bugging them. Lucy didn't mind. She had come to like the boys and adored doting on them. Michael didn't mind, beginning to see them as friends. Sam, however, did mind. He didn't like vampires before, and he definitely didn't like them now.

This morning, he didn't think about vampires, however. He thought about how he finally had gotten access to a TV and that he was home alone this very morning. Mom had worked a lot, and since Sam had helped rebuild the house, she had decided that this was a proper - yet expensive - thank you for all the work he had done. So, Sam got dressed, styled his hair, sprayed on some hairspray, and practically jumped down the stairs, happy to finally enjoy the wonderful world of MTV once again.

He ran into the kitchen. He quickly grabbed a bowl and filled it with cereal, and quickly splashed some milk on top of it. He searched for a spoon, but when he couldn't find any, he settled for a fork. He ran to the couch, jumping over the back and landed-

"What the hell man?!"

Sam jumped up, dropping his cereal. The couch wasn't empty. Instead, a very grouchy, very tired, very familiar vampire lay on the couch.

"You?! What are you doing here?" Sam demanded, grabbing his fork of the ground, pointing it at the vampire.

"Sleeping?" Paul said sheepishly, chuckling at the fork Sam was holding. "You know that won't work right?"

"Shut up, I still got the stakes in my room!"

"Good for you kid."

"Why are you here?" Sam demanded.

"Like I said, I was sleeping!"

"This ain't a hotel, bud! Get back to the cave!"

"I can't." Paul shrugged.

"Why not? Are they mad at you?"

Paul chuckled. "No?"

"Then why don't you go? This isn't even your house? Come on, man, a couple of weeks ago you were ready and happy to kill me!"

"People change?"

"Yeah, right," Sam sighed, cleaning up the spilt cereal. As he cleaned the final bit of milk of the ground he shook his head when he saw Paul rolling a joint. "Absolutely not."

He quickly grabbed it, throwing it out with the cereal - causing Paul to whine.

"Not fair! That shit is expensive!"

"Yeah, well, we don't smoke here."

"Fine," Paul sighed, getting ready to roll another one. He was about to light it when Sam turned around, ready to grab it once again.

"No smoking! If you want to smoke you go outside!"

"I can't!"

Sam stopped, realising that Paul was right. The sun was up.

"Well, the least you can do is move so I can watch some tee-"

Sam sighed, realising that the loud snores were not faked. The vampire had fallen asleep again

"He's bloody impossible," mumbled Sam as he made sure all of the curtains were closed. "Rude ass vampire. Yeah, join a gang, Mike! It will be fun!" He sat down on the couch, folding Paul up so his spot was free. Paul's head lay not at his feet, but he just continued sleeping.

"Not like all of those weird undead friends of yours will use our house as a hotel when they bloody live in one!" Sam continued as he reached for the remote controller, turning the TV on.

"Your couch is better!" Paul mumbled.

"Go back to sleep."

"I thought you wanted me to go?" Paul moved to sit more comfortably.

Sam sighed, rolling his eyes. "Why, why am I the one with a family that walks right into the arms of a bunch of vampires?"

"Cause your tasty?"

"What?!" Sam shrieked, jumping off the couch, causing Paul to burst out in laughter.

"Nothing."

"I remind you, I still have those stakes!"

Sam sighed as he realised Paul had once again fallen asleep. As he finally turned the telly on, turning the channel to mtv, he noticed an empty bottle of liquor laying next to the couch.

"Great." He mumbled. "With my luck, I'll be dealing with a hungover vampire later."

#the lost boys #marko #david #paul #tlb #dwayne #the lost boys 1987 #tlb 1987 #the lost boys x reader #lost boys #sam emerson #michael emerson #lucy emerson

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attapullman · 7 months

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Morgan, what can you tell me about miss ma’am’s first official date with Bob from Stats? 💁🏼‍♀️ It’s been on my mind and I desperately need to know!

Alexa!! I'm so glad you asked because it also has been on my mind I am so helplessly obsessed with them and his hobby horse so don't mind me getting very carried away.

First off, it's very important to note that since the homecoming barbecue that Bob has talked non-stop about the girl in the green dress. All his brothers have been ribbing him ever since, making the joke on every night out that "maybe she's into cowboys".

So when green dress girl becomes Stats Cutie, the frat house is practically up in arms about him making a move. Beyond lending a pencil.

Once all his roommates confirm that the girl who hasn't left his bedroom in three days is indeed Stats Cutie, the house is abuzz. Especially when he arrives at Monday chapter with his sweatshirt hood at a funny angle to hide the blossoming hickey on his collarbone 👀

After that first Stats class - where you sit side-by-side with indeed another borrowed pencil - he realizes he actually can't wait until Friday to take Stats Cutie out, so he casually asks if you're free tonight. Despite the fact you're way behind on studying, of course you clear your entire schedule.

You meet up at the fountain by the edge of campus at 6, after you've both had a chance to head home and shower. He can't handle how you look even prettier in this sundress, he's actually weak in the knees. And seeing him in a button-up has you drooling - how can he look even better than those beloved crewnecks? As he guides you to your destination, there's a comfortable silence as you subtly check the other out.

Starting off the night is bowling! You rent shoes and talk about how absurdly expensive bowling has become. He's blindsided by how good you are at bowling, already smoking him within the first few frames. Here he is trying to impress you, and you're blowing him away! If he wasn't appreciating how cute your ass looks wiggling in that little dress when you go up for your turn, he'd probably have already dragged you back to his apartment.

After you've absolutely smoked him in two rounds of bowling - a sweet yet passionate kiss by the return shoe counter - he promises loser buys pizza. The greasy pie joint near campus is pretty quiet for a Tuesday night, and he snags a table in the corner. Hours are lost as you talk about classes and potential future careers and how his sister reacted when she realized her hobby horse was missing.

Bob can't quite get over how when you laugh your eyes sparkle before disappearing because your smile is so wide.

You have class in the morning, so he's a gentleman and has you home before midnight. Kissing you against the brick column by the front door of your dorm, telling you what a great night he had. Blushing when you thank him for one of the best dates you've been on. Pizza and bowling was perfect. He's perfect.

It's only when your Resident Advisor knocks on the glass door that he releases you. Reluctantly. Bright red as he kisses your cheek one last time, giving your RA a polite nod and wave before making his way to his apartment.

As he walks home, he's already trying to come up with excuses to see you before Stats on Thursday.

#always gonna be unwell about college boyfriend bob #letters to mo #sometimesanalice 🪩#stats!bob #bob from stats

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niki-phoria · 2 years

Text

pairing: dabi x male!reader (refers to reader as a man once) genre: fluff, slight hurt comfort (?) word count: 1.2k

a/n: this started as a soft fluffy drabble of helping dabi dye his hair and then it spiraled into this

slight spoilers bnha season 06 !!

"stop moving," you say, moving onto another section of dabi's head.

"stop getting dye all over my neck," dabi retorts. you ignore him, continuing to rub the dye into the strands of hair. you're careful not to get dye on his skin. dabi checks himself in the mirror, pulling at your hand. "you missed a spot."

"let me finish this part," you part his hair even further, careful around the roots. "you're the one who wanted my help anyways."

"because you wouldn't stop pestering me about it." you both know he's lying. the first time you caught him dying his hair he brushed you off. the day after, a small container of vaseline and hair dye remover were sitting outside of his room, right in front of the door. since then, you've grown to enjoy dabi's company, even seeking him out. neither of you have addressed your new closeness, opting to silently continue pushing the boundaries of friendship.

"you love it," you nudge him to turn to the other side. "don't know why you're dying it again. you've already announced yourself."

dabi shrugs. "maybe i prefer the black." there's a barely noticeable sadness in his words. you're only vaguely aware of dabi's difficult home life, only getting throwaway lines of information while sharing cigarettes on rooftops or during late nights where dabi's skin is hot against yours and his shoulders shake ever so slightly with overwhelming emotion. you decide not to push it, setting the bowl aside and pulling off your gloves.

"leave it for 30 minutes. try not to stain my bathtub," you say, turning to leave the bathroom. before you can close the door, dabi's hand catches your wrist.

"you're not gonna help me rinse it out?" there's a faux innocence in his voice as he looks at you, a sly smirk threatening to break through his expression. you roll your eyes but don't leave, sitting on the floor and leaning against the bathtub. dabi sits across from you on the closed toilet, reaching over to light a cigarette.

the silence is nice. the familiar smell of cigarette smoke fills the bathroom, clinging to your clothing and staining the tiles in your shower. your mind drifts as you focus on dabi’s exposed chest. you study the areas where smooth skin meets rough scars, jagged lines decorating the man’s torso. in the corner of your eye you can see dabi smirking, leaning back to expose more of himself. “like what you see?” he teases.

you don’t reply, instead moving closer to him. dabi watches silently as you slowly bring your hand up to rest on his shoulder. when he doesn’t react, you drag your fingers down his chest, along the years of stories you hope he’ll tell you eventually. your hands are cold against his warm skin as your hand moves down to his side, tracing each rib through the muscle. dabi’s hands rest gingerly on your hips, holding you on his lap.

the intimacy of your position makes you nervous. your mind races with possibilities. what if he leaves? what if he doesn’t like you the way you like him? what if this is all just mindless sex and cheap cigarettes to him?

you’re saved from your internal debate when your phone’s timer chimes. you switch the device off, ignoring a few texts from shigaraki. dabi ashes his cigarette, maneuvering so his body fits in your tub, head underneath the faucet.

“i can’t afford hot water,” you warn him.

“i don’t mind.” dabi stares at the ceiling as you turn the water on, slowly beginning to wash the dye out of his hair. his locks are soft despite the dirt and blood he lets dry in it. you wonder if the feeling of washing his hair is comforting to dabi. he has no reaction as you coax his head into position, letting the water run in different areas.

washing the dye out takes longer than expected. once the water runs clear, you turn it off and hand dabi a towel. he takes it silently, letting water droplets run down his back and shoulders as he dries it off. “thanks.” his voice is quiet when he hands the towel back. you nod, debating on grabbing a cigarette to prevent the sting of watching him leave. to your surprise, when you look up dabi is standing next to you, eyes staring into yours. deep blue irises are framed by his damp hair and scarred skin. silently, dabi brings a hand up to your chin, holding your face in place. he lends down to press a kiss against your forehead before he lets go, leaving the bathroom.

the action stuns you for a few seconds. dabi has never been openly affectionate before, touches reduced to quick hookups and sometimes, when you’re lucky, an unforgiving grip on your hand as either one of you is patched up after a rough mission. “wait!” you’re quick to rush after him, grabbing his hand. there are a million things you want to ask him. what did that mean? do you like me back? why did you kiss me? but when your eyes meet his again, only one thing leaves your mouth. “stay?” you can see dabi glance towards the door before turning back to you. he doesn’t say anything, letting you lead him to your bed. it’s an old mattress you stole from someone’s dumpster laying unceremoniously on the floor in the middle of your apartment. you sigh, staring down at your fingers, playing with a loose thread on your jeans. “listen… i don’t want to be just another fuck. i like you. you mean a lot to me. and, i want to mean a lot to you.” the silence hangs heavy in the air for a few seconds. you don’t dare to look up in fear of rejection. scorn. disgust. you aren’t even sure if dabi likes men, let alone you. as more time passes you can feel the ball of anxiety in your stomach building up to your chest, pressing down on your lungs, stealing the air from you, crawling up and making tears build in your eyes. this time when dabi’s hand reaches your chin, his hand moves to cup your jawline. his calloused fingers run along the bone before moving up to your cheek. he lifts your face so you’re looking at him through tears.

“you’re my everything. you’ve never been just a quick fuck. and i’m sorry i ever made you feel that way.” dabi wipes away a tear you hadn’t realized fell. he moves so he’s sitting closer to you, forehead nearly touching yours. “i love you, y/n.” you lean in and press your lips against his. you’ve kissed dabi before, but never like this. this is sweet, full of love, and sweetness. you kiss him again, and again, and again, until you lose yourself in overwhelming love.

“i love you too.” you whisper. dabi smiles a little, pulling you into another kiss.

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