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moondirti · 3 months

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ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH [ john price x f! reader ]

: he sees you when his vices take hold. little love, invented. chimeric, he assumed - until you're not.

mdni. noncon; addiction (nicotine and alcohol); SSRIs; intoxication; breeding kink; daddy kink; hallucinations; kidnapping; drugging; objectification; slut-shaming; sexual harassment; violence; bondage; vomiting; guns; suicide, murder, pregnancy, spanking and branding mentions. 7k.

a/n: have yall seen ruby sparks? yeah imagine that but worse

John's always had his fixes.

He remembers the hysterics. Five and wet behind the ears, lungs scoured raw of anguish when his mum hadn't let him sup the vanilla extract. It's not what you'd expect, hun. But the child-sized idée fixe, destructive in its naivety, turned its head at the implication. He stuck his nose to the bottle's cap, got a whiff of it unfiltered, and revolted; how could it taste like anything but the ambrosia it promised?

Or, who was she to deny he try?

(His resistance to authority can be spoored there. A miasmic trail back to youth, stinking something foul. It had been a Sisyphean effort, pyrrhic, when he enlisted. Burnishing odour only to find, without it, there was nothing left for them to make use of.)

So – red-faced, tousled pyjamas at 2200, balanced atop a chair as his parents snored soundly on the couch – he snuck a teaspoon for himself.

It was foul, of course. A calcine irritation that clawed on its way down his throat, baring raw tissue in its wake. He hid his coughs behind his sleeves, vision cloudy with tears as he put everything back where it belonged – not disappointed so much as he was committed, he thinks. Because the very next night, he came back to try it again.

And again, and again.

Like clockwork, he tipped the small vial up onto his tongue and hoped it would pass into something different. Obsessive. Ruinous monomania. His dreams sprung into caliginous visions that detailed nothing but the phantom touch of it to his tongue; this taste, syrupy sweet like nothing he would find in comfits and puddings and pies.

(In hindsight, all it did was teach him how to embrace the burn.)

It only stopped when his mum woke to him voiding his guts in an old popcorn bowl. Poison control, buoyant levity clipped over the rotary phone, told her that it happens all the time. Kids go looking for a midnight snack and think vanilla will hit the spot. Our suggestion is to settle for alternatives until he's old enough to know better. Hydrate in the meanwhile.

– know better.

It's hard to say he does.

His wants still have wants, have asinine wants, that which keep him so late into the night that it's dawn before he falls comatose. Sunk into a leather wingback, the space of his parlour more smoke than it is air, contemplating keeping a warm body in these hinterlands. Helplessly soft, pretty. Fixated on that faceless something, burrowed beneath his sweet tooth again.

But on the wrong side of forty, he's honed prudence like a well-oiled firearm. Custom so things run smoothly, though not one he finds necessary if it weren't for convention. He knows his job would cut in on the upkeep, month long absences like a disease to whoever he manages to snare. It'll kill them, slowly, holed up in this home alone.

(When his parents did away with the extract, he tore the curtains and scribbled on their walls. A boy's green version of withdrawal, deprived of his favourite vice. He's never considered sobriety for that very reason – he's bad even with a maduro in hand.

And the thing about people, they're never so easy to replenish.)

Age besets everything. Counters them, grown as he is. Pragmatic.

Still. To say he knows better is... faulty, flawed. Not when he fists his cock to those fantasies and stirs on all the ways he can bring them to light. Early retirement (a prompt no; he's just as dependant on the field), or multiple little loves to keep each other company, his house turned an Arcadia of nymphs (though he tires to think of wrangling more than one, and the idea diffuses like sugar steeped in tea.)

It's on his fourth- fifth iteration that John starts to see it for what it really is. That this – a darling wife to curl between his legs – is like the imagined taste of vanilla extract. Too good to ever be made true. At least for a man of his ilk, whose bloody hands slip around nirvana. Unearned. Chained to purgatory so long as he weighs sins against the greater good. He wasn't meant for the finer things in life.

So he sticks to what he has. Old familiars. Noxious inhibitors, palmed for upwards of ten pounds, crafted for old dodgers like himself. Tobacco, dry whiskey. Nicotine to spout fire to his hindbrain. Cheap, easy accesses that sate the itch behind his eyes, so long as he lights another.

Ouroboros. It feeds itself and lasts.

(Until you come off the tail end that is, and sever the loop with your own, clever little hands.)

You pose a different kind of problem.

It starts after Serbia. Hounding across the Carpathian mountains for the better part of a winter has detrimental effects, see. And though he eventually locates the bunker Laswell's informants alerted them to, he comes out of it changed – head fixed the wrong way around, skin flaking over off a mulish swell of anger. Going back home is an ordeal when his body acclimatised to find warmth in the frost, talking to Stygian shadows like comrades. Necessitated madness revoked.

Because all of a sudden, everything is too comfortable. Vibrant. Nothing hurts enough to match the stress still ricocheting within him, and the imbalance threatens to capsize. The doctors prescribe SSRIs, tell him to keep it separate, Captain, when their eyes skim that part of his file that notes him as a habitual drinker – so he switches from bourbon to Canadian whiskey, like the ABV will make a difference.

(That inveterate defiance, rearing its ugly head once more.)

And really, he doesn't get what all the fuss is about.

The static in his head flatlines, white noise taking its slot. It's the greatest peace he's found since his bunkmate at boarding school stuck a joint between his teeth and told him to suck. Like fog wearing over a hill, his thoughts grow muddied, loose and abandoned once he can't tell which way is up or where the sky ends.

And the wants, the very same he's long since buried, come back with a vengeance. Unchanged, for the most part (he doubts they were ever dead in the first place) yet manifested differently, like they're privy to the scepticism that killed them last.

(Reveries no longer disembodied, shuddering old film onto the backs of his eyes, but projected into the dark corners of his house, instead.)

He hears your laugh, first. It is early March and easter endorsements already shade the telly in garish joie de vivre, corporations fighting for a foot in your spring celebrations! Buy an egg-dying kit and get one free, hurry before it's too late! John doesn't remember turning it on, can hardly feel the remote in his hands, but that acedia ebbs once the sound of it meets his ears. The sound of you–

Jingle-bell mischievous, he knows it has no place amidst the foolish ditties of spring. He turns the T.V. off, sitting upright in his chair, ears piqued in every direction as he waits for it again.

From the kitchen: another breathless titter, tapped from a chest too delicate to be mistaken for the howling winds outside. When he rises to inspect the source, he swipes the spare gun he uses to foot a broken table, trigger finger dangling bonelessly by the grip. Good to have it there, just in case, though he's confident he won't need to resort to such measures to neutralise you – not if you equal the Zephyr-like quality of your voice.

(Paranoia, it seems, is another effect of downing his meds with Crown Royal. Had he been less inebriated, he would have remembered that his doors are double bolted, and that there's no one out for miles.)

But what he expects to find, luminous between the birch cupboard rows, is not there. His kitchen is as empty as it's always been.

So, they might have warned him about it. He might have avoided this whole thing had he listened. But things snowball when he grasps what's happening. Calamitous uptake; it invades his dreams again, and his dreams invade reality.

(If he cannot have what he wants within the provident constrictions of life, then what's the harm in indulging himself, if only a little.)

Soon enough, he sees glimpses of you wherever he looks.

Sylphic figure come to haunt him. Light bounces through you, your flesh gossamer-like. Diaphanous. He thinks you cannot be crafted that way if not to accent the dark, wet rims of your eyes. The lightning-branched veins etched to all four extremities. Nipples like petals, touched alluringly to your breasts. He thinks you cannot be fictitious – he's never been an inventive man, and the impish flick of your lips reads as familiar, somehow. Dancing on the tip of his tongue, or a song he's heard once and never again. Like he's taken to it before–

His memory swishes like watered nectar in this state. It's impossible to place.

Still–

So long as you continue to appear as fine mist does, chasing the throttles of his high, John's a happy man. He need not tell you anything; you already know his name, what it is he likes. You sway to imagined tunes (later, he couples it to the erratic drumming of his heart) and jump nimbly around his legs, winding and tangling and falling right through them when he wishes to see you stumble.

You don't talk much, either. He has yet to whet the finer points of your being, work out what makes you tick or how you'd enunciate your words. It's an eggshell process. Fragile. Some nights, he'll imagine you with a cadence that doesn't quite fit, and you'll stutter like a faulty motor before shattering from view. To avoid disillusionment, he has to be careful. Extend a platter of properties for you to choose from, picky thing, and watch as you notch them on your tongue, testing.

You'll get this look on your face as you do. Contemplative, lips pursed for a moment before you shrug and slide down to decorate his feet, arms stretched across his ottoman like willow branches over a creek. It would put him off if it were anyone else, but he's eternally endeared to you.

The first time you speak, it's to call him out on that.

'Naturally.' You giggle, twirling your phantom fingers in the tufts of his leg hair. 'You have to like something in order for me to present it. Or is that not how it works?'

He doesn't think so.

"You tell me, little one. If that were the case, why disappear when I try something you aren't keen on, hm?" His words are slurred, strung together hastily, like his tongue hasn't the strength to articulate each in full. You understand him anyway, of course, scrunching your nose.

'I don't know.'

"Think, then."

You shuffle straighter on your knees.

'Maybe I want to be just right for you, daddy. Not all your ideas are great.'

John jerks his leg admonishingly, the joint of it passing right through you. It causes you to blink out of existence for a second, and his throat twists uncomfortably around the new darkness. Loneliness hurts more, harrows deeper, now that he's unused to it.

But you come back, straddling his hips this time. You always do

(So long as he keeps sipping, the glass in his hand sweating cool condensation into his skin. His cigar slowly smoulders away in a nearby ashtray, waiting for the uptake.)

"Mm, thought I lost ya." And if you were there – really there, he thinks – he'd wrap your hair in a fat fist and angle your head roughly down onto his. His arms lay flat to his sides, however. Restless.

'No.' You don't exhibit the same discretion. You smooth down his bare chest, ironing his scars until he feels brand new again. Whole as a kid. 'Haven't you heard? I have a tongue now, and all I wanna do is talk.'

"Is that right?" He hums, half-lidded eyes watch the space between your knees widen. Like Artemis in her waters, cursing Actaeon to the jowls of his dogs – you love teasing him when you know he cannot do anything about it, destined to be torn apart by his inborn desire.

'Well, what else is there?'

And if not for that one thing, John would be content to live like this forever.

(Two, if you count his prescription quickly running out.)

Routine lasts about a fortnight, if his taking of time is to be trusted.

Staged courting, you call it. A production of how typical romances go. When the sky bruises, opening up like the ripe flesh of a plum, he'll knock back two tablets using the last dregs of his afternoon whiskey and wait for you to come home to him. You look stunning when you arrive; naked, your body soft and creased and effulgent. And while it depends on how his day's been, more often than not, you'll imitate rubbing his feet as he tells you about everything – paperwork and the taskforce and state secrets (does confidentiality count towards figments of his high?) – before he's settled enough to cut to the chase.

Yet he runs out of patience for it as time hauls on. Avidity amasses, tumorigenic need cramping his chest. One day, he stops you from kneeling at all.

"No need for that, sweet thing." He orders with a stiff grunt. There's no justification as to why, though it's clear you sense it already. The fraying strings of his sanity, that which you bat at like a playful kitten, have started to unravel dangerously close to what is holding it all together. "Just do what you do best, hm?"

(The best you can do–)

'Yes, daddy.'

Ever-dutiful, despite the monotony. There are no arguments with you, no taming and fights unless he's in a particularly aggressive mood. The only indication of your disappointment (not yours so much as it is his in himself) is the wet flutter of your lashes, the poking harlequin pout.

Both disappear from view when you turn your back to him and bend at the hip, small hands stretching to dig into your behind. His cock is out in no time – was practically tearing at his pant's seams, really – thrumming painfully hard, leaking onto his stomach when you pull apart either cheek like dough.

Your pussy spreads, glimmering under a matting of wiry hair. Arousal (feigned, imagined, projected–) webs your thighs together, swollen clit budding at the end of your mons. Apple of Eden; his jerks are awkward, uncoordinated, in comparison. Human. There's a twinge in his wrist from working himself almost daily.

His teeth taste like tobacco and spice, sleep clinging to the roof of his mouth. Would you eclipse it with your sweet-sour tang? He pictures taking you; stuffing his nose right below the tight rim of your ass so his tongue can lave over your slit. Working you open with his tongue. You'd soak the hair around his lips, and he'd press harder in response.

John spoils you rotten in his dreams. You know it, too, toes wiggling where you stand a few feet away. How cruel that he shouldn't get the chance to, then – that he has to consume his fixes to stop them from taunting him, and you're God's way of saying that he can't always get what he wants.

Carrot on a fucking stick. He's made an arse of. And worse yet–

He can't cum, no matter how enticingly you stand there. His palms are too calloused, nerves grown bored of their rough drag. Every jerk is a barely-there sensation. Surface level. Shallow. Like a rock skipping across a lake that never manages to sink.

(It never did amount to what you do to him in his head. But it seems as though his body has finally caught on to what the rest of him already knew.

That this – this tragic, autogenous slaking of carnal desire – can not continue on forever.)

He groans, paralysis needling painfully up his neck. It echoes like anger and holds none of the punch.

Breaking position, you twist to assess the newborn tension.

'Shhhh,' You coo. There's no judgement in your glassy eyes, none that can perceive (or wants to see). Rather, it's all pure love, a whisper of distress, and devotion. His little love, so perfect besides this one thing. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

"Not your fault." Hoarse. Broken.

(Who has he become?)

'I'd help you if I could. Let you take whatever you wanted from me, you wouldn't even have to ask.'

He'd been the one to initiate it, but the prospect of his orgasm is long abandoned when you perch on the armrest, laying your head near his. He has nowhere else to put his hands, so he keeps them cupped between his thighs – and if he suspends utilitarianism for long enough, can almost believe that they're yours, instead.

"That's nice, little one."

He imagines your warmth, the soft comfort of your bosom, as sleep encroaches on his periphery. You'd cup the tired weight of his head and lay it on your lap, there to stay until he awakes to birdsong. There in the morning light.

Thus the minutes tick by in quiet melancholy. He's halfway layered in the pelts of hypnagogia before you speak again.

'You should visit town tomorrow. Mail something home for Mother's Day maybe, and stop by the grocer's for eggs. You're all out.'

He hasn't seen greater society for almost a month.

A wicked hangover splits his skull, worming its claws into the soft matter of his brain. John had initially set out to do as you bid him – find a nice present for his mum and stock up for the next few weeks' hibernation – but the throngs of people crowding home goods and the jewellers make his condition worse, so he resolves to call her on the day and heads straight to the market instead.

Eggs, you said. He needs a lot more than that. Water and red meat and perhaps something that leaks grease when fried. Cucumbers, yoghourt, granola, too. Milk or juice, never both because he can't commit to finishing them before their best-by date. Fruit. Cookies.

The list grows exponentially as he surveys the colourful aisles, under eyes tender to the touch. If it weren't for the cart carrying most of his weight, he would have toppled over already, his chest dipped over the handle, wheels barreling forward. The store's empty enough that he doesn't worry about clipping someone's ankles. For now, it's just him.

Always that. Just him, and–

"Ah!"

Fuck.

"Are you alright?" He defaults, lurching to pluck the rolling oranges off the floor. It necessitates far more exertion than he can handle at the moment. The woman he ran into catches what bowls from his reach.

"Oh, yes! So sorry, that one's on me." She laughs, nervous. The nature of it – gentle, shaky like the beat of a butterfly's wing – rouses a near Pavlovian response in him, pleasantries crystallising between his teeth, hard as pearls. He coasts a suspicious look up, but her head stays bowed as she piles everything into her basket, arched baseball cap obscuring her features. "I insist on carrying everything, see, then it gets too much for me and the baskets are the nearest thing, and you know how heavy those can get if you do some serious shopping, don't you?. Honestly, I never learn. How silly."

The wonder shatters. He cringes, eyelids pruning shut to gather his sore thoughts in the sudden clammer. Talks too much, too loud. He finds it hard to tolerate anything but singsong whispers these days.

(On him, he knows.)

Unceremonious, they both stand. John extends the final orange, appraising the products she tucks it between rather than look back up at her. Sugar, butter, eggs, flour. And a hefty heap of citrus, of course. Odd.

She seems to think the same, breaking the awkward lull first.

"Big family?" The question is clearly well-intentioned – posed to the stacked contents of his cart. No well-adjusted man would hoard as many perishables for himself, not with the grocer's as accessible as it is. But John is not well-adjusted in any sense of the word, especially in the past few months. All her prying does, then, is inflame the irritation dusting his throat, kneading salt into the wound.

How incredibly unfortunate timing.

"Gingivitis?" He clips back. His hangover makes regret a hard thing to reach, though given she doesn't take offence to his snipe.

"Ouch, okay." She laughs, more lighthearted than before. It reminds him of you (you, is anything its own thing anymore?) and John feels a fire light his heels. Agitation to get back home. "No, I'm making orange shortbread for the old folks at the nursing home. Needed to replenish a few things. I haven't baked in a while."

"How nice."

"'Tis the season! Erm– I mean. Y'know, with Mother's Day."

(Later, when he's staring at his fingers, sozzled like a cat on cream, he replays this conversation over in his head like he'll be able to change its outcome. Had he been alert, he'd have picked up on it by now. Christmas platitudes in spring – who else did he know with such transgressive peculiarities?

Captain Price wouldn't have missed it. Unfortunately for him, he left that intensity between powdered ice and silver firs.)

"Anyway." She coughs. He didn't realise he was expected to respond, stare lingering on the exit some distance away, keen to see this end. In his periphery, her cap tips down, supply list clutched in fidgety hands as she reads down the line of ingredients. He forces his attention back to the moment, training his eyes on the curve of her skull. "Just one thing left. Um, should be down hereeeee–"

Her head tilts up again, searching for the aisle markers overhead.

And it's–

Painful. Like the rip release of every organ seizes simultaneously, domino discharge down his spine. Ribs flush suddenly into the flaring muscle of his heart, which thrashes wildly against the corral, desperate to see itself out. To reach across this empty space and leech on to the delicate features that come into view. His brain – startled out of its judiciousness – blares I told you so's to the hot rush of blood behind his ears. Marrow melts to oil his joints, unmooring their structural integrity, and his breakfast threatens to disgorge and make for a foul first impression.

(John always thought revelations came kindly, that they blossomed in the neglected forks of life. Like a summer boscage, or the gentle, prying hands of a monarch escaping its cocoon. How can divulgence be anything but soft, and refined? How would the world grapple with them if otherwise?

He sees it now for what it is.

The world would have no choice.)

"Vanilla extract." You shake your list, smiling at him – a vivid, honest smile – before you brush right out of view.

He tells himself this doesn't change things. No matter how you like to argue the opposite.

'I don't see why not, daddy. Don't you want me, too?'

More than he'd like anything else in the world. But it's back again, that reaper of dreams poison control once foretold. Know better. He does, at least to the extent that bringing you here – tying you to his bed posts like he so desperately wants to do – is not the best idea. His age, his job, his incessant fucking wants, all pave their own desire paths; some more practical than others but less tempting as a result.

He knows how loneliness kills. At least he's built for it, but you?

"Work complicates things, little one."

John finds it all unfurling before him, the coffin housing his fears unhinged.

(You, dead by your own hands or worse, made vulnerable to the brutes he works against. Not a possibility when you're linked to him like this, hallucinatory, unreal, but you – the you he saw earlier today – aren't any of those things.)

'You don't really believe that, do you?'

You're never so argumentative. He sucks his teeth, waving a hand through your hips. And it must snub you so, for you disappear like smoke beneath a cloudburst of rain.

No matter. He doesn't need the temptation finding him.

(That is, until an answer finds him first.)

He phones home for Mother's Day, and she asks for updates for any lucky miss he would call his.

In the borders of his vision, you're hunched over the persian rug that was a gift from an associate for a job well done. Your feet cross over each other, fingers working idly at pretending to braid the fringed edge. The sight gets the better of him, adorable, and he briefly considers switching his answer from the usual – wish you'd stop fretting, it's not doing your health any favours – until sense catches on. He wouldn't know how to deal with the questions.

"No."

"What a shame. I know you're busy with that job and all, John," Because his mother never addresses the big risk to her son's life by name. "but you really should work on making me some grandbabies, before I pass on to the earth."

"Please, mum. Don't start with that nonsense–"

"No! It's any day now, you know it as well as I do." She tuts. He remembers her hands – tracing cool patterns onto his scalp that night, back when he was five and only concerned with the best taste his mouth could fathom. He remembers, and thinks of the wrinkled stretch of them now. "Take this as my last word of wisdom! Family will be the one thing you have when those milking tosser's decide to do away with you. Family, John!"

He chokes back a sigh.

"Yeah. So you've said."

Family. So bloody simple, isn't it?

Iron-wrought key, right under his nose this whole time.

His last two pills frown at him from behind their orange confines, two-toned and unassuming. He could get more if he so pleased, but the hope is that they won't be necessary after tonight.

Carried by the bourbon that blazes down his gullet, they go down smoothly. Soon enough, you appear, summoned, as he laces his boots.

"Does it hurt you, sweet thing?" He finally asks, punching an arm through his windbreaker's sleeve. April showers carry bracingly after dusk, weatherproof attire a functional choice.

That is to say, the towel in his pocket isn’t for him.

You gain that elvish look to your face, of the same variety he fell in love with when you first appeared to him. He often forgets how otherworldly you can be; radiant, inhuman vision. Your mirror isn't so... remarkable. Frizzy hair, fleshly, bleeding behind round cheeks. Perhaps that's the appeal.

'F'course not. It is me, after all.'

"Is it?" The front door clicks behind him, new-washed breeze pushing it into place. It feels final, like casting his decision in stone.

'Hmm,' You pretend to think for a long, long while, prancing a solid two paces behind no matter what speed he sets. A new moon blights the fields around his home, sparse raindrops reflecting only your glowing figure. It lights the way until he reaches the skirts of town, when street lamps bleed gold down onto him. Only then do you speak again. 'I should think so, yes. Take a left here.'

John does as you say.

'Though she won't be as receptive to it all. Right.'

He turns right.

'You’ll have to decide how to deal with that.'

"I'd appreciate a few pointers."

'What do you think I'm doing, daddy?' You murmur, materialising before him as he comes up on an avenue known for its nightlife. 'Take a right here and keep going.'

"And you?" He asks, though he already knows the answer.

'I'll be there.'

You are. Though you’re not alone.

Two cretins crowd you into a brick wall, lanky arms anchored by your head to form a flimsy aviary. John hears their badgering a block away; crowing voices, placatory promises they wouldn’t be able to uphold even if they knocked back a viagra each. The wind carries it, works their whispers into fine dust. Powder. Negligible. He’s seen this dance before – this dreadful caper, a little bit of force behind what is otherwise an insipid show – but he’s usually above such drama. The men he keeps know not to ask for what they want. Not when it hazards a bird flapping out of reach.

You’ve got to clip their wings, first.

Though you look like you’d be indebted to any sort of hero. The hem of your dress rides up your thigh, snapping away from restive hands. Shortening what is already… He resolves to admonish you about it later, traipsing closer to the scene. Given your ornament, he can’t blame these men beyond covetous reason, but he won’t topple it onto you either.

Everything flays out before him. Of the bunch, you demand the slyest hand.

“C’mon, love. It isn’t that far of a walk.”

“Yeah. You’re pissed out of yer mind a’ready. Can’t go home now, huh?”

“Would be so cute between us both.”

“The best. Look at those wide eyes.”

“Busy checkin’ out the arse on her, but I’ll get to her eyes in a minute.”

Your face crumbles in on itself. He’s closer now. Can make out the mascara painting black tracks down your cheeks, lips smeared by the rain – or, the alternative, pecking vultures having claimed them already. Either way, a green-eyed serpent seethes in the curls of his gut, blood imbued venom coursing. He feels it wind, poising for attack, strength compressed into a tight ball of anger.

Then, when one of them – ginger, juvenile – snakes a hand between your legs, it strikes.

He rips his gun from the inner lining of his coat. The other kid is shorter, more on edge, so John doesn’t worry about the force it’d take to daunt him. When the cold press of his muzzle fixes to his companion’s temple, he dashes away with a pathetic screech, tripping over the loose ends of his shoelaces. Par for the course. Weasel.

The ginger isn’t so lucky.

“You get off on scaring defenceless girls, lad?” He barks into his ear, one hand gripping both floundering wrists. The boy cringes, fear rattling his throat. Any response he tries to shape turns out a nasally wheeze.

“P-Please-”

“Shut your fucking trap. You’d have a better shot at mercy carving your little cock off.”

“I w-wo– we were just-t having fun. No harm… harm done, right?” The pleas recourse to you. In his periphery, John registers your frown. Half-hearted. Scared still – of both the unfamiliar, violent men. He peels the commotion two steps back to show he means no harm.

(To his narrow definitions, of course. His plans for you constitute harm in anyone else’s book. He’s sure that, if you were wise to them, you’d slip in the other direction.)

“She doesn’t seem to think so.”

“No! No, p-please, p–” He silences the boy with a pistol-whip, blunt end of the gun breaking skin off his jaw. The message couldn’t have been clearer – twice now, he’s demanded silence – but no one seems to listen. His cries peak, out-of-tune in the pitter-patter shower. Tortured, like a mangled cat.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, yeah?” The air flutters around you. He’s trained to tread carefully, like you’ll disappear at any moment. Better make this quick, then. “You’re going to go home, lock your windows, and try to sleep with an eye open tonight. The young lady’s welfare matters more than your fate, but I don’t forget. There will be a time where I come to break every finger off your hand. Enjoy them in the meanwhile.”

Perfunctory, he shoves him to the muddy floor. Blood joins the streams sluicing to the sewers, inky swirls of gore a welcome sight. He hasn’t felt this alive since–

Well, since Serbia.

And the boy must see the predatory gleam in his eyes. The dead, inbred callousness. Shark out of the water. Knows what’s good for him as the fin breaks the surface, rows of teeth just underneath, because he runs off before they can snap around his clumsy legs.

(You, on the other hand, don’t have that instinct. Instead, you blubber, seal on a floating icecap.

And dive headfirst into his jowls.)

“T-Thank you, I can’t thank you enough. I- My friends left me and I didn’t have a ride home and no one was picking up my calls so I thought it would be safe to ask them, but I couldn’t have predicted how nasty they’d be. Really, they seemed like nice guys–”

John censures you with a stare.

“You should know better than to be out at this time.”

He’s gotten good at imagining your responses. He needn’t hear what you have to say next. Before you can even open your mouth, the chloroform-doused towel in his pocket is out and pasted to your pretty face.

There’s a brief pause where he expects you to fall through to the floor. But your body slumps, ragdoll boneless, right into his arms.

That’s what brings him here.

Here: cotton rope hitching your elbows together behind your back, a column of square-knots parallel to both arms. It was what he managed while you were unconscious. Could have managed more – so much more, tick off the beginnings on a cosmic index of all the things he wants to fucking do with you – if it weren’t for patchy effort. He went a little rabid, see. Clipped off the leash, chain to the doghouse broken. Saw the time better spent fondling your supple curves, your body lax beneath his.

Weakened or willing, it doesn’t matter so much as you’re corporeal. That he can.

(A book he bought as a much younger man details seven different ways to harness a chest. If he had a grip, he would have seen to it – your breasts purpling, ensnared in a lattice of his own construction. It’s this new, foul fascination. How many ways can a body bend before it breaks? He’s never been mindful of the line before, on the field, but he’s got one to do with as he pleases, now.)

Little one. New toy, fix. His wife.

You process it all in your own time, sleepy eyes peeling open to find that you’re no longer in some dingy alleyway. Though your hair has yet to dry, he’s made good work of paring the damp dress off your form, the steady warmth of a fireplace making for a gentle come-to. John takes it as encouragement when a tired yawn splits your mouth, lips quirking up. Smiling.

“Look at you.” He hums, thumb working quicker over your clit. With legs notched apart, your cunt’s been made vulnerable, bared to every ministration he couldn’t wait to inflict until after you woke. Thus you’re already weeping a steady stream of slick, folds lacquered in arousal. Leaking down the line of your ass, too. Desperate thing. He scrutinises the sloppy mess of it, doughy and swollen and wet, shoulders flexing over the possessive swell in his throat.

It’s comical, the turnaround. Reality overruns your face, peaky infestation from his carcass to yours. Your eyes well with teary distress as you take him in. What a monster he must make; frothy longing turned savagery, held too long under the blighted mass of his tongue. Festered. Ugly. He sees it himself in the contrast of his skin and yours. Where you’re satin, all incandescent sweat-slicked stretch, he’s 60 grit sandpaper. Sun-hardened leather and crooked scars.

“Hnmphh!”

But he can ignore that. Doesn’t have to concern himself with rejection, not when the bit gag between your teeth renders you mute. Simple knot sandwiched by your molars. Subtle. He doesn’t want it to hurt today – not any more than necessary, at least – but conversation has gotten old. There’s a reason he brought you home. Why thick fingers work your hole, breaking it to house something bigger. He isn’t interested in soft-soaping anymore.

(The two of you have had your honeymoon already.)

No. Purpose, he thinks. His mum laid it all out for him. A family to bear you company during those long weeks he isn’t home. Family, linchpin to making this all work. To crowd this house with not just one, or two, but multiple sweet things that’ll extinguish the lonely flame at its hearth. He celebrates it already – boisterous corners, crowded kitchens, the cable he pays for finally being put to use.

And you–

“Promise I’ll suck that pretty pussy like I promised, little one. Just– fuck- daddy just has to do something first, yeah? You gonna be good for me?” John huffs, shucking his trousers to fish himself out of his pants.

Your muffled protests launch into something else entirely, feral defiance compelling your limbs like electric shock. It’s fusillade, violent devastation. Your legs flail, unhinged, compensating for the lost mobility in your arms. He manages to slip his fingers out of your clutch and tuck a hand under either knee, but not before your heel connects to his jaw. As is true on the field, adrenaline primes a strong kick. Metallic warmth swathes the inside of his cheek, strength waning for a second.

And through it all, you have the audacity to cry.

When he regains his bearings, anger has supplanted care. He hoists your thighs up onto your chest, calves upright in the air, and pushes a knee forcefully into the space exposed. It flattens your cunt with the pressure, clit crushing in on itself. Agony bulges fine lines at your temples, veins bloating as a miserable scream tears from your throat.

“I’ll cane your ass raw if you keep up with this. Strike your hole until all you’ll feel for weeks is your punishment. That what you want, mm? Want the memory of our child’s conception to be filled with pain?”

His nose fits to yours, beard tickling the canyon of your upper lip. It's intense, the proximity. Heat flush between you, sustained fire you can’t pull away from. John watches the hesitancy flit over your eyes, the reluctance of a burn, breaths erratic and shallow. You didn’t breathe, before. Didn’t need to. But he finds that he likes the new rhythm of it. Like watching the life drain from a quarry, game bleeding out into Serbian snow. He never thought he’d miss hunting for survival – not until he had you pressed to his side, lured from those other predators into something much worse.

(And perhaps that’s what’s been absent, all along. You used to come too easy, allowed him to grow permissive and lazy. But this–

His skin fits the moniker again. Captain, revitalised in his bones.)

You shake your head no, just as he rubs his cock along your entrance.

The feeding is effortless. You practically draw him in, needy for it, walls conforming to the fat intrusion until his head nestles against a hard spot. Steel-wool pubes tangles in your own, scratching the sensitive hood of your clit as he adjusts to the balmy suffocation. Tight. So fucking tight, more so than he could have imagined, your struggle working against you as it contracts the muscles around the area.

His teeth knock into yours, borderline bruising kiss closing the gap. Should he give it a moment’s breath, his lips would swell blue. But he keeps you to him, your reluctant mouth slow against his own – impeded by the gag and your own stubbornness, snivels sucked into his gluttonous abyss. It tastes like seawater and vanilla, the wires crossing in his brain.

This, he thinks, is the taste he’s been searching for all his life.

This petty space separating you, a carpet of chest hair laid over our thighs. Breathing one another in, memorising the scars behind your cheeks. Pistoning into your cunt, making room for himself in the years and years to come. He’ll never get enough of you. You’ll never get enough of it – once you learn to embrace the pleasure wrought out of you.

In due time.

He batters parallel to your cervix, plunging deep as he can go. You’re slippery with the effort, wet where you thrum fierce, depravity stringing the oscillating gap of your mons and his pelvis. Binds you to him like gauze on a day-old wound, sticky and raw, and you must be a masochist if the stiffening of your joints is anything to go by. Your pupils roll, stupid, to regard the back of your head. Fucked dumb. Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring.

“Can’t wait to see my seed take, have you grow round and glowing.” He growls, speaking into your cheek. The faint hints of your cologne, long faded under rain and sweat, cram temptingly into his synapses. It’s all he can do not to take a whole bite of you, now that he can. Wants to see the evidence of his ownership mark your skin; violent, a little bloody. Physical. Carnal. Imperfect presence honing in the fact that it is better than none at all.

“Mmmmff,”

“Yeah? Want me to keep you pumped full of my cum? Think that would be nice. Plugging you shut. Maybe suspending you upside down so it’s a sure process. How does that sound, sweet thing? Y’like it?”

Your feet thump weakly on his back.

“Then cum. Go on, be a good girl f’me.”

And with the orchestration of it all; your already tense pelvic floor, the rippling liquid of your eyes, the stifled voicing of your plight–

John can’t tell whether or not you do.

You tire yourself out, eventually.

It’s much later; the rise of a new morning flooding his home in sheer blues, illuminating last night’s mess. Without the orange glow of firelight, it looks a lot less romantic. Torn clothes, cotton fibres. Body fluids matting the pelts he uses to break up the floors. He would have it in him to blanch at the forfeiture of his self-control, cringe a little for appearance sake. He’s grown, now. Should know better.

But there’s no one around. No one. Just him, christening a loveseat instead of his wingback, and–

You, knocked out on his lap, rope burns raw up your arms.

(When you wake again, he’ll make it official. A passing of the torch, so to speak, from one fix to the next. He hasn’t a band, or really any certification to make it legal. But–

The lit end of his cigar should do. Touched, fittingly, to the proximal length of your ring finger.)

John’s always had his fixes.

He finds he’s finally had his fill when you cradle his child close to your breast, and reach out a hand for him, too.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i post / update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

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twistedwonderlandshenanigans · 4 months

Text

"Stupid" Things the TWST Cast Believed As Kids

I was going to post this without a preamble but it just looked wrong LMAO -----------------------------------------------------

Heartslaybul

Riddle - He just mispronounced a lot of words out loud. This is actually common in a lot of kids that read a lot, they don't know how to say a word any differently than the way they've pronounced it in their head, so some examples: (Ladle -> would rhyme with Saddle, Rhythm had over-emphasis on the first 'h', etc.)

Trey - thought butter was made from the fat collected off of cow butts ('butt' was also the only 'naughty' word he knew for a long time). The thing is he had probably seen his parents make butter. either by accident or on purpose and it still didn't click for him.

Cater - only ate black beans, (when they were served). when he was a kid because he thought they were the same as coffee beans. He saw his dad eating chocolate covered coffee beans and got mad when he denied him the Delight Of Caffeine at Three Years Old so thought eating black beans was like. A super sneaky way of being like his dad.

Deuce - Chocolate covered strawberries came from a special plant, he didn't think his mom just set them up for him sometimes. He ended up asking more than a few times when his strawberries were plain when they could 'go back to the store and get the good kind' and would call the strawberries without chocolate 'rotten'.

Ace - For whatever reason, he didn't think bears were a real animal. Just. Teddy bears existed. And of course when his big brother showed him pictures of real bears he thought he was messing with him. Ace will not admit how long it took him to realize that bears are real.

Savannaclaw

Leona - Falena told him once that vanilla extract comes from 'beaver butt juice' and it was in all the vanilla flavoured desserts he's ever had. Yes Falena was messing with him to get his portion of desserts because Leona was too grossed out to eat them. It managed to last about 6 months before Leona was fed up and researched the information on his own.

Ruggie - His grandma protected him best she could from food scarcity, so he genuinely believed she knew how to make something from nothing. Same with his clothes.

Jack - Refused to eat hotdogs because he thought they were made from real dogs and cried whenever he saw someone else eating hot dogs. Even when they bough turkey hot dogs he thought they added 'turkey flavouring' to the Dogs.

Octavinelle

Azul - Thought cuttlefish were 'cuddlefish' and would get so SO upset when they didn't want to snuggle with him

Jade - When he first heard the word 'hermaphrodite' he thought it meant someone who just really really liked hermit crabs.

Floyd - Was SO disappointed to find out ice cream didn't scream while you eat it (I-scream)

Scarabia

Kalim - Used to try and eat really fast, so Jamil told him if he ate his food too hot his tongue would melt to the top of his mouth. (Yeah Jamil got in trouble for that one but it worked, Kalim savoured his food and he still makes sure his food is cooled down a little before he eats).

Jamil - Didn't eat yogurt for a long time because he didn't want to 'feed the bacteria in his belly'. That was his only reasoning.

Pomefiore

Vil - thought candy cigarettes were real cigarettes, this resulted in him biting one of his dad's or fellow actor's cigarettes and Regretting it. (Even the fake ones are filled with like an herbal blend, you don't want to eat it still)

Rook - kinda sad, but genuinely thought termites were considered dessert. They were fairly rampant in his home so he would eat them any chance he got (raw termites supposedly taste like pineapple).

Epel - yeah he thought he was a werewolf, there isn't much else to add.

Ignihyde

Idia - Thought that microwaving a spider/other bugs for a very short amount of time would mutate their DNA and he could keep it as a pet, despite many failed attempts, he continued trying.

Ortho - (insert ugly crying here thinking about baby boys early years) he really believed that one day Idia would find a way to bring the characters from tv/video games into 'real life' so they could have play dates with them. (Idia promised him he would try his best)

Diasomnia

Malleus - He thought computers were a type of pet people could have.

Lilia - Used to think that the stars were really big glow bugs

Silver - Fully believed the storks deliver babies thing. Not because of Lilia, but because of a story book and it made things easy so he just rolled with it anyways, until Silver was old enough.

Sebek - That the fountain of youth was real - he wanted to drink from it once he reached his prime so that he could serve Malleus always.

Others

Che'nya - Refused to believe that gum ever came from trees because he 'tried sap before and it didn't even taste like syrup so how could something sweet as gum come from trees'.

Najma - Thought she was able to talk to ghosts, it was just Jamil fucking with her lskjfhsldkjfsdf

Neige - Didn't know what owls were, called them tree penguins.

Rollo - Called ambulances 'Body Rescue Busses' because even as a kid he knew only God could save your soul. (you can take that seriously or as satire idc) -------------------------------------------------------- @fluffle-writes thank you for the compliments, and the motivation to write!! ljfkjdshflkjsdf

If you want to be on a taglist in the future lmk

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damascus-crowned-king · 2 months

Text

Foolish love, but damn if it isn't true

Fool!Guy and Fool!Honey

It's really fucking bad yall

They were bored.

They were the only one awake at 6:30 AM, and they hated it. Years of waking up early out of fear that they would be late for some sort of event or that if they didn't wake up early enough, they wouldn't be as productive was biting them in the ass.

So they decided to bother their adorable, grumpy, currently asleep boyfriend.

"Guy."

"Baby."

"Darling."

"Sugar."

"Flour. Egg. Butter. Vanilla extract. Baking soda. "Salt. If you don't answer me, the pet names are just gonna get weirder, Guy."

"Nothing? Alright."

...

Radio silence.

"My oatmeal cream pie. My tomato soup."

"My honey-"

It only took a second for Guy to grab the back of their head and shove their face into a pillow and lay on top of them. Rendering them immobile.

"Oomph!"

"First of all. I call you honey, not the other way around. Second of all, It's too early and you should go back to bed. Third of all, why were almost all of those "pet names" food related?"

"I'm bored... and I can't go back to sleep, and also, I'm hungry, and who said that you trademarked the nickname 'honey'?!"

He replied dryly. "I did."

They squirmed for a minute before giving up under him. "Can you get off of me now?"

He questioned them slightly, still mildly crushing them under his weight. "Are you gonna chill out?"

"Maybe..."

"..."

"....Okay I'll calm down... lame-ass..."

"Did you say something?"

"Nothing, sweetheart~"

"That's what I thought." He got off top of them and laid on his side while Honey wrapped their arms around him so he could nuzzle his face in their chest.

They eventually started scratching his scalp, and they made a small smile at him leaning into their touch. "Your roots are kinda showing. Do you want me to touch 'em up for you?"

Guy scrunched his face in confusion and slight judgment at their behavior, still mumbling into their neck. "Honey. Did you just sniff my hair?"

Guy buried his face in the crook of their neck and wrapped his arms around them even tighter, mumbling a tired response. "Yeah... Tomorrow."

Honey slightly shivers at Guy's warm breath on their neck, smirking at his clinginess. "Okay." Letting out a soft confirmation before burying their face in his hair, taking a deep whiff of his natural scent mixed with his coconut and mango shampoo.

Honey smirked at Guy's convicting tone. "What? You smell good."

Guy scoffed at honey, finding their fascination for his smell odd. "You're such a weirdo..."

"What? You want me to say you smell bad? 'Cus I could."

"I mean, you could, but then you'd just look like a liar..."

"Do you want me to appreciate your smell or say you smell gross?"

"You could just... not smell me. That's an option." He says, throwing out the proposition, knowing full well it won't be taken into consideration.

Honey, fake-considers his suggestion, very obviously not actually thinking about not smelling him. "Mmmmm nah I'll pass."

Guy rolls his eyes and holds Honey tighter, wrapping his legs around them like a koala. Squeezing them tightly while they play with his hair.

This was the life to Guy. Silence and cuddles, Honey's fingers tangling into his hair and Guy secretly taking in their scent. (Hypocrite) Who wouldn't love this serene, still moment...

"Has anyone told you you're absolutely perfect?"

Guy was stunned to say the least. For Honey to say something so out of the blue and something so sappy had his heart skipping a beat.

"Um... no? What's up with you?" Guy was confused. Confused but not that surprised. His Honey was always one to speak their mind, but sometimes they said things that had him flustered. And he wasn't exactly the best at preparing for their unaware sweet words.

"Just sayin'. You're adorable, you're sweet, you smell amazing all the time, and you feed me. That seems like perfect boy behavior to me."

Whoooo boy. Yep. This is how he dies. Four years of being together, and he still turned into a bashful mess whenever Honey was all mushy with him... which was most of the time.

"God you are so..."

"Sooo...? What?"

Guy lets out a soft, resigned sigh and leans into them. "Charming."

Honey snorts at Guy somewhat dropping the tough-guy act and admitting he finds them charming, their ego rising at his simple word of affirmation.

"And that's all the sappy shit you're getting out of me today. No more."

"Ahhh I knew it... you're no fun..."

"Not my problem."

"But you know what is your problem?"

Guy groaned, clearly not excited for whatever was about to come out of his Honey's mouth. "What?"

Honey spoke up with a smirk in their voice. "Breakfast~"

"Ughhhh...."

"Soooo. What should we have for breakfast? We could have waffles, hashbrowns, Omelettes, grits? Ooh! We could have French toast and sausage?"

Guy rolled his eyes as they rambled about various breakfast foods, but deep down he knew he'd make a four course breakfast meal for his Honey. Because they deserved it. They deserved the world after dealing with his sass and sarcasm and monotone, lackluster personality, and his absence of... everything for years and even deciding to date him after putting up with all of it.

So he'll gladly make them breakfast.

And gladly give them the whole world if they asked.

Anything for his Honey.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted fooliverse #redacted fool!guy #redacted fool!honey #redacted honey #redacted guy

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something-something-peaceful · 8 days

Text

Oh boy time for a recipe that’ll probably be thrown into the forgotten depths

Chocolate lemon cupcakes

Chocolate cupcakes

* 1 cup (130g) all-purpose flour

* 1 cup (207g) sugar

* 6 tbsp (43g) unsweetened cocoa powder

* 1 tsp baking soda

* 1/2 tsp salt

* 1 large egg

* 1/2 cup (120ml) buttermilk

* 1/2 cup (120ml) vegetable oil (I used a majority of olive oil and used about 1/4 cup vegetable oil, I didn’t specify any better because fuck you and I don’t wanna)

* 1 tsp vanilla extract

* 1cup (120ml) hot coffee

Lemon Curd:

* 4 large eggs

* 1 cup granulated sugar

* 1/2 cup lemon juice fresh squeezed, from one large lemon

* 1 Tbsp lemon zest from one large lemon

* 6 Tbsp unsalted butter cubed

Frosting

* 1 cup (240 ml) heavy cream, cold

* 2 tablespoons (16 g) powdered sugar

* 1 teaspoon (3 g) cornstarch

* 1 teaspoon (2.5 ml) vanilla extract

For the cupcakes

1. Preheat oven to 300°F (148°C) and prepare a cupcake pan with liners. 

2. Add the flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt to a large mixing bowl and combine. Set aside.

3. Add the egg, milk, vegetable oil and vanilla extract to another medium sized bowl and whisk together to combine.

4. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and mix until well combined.

5. Add the water to the batter and mix until well combined. The batter will be very thin.

6. Fill the cupcake liners about half way and bake for 18-23 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out with a few moist crumbs. (I have a shitty oven so I added ten more minutes to the bake time after I checked if it was fully cooked, just start off with 5 minute increments, if you want to be more cautious)  

7. Remove the cupcakes from oven and allow to cool for 2 minutes, then remove to a cooling rack to finish cooling.

Lemon Curd:

* Place eggs and sugar into a small pot, whisk to combine. Add lemon juice, zest, and butter. Cook over medium-low heat whisking constantly until mixture thickens and coats the back of a spoon. 

* Transfer to a glass bowl and lay plastic wrap directly on the surface to prevent a skin from forming. Chill for 1 hours to almost set.  

Frosting

1. Chill the Bowl and Whisk: Begin by chilling your mixing bowl and whisk (or whisk attachment) in the freezer for at least 15 minutes. This helps the cream whip up faster and increases volume.

2. Combine Dry Ingredients: Mix powdered sugar and cornstarch in a small bowl. This ensures even distribution of the cornstarch in the whipped cream.

3. Whip the Cream: Pour the cold heavy cream into the chilled bowl. Using an electric mixer, start whipping the cream at a low speed, gradually increasing to medium-high as it thickens.

4. Add Sugar and Cornstarch: Once the cream starts forming soft peaks, gradually add the sugar and cornstarch mixture, continuing to whip.

5. Add Vanilla Extract: As the mixture thickens to stiff peaks, add the vanilla extract and continue to whip until well incorporated and the cream holds stiff peaks. (Probably make the frosting after the cupcakes have fully set)

Assembly

1. Remove the core of the cupcakes with a knife or a cupcake corer, you need a hole

2. Put almost solid curd in the center of the cupcakes, preferably with a piping tip.

3. Let curd set fully in the cupcakes for 1 hour more

4. Pipe on frosting, and serve

**note that this is posted on the same day is was baked, I can’t say how well the whipped cream frosting will hold up.

**a large cookie scoop helps with filling the cupcake liners. I used 2 scoops of the largest one I had

**normally you’re supposed to fluff your flour, but I was worried it would be too liquidy so I just scooped the flour from the container, like a heathen.

** I know I should half the recipe for the lemon curd, because there was a little left and it was overflowing out of the cupcakes a little, but it could be the fact the cupcake holes weren’t big enough. It wasn’t that much plus, you could mix the cake that’s left over from the removal of the middles with it, so idk.

I suppose I should put a useless story like all other blogs.

It was my possible step brother’s birthday and there was a mix up with the 2 cakes. Instead of chocolate raspberry and vanilla lemon cake, the bakery mixed up the flavors and reversed it. And me being weird I kinda liked it. So here’s a recipe that basically makes that cake. Why are these so long? Like that story was simple and easy. You could easily just say “my mom made this a lot when I was a kid.” Like I’m pretty good at writing a whole essay about something that doesn’t matter, evidence and an explanation, everything you could need. Would anyone even read this? It’s a recipe on tumblr, if I posted this on Pinterest maybe but even then most people I know don’t like citrus and chocolate. I offered some cupcakes to my grandma but I actively left out that the custard is lemon flavored, because I knew she’d make a virtual face at it. I want to show my creations but I can’t do that when no one is willing to try it. My mom was easy to convince because sugar. This is long because that’s the whole joke, for this whole piece about a simple story to be far too long when people just want the recipe. Would this bit even work? It’s all at the end, not at the beginning like every other blog does but I understand how frustrating that shit is. And like since I’m dragging it out it’ll only be more of a nuisance to the people wanting to see the recipe. Should I just half the lemon curd recipe? Do people even read the notes about the recipe? I sure don’t also. I also should’ve put proportions sizes but I don’t wanna put effort in remembering or counting. 8+6+1…. Uhhhh 15 cupcakes that I made. How likely is it that government secrets are put in these long bullshit paragraphs? I hope I get some criticism on this recipe there was a fair amount of research and rewriting. I forgot the name for cupcake liners btw, I had to ask my mom what they were called so that was a little awkward because I was making some more notes on the recipe while doing so. I wonder how I’m going to transport those cupcakes, I mean my grandma’s house isn’t that far of a walk but also it’s kinda hot and I don’t have any boxes also it’s night. Is this paragraph long enough that the joke gets hammered in? I don’t think it’s long enough but I could be wrong, I suppose I should write some more nonsense to add to the word count. Anbdndjdjelskxnjskwjsjzjksnsbsjkwksbhsjsksnsbsjkwndnzjsknwnsjsksks. Space. Ajkdndjoelndkkpl high ndkskskskndjjdksksnnsjsk. I got my cats some new toys recently, they’re touch activated and they make noises and move around. Of course I think they primarily like them because of the cat nip. I think I’m going to stop writing this, I’m getting bored and I don’t have much to say rn.………………………………………………………………………………………… I hope I don’t explode after this…………………………………….. my phone is spacing out this out weirdly, idk what that’s about…………………………………………………………………..do you think aliens are real?………………………………………are ghosts real?……………………………………………………………………. How do food bloggers end these anyways? I’ve never read the paragraphs but they have to at some point, right? ……………………………………………………………………..I think half the reason why food bloggers have such long paragraphs is because we’re encouraged to make a whole essay whenever we’re writing something. I know I am…………………………I’m probably wrong……………………. It probably forces more ads onto the screen at once………………….aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…………… I know it doesn’t matter but I wonder how the tumblr algorithm works, like do they prefer to show longer or shorter posts? Of course it could be our decreasing attention spans. I like spam, it’s not that bad, of course I’m probably a couple of sprinkles of salt away from death……………..I’m tired……………………… I think it’s time to stop typing, I think my space button is starting to die.

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oddballwriter · 4 months

Text

The Sweetest Thing

Summary: Your hobby of baking causes an issue for the boys. Not because of anything with you, it's a matter of control with themselves.

Warnings: Nothing really.

Author’s Snip: I bake as a hobby and while making brownies earlier I thought this up.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Word Count: 816

Taglist: @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction (you can join the taglist, just ask)

It was a problem. Not for you. You were just acting out your hobby of baking and there was nothing wrong with that at all. The problem was with the boys and the fact that they couldn’t resist eating whatever you baked. Whether it be brownies, cookies, cupcakes, bonbons, pies, anything.

You wouldn’t call yourself a top baker, but the boys always sang your praises and wanted the first taste every time. But you seem to always have something freshly baked and fresh out the oven.

Steven was the least likely to tell you no when you offered him a piece of what you’ve made, always having the subconscious intuition to start baking so that when it was all ready it could be pair with his tea. And it would be nice to have something with his tea. And you always go through the trouble of using a vegan recipe.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t.” Steven says to himself as you offer him a few cookies you just finished, “I can’t be eating so much sugar all the time.” he warns himself. “Just one won’t hurt.” Steven excuses.

But one turns into two, and then an extra third that he didn't realize he was eating until he was just about done with it.

"So much for 'just one'." Steven scolds himself.

"At least I know that they were good," you remark.

"Thank you for letting me try them though, love. They were delicious. But next time I'll just grab one and leave the rest of the container alone." Steven says.

It's worse when Marc just got done working out. Gained some muscle, shed a good amount of calories. But then he walks in and the flat smells like a damn bakery. Out of all of the days and times that you could have baked, you chose the day that Marc goes to the gym and the time he comes home. And you're there smiling at him.

"What's for dessert this time?" Marc asks as he walks over to you and kisses you on the cheek. "You giggle, "Cinnamon rolls, I found an easy-to-follow recipe a few days ago and wanted to give it a try." you explain.

Marc sighs, "Why do you always have to make something to make me regain all the calories I just lost?" he questions. "You don't have to eat them today if you don't want to." you say, "Plus, they aren't done yet. They need to be done baking and I need to make the frosting." you add.

"You can have one once they're complete and cooled down." you offer him. "That's the issue. If you're the one who made them then I'll get up eating more than one." Marc explains.

"Sometimes having a little bit of a little snack pouch is okay as long as you're healthy." you half-joke.

Jake hardly does anything about it though. He couldn't care less if he gained a pound or two if it meant getting to enjoy your baking. Matter of fact he's right there when you bake. Arms wrapped around your body while you measure and mix, but he hardly really helps in your opinion.

"Are you just going to hold me the whole time or are you going to do something?" you question playfully. "I help by licking the spoons and bowls." Jake replies.

You huff in amusement before picking up the teaspoon that you used a second ago, "Then do me a favor and 'clean' this for me." you request as you hand it to him. Jake takes it and gives it one lick before trying to spit in an immediate reaction. "What the hell was that?" Jake exclaims. "I used that for the vanilla extract." you say simply.

"That was mean." Jake says with a fake pout. "You saw me use it a second ago, I don't know how you fell for that." you laugh.

"I just like watching you work, I don't pay attention to what exactly you're putting in. You could poison it right in front of me and I probably won't catch it at first." Jake says before he slightly changes the subject.

"Speaking of watching you bake. I would love to help you open up a little bakery and have a little section where I can watch you make everything." Jake mentions as he holds you closer and kisses your neck. "I don't think I'm that much of a baker that I could have a business." you comment.

"I'd disagree. I think once someone gets a taste of what you make then they'd be flocking for a single piece." Jake says.

"Jake I use recipes I find online and then write down if I like them." you mention.

"Well then maybe it's time that you experiment with making your own." Jake fires back, "I can taste test for you while you try to nail it." he suggests.

#moon knight #moonknight #moon knight x reader #moonknight x reader #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader

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aphelea · 2 years

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#making this made me realize that i havent heard this song in a While #anyway yeah. sorry. had to get in on the joke #august rambles #vanilla extract #polls #<- in case anyone is sick of vanilla extract lmao #also the title doesnt make any sense at first but if you Think about it does trust me

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quinnysnursery · 4 months

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Do you remember the podcast episode where Chris and Nick were mean to Matt ( calling him miserable etc.), and could you write something fluffy abt the reader comforting Matt after they filmed that episode?

[🩹] bottled up | matt sturniolo one-shot

paring : little!matt sturniolo x cg!gn!reader

summary : sometimes matt's brothers are just too mean...and sometimes a bottle fixes everything

warning/extra tid-bits : nick and chris being meanies (happy ending though!), crying, use of y/n, i think that should be it!

word count : 1,037

divider credit : @v6que

a/n : this podcast episode stressed me out so bad (sorry for any typos, i'm just a girl !)

Matt left the room as soon as he could, ignoring his brother’s taunts about how he was “Miserable” and “Negative”.

He could already feel the tears slipping out from his baby blue eyes as he ran upstairs and into his room, slamming his door shut behind him and twisting the lock with a satisfying “click!”

You sat on his bed, watching the whole scene unfold. Carefully putting your cheesy rom com book on his nightstand, you cleared your throat causing Matt’s eyes widened in surprise, he’s forgotten you were here but once he remembered he thanked god.

“M-Mama/D-Dada/B-Baba!” Matt cried, holding his arms out for a hug. Your sweet boy didn’t have to ask twice because you instantly pulled him into a hug, sitting the two of you down on his bed. Matt managed to shimmy his way onto your lap as you held him in a cradling position.

“Shhh, I’m here darling. I’m here.” You comforted him, placing gently kisses atop his head. Matt continued crying for what felt like an hour, mumbling out stuff about how Chris was a “meanie” and Nick was too.

“Were they being mean to my sweet boy?” You asked sympathetically. He nodded against your now tear-stained shirt.

“I’m sorry sweetheart…Do you want me to go talk to them?” You offered, you weren’t even sure what you would say but you already had some choice words in mind. Luckily for Chris and Nick, Matt shook his head which was now resting right above your heart. Your heartbeat had always seemed to be soothing to the little.

“Okay angel, well what do you need from Mama/Dada/Baba right now?” You asked, curling the back of his hair around your fingertips.

Thinking for a moment, Matt’s hands anxiously picked at the skin near his nails. You quietly took one of his hands, squeezing some of the pressure points in it in an attempt to alleviate some of his anxiety.

“M’ want…” Matt trailed off into a mumble, a shy blush invading his face. You smiled, looking down at the little on your lap. “Hm? What is it?” You pried, “M’ wanna bottle…” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

You beamed, always delighted to give your boy a bottle, before nodding. “Okay sweetheart, can you wait here while Mama/Dada/Baba brings the bottle up?” You asked, he thought for a moment before nodding.

After some gentle coaxing and multiple pinky promises you would return, you found yourself in the kitchen. You’d managed to avoid both Nick and Chris, unscrewing Matt’s bottle and filling it with milk and a few splashes of vanilla extract.

“Y/N? I didn’t know you were here!” Chris’ voice came from behind you. You internally sighed, turning around. “Yeah, Matt said we’d hang out after the podcast…” You mumbled. “Do you two wanna watch a movie? Me and Nick were gonna watch-” You cut the youngest triplet off, “No, Matt’s not feeling well.” You said firmly. Chris rolled his eyes, “He is still Miserable Matt?” He joked, only you didn’t laugh.

“Can you stop calling him that?” You asked, your tone sharper than intended. Chris paused. “I mean- seriously. I get that you three are brothers and you're gonna mess around but like- just lay off dude.” You continued, “I…” The youngest trailed off, his eyes meeting the bottle behind you.

Both Chris and Nick knew of their brother's regression, you hadn’t always been his caregiver and with Matt’s specific age range, he needed someone to at least make sure he didn’t hurt himself.

Realizing his actions had caused his older brother to regress, Chris’ face instantly fell.

“I’m- I’m sorry Y/N I thought-”

You shook your head, turning around and screwing the cap back onto Matt’s bottle. “Apologize to Matt, not me.” You said, beginning to walk back to Matt’s room, Chris following you.

“Well not right now!” You scolded, Chris stopped and nodded. “I uh- yeah okay.” He said before sheepishly moving back to the living room where Nick was sitting on the couch.

After sliding back into the room, you were greeted by Matt who was now in comfier clothes.

“Guess what I’ve got!” You sang, gently shaking the bottle in the air. Matt giggled, his puffy eyes beginning to return to normal.

You sat yourself against the headrest, Matt wasting no time crawling into your lap and laying his head on your chest. You cooed, whispering gentle affirmations to him about how he was a “sweet boy”, specifically your sweet boy.

Bringing the bottle to his lips, Matt hummed as the milk entered his mouth. Your little snuggled further into you, anxiety melting away by the second.

You proceeded to talk about anything and everything you could think of, from the most recent episode of Bluey the two of you had watched…to the weather in your hometown.

Matt listened contentedly, eyes transfixed on you as he drank his milk.

Just as the milk in his bottle ran dry, Matt’s eyes began to grow heavy. “Oh sweetheart…is someone tired?” You cooed, voice dripping in a softness a cloud could only dream of achieving.

“Mhm..” Matt mumbled as you began playing with his hair. “Poor thing, such a sleepy baby~” You smiled, placing a gentle kiss on Matt’s nose.

Giggling, he began allowing sleep to take over his mind.

It’d been nearly 30 minutes since Matt fell asleep, and you decided to hold him in your lap for as long as your limbs would allow. Just as you were going to move him, you heard the bedroom door creak open.

Turning your gaze to the now open door, you were greeted by Nick and Chris’ faces peeking in. You raised your brow.

“He okay?” Nick asked shyly, you smiled at the oldest brother’s concern. “Yeah, out like a light though.” You let out a breathy laugh, the two brothers doing the same.

The two brothers helped move Matt off of you, tucking him in.

Nick told you he already planned on apologizing to his middle brother first thing in the morning before leaving you and Chris on your own.

“Movie offer still stands,” Chris whispered, just before he slipped out the door.

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cobaltperun · 4 months

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Lost (30) - Tangled up in you

Tara Carpenter x female Reader

Summary: To anyone on the outside, and to Tara’s friends, you were Tara’s fierce protector, the MMA fighter who’d take anyone on for Tara. The Guard Dog, as Amber called you. You had no idea you’d have to protect her from people who claimed they loved her. It didn’t matter. As long as you and Tara had one another there was nothing you wouldn’t be able to survive.

Story warnings: Scream violence, family issues, trauma, angst, certain sensitive topics

Word count: 3.8k

Story masterlist / First part / Previous part / Next Part

-You're the fire that warms me when I'm cold, you're the hand I have to hold as I grow old-

~X~ September 2037 ~X~

No matter how many times she thought about it, Tara couldn’t wrap her head around the passage of time. In a few days your children would turn ten, a few months ago you turned thirty-six and she would be thirty-five in a few months. Mindy and Anika adopted three wonderful children that would turn four next month, and even Chad got married and had a kid of his own on the way! Sam was forty, and she somehow managed to settle down with the female cop that infiltrated the cult over a decade ago, and it was about damn time. Frankly, Tara was grateful to the woman for having the patience to deal with Sam’s uncertainties and doubts in herself.

The point was, the time was passing way too quickly, it felt like she gave birth to Zack and Susan just yesterday and now they were slowly but surely entering their rebellious phase. Well, sometimes, and for small things, but Tara dreaded the moment they’d start arguing with you and her over everything. Soon they’d be teenagers, exploring the world through a fresh perspective, learning more about themselves, truly falling in love for the first time, and all the other things Tara frankly wasn’t ready for.

You on the other hand remained fairly chill about it, saying it was part of growing up and that you couldn’t protect them from everything. Speaking of you, you were on a business trip, to negotiate a deal and handle some minor inconveniences with a partner company. You’d come back tonight, and Tara hoped she could deal with the mess before you arrived.

The entire kitchen was almost at the point of no return, almost messed up beyond all recognition, and Zack and Susan loved it. Tara, however, wondered why she came up with this idea in the first place. “Zack, sweetheart, bring me the cream,” she asked the boy as she took a deep breath and prepared to remove the cake mold around the layered cake she and the twins made.

“Mommy, this isn’t going to hold,” Susan poked the upper layer and it moved! Why were cakes like this?! She made great food these past few days, breakfast, lunch, dinner, as long as it wasn’t really complex, sweets, or any pastry aside from the simplest ones, she more or less could make it, but cakes would one hundred percent be her downfall!

“Nonsense, we followed the recipe, and I watched Y/N make these plenty of times before!” Tara remained hopeful. It would be fine, she did watch you do this even before Zack and Susan were born, even before you two got together. She could do it. So, what if the sink was filled with dirty dishes, or if there was flour all over the counter, or if the stove desperately needed cleaning and the kids and her had cream and filling and chocolate all over their hands and faces and clothes. The cake would be amazing. Maybe a bit too sweet, because she foolishly allowed Zack to add sugar to the filling, and maybe, just maybe, Susan spilled a bit too much vanilla extract into it, but it would be fine.

“Sue is right, Mom, though Mom is more whipped than this cream so we’ll be fine,” Zack set the whipped cream next to her and climbed onto the chair to watch the impending doom he was so sure would transpire the moment Tara removed the cake mold. He was so much like you it wasn’t even funny. Calm, not bothered by most things. Susan picked up some of your traits as well, but Zack was like a sponge when it came to you, picking up your traits and habits.

“It’ll be fine,” Tara said, more to reassure herself than anything else and, with her eyes closed, finally removed the mold, only to feel the layers of the cake the three of them spent hours making just falling apart.

This was why you handled the cooking, you, unlike Tara, could make anything. And you, again unlike Tara, actually loved doing it.

“See? We told you,” Susan ripped off a small piece of the sponge, dipped it into the filling and put it in her mouth. “At least it tastes good?” she offered as Tara nearly dropped her head down on the table.

She would have done it, if Zack didn’t put his hand between her head and the messy table. “Thanks, Zack,” she sighed, lifting her head up and just sitting down on the chair. This was, in one word, a disaster.

Before the boy could reply Tara heard the sound of car pulling into the driveway and, despite the mess in the kitchen, she smiled, taking the apron off and watching through the kitchen window as you stepped out of the car with your bag hanging from your shoulder and a bounce to your step. You could have parked inside the garage, but you were clearly impatient to see your family once again.

“Mom!” Zack exclaimed, running toward the doors with a large grin on his face and Susan immediately followed him, just as happy to see you again after five days apart.

“Clean up first!” oh, who was Tara kidding, this was the longest the twins spent away from you, of course they wouldn’t realize how messy they were. It didn’t help that the kids were as attached to you as she was, they loved you, looked up to you, relied on you. You were everything your or Tara’s parents failed to be, their support and protection and Tara felt lucky she could raise the twins with you. You made one hell of a team if she could say so herself and the twins were happy, and actually excited to spend time with the two of you, unlike Tara or you were when you were their age.

She smiled when she heard your laughter. “Who let you two loose in the kitchen?” you laughed and she heard both of your children laughing and shouting, she couldn’t see what was going on, but she was certain you just lifted them up, and sure enough you walked through the kitchen doors with Zack and Susan in your arms. “Another year or two and you’ll have to take turns, you’re getting a bit too big,” you laughed and kissed their cheeks as they hugged you tightly.

“We tried to make a cake for you,” Zack spilled the beans.

“We made a mess,” Susan fake-whispered to you and then pointed around the kitchen for you to see.

“Well,” you took the horror slash crime scene in front of you in as Tara just sheepishly smiled at you. “There are words that could be used in this situation,” you chuckled, lowering the kids down and walking over to Tara.

She just looked at you, too exhausted by the failure to get up and greet you. And, well, unlike the twins she was aware of how messy she was. Although, your clothes were already stained, so maybe adding a few more stains wouldn’t hurt.

“I missed you so much,” you kissed her as you wrapped your arms around her waist and pulled her up, and Tara hooked an arm around your neck.

She deepened the kiss and caressed your cheek, leaving a bit of whipped cream on it. “It’s a complete failure,” she chuckled softly when she pulled back and looked you in the eyes, and she still saw the same intense, absolute love she saw all those years ago. All these years and the love you felt for her didn’t fade even a bit, in fact, it just got stronger with time.

You took her hand and brough it to your lips to taste the whipped cream. “This is fine,” you said and glanced at the filling. “That’s not thick enough though. And you forgot to put the whipped cream on the edges,” you told her, just from one glance seeing where the main issues were.

Well, you were the one who handled the cooking, not Tara.

“Can we fix it?” Susan asked as you lowered Tara back down.

“Maybe next time, I wanna eat what you guys made for me,” you said, and so you just freshened up a bit and came back to the kitchen to enjoy the end results of your family’s efforts. It was just another thing she loved about you, because it didn’t matter that the cake was a mess, Tara, Zack and Susan made it for you, and to you that meant it was perfect as it was.

“See,” Zack grinned at her, and Tara noticed that his grin looked a lot like yours. “Mom is more whipped than this,” he reminded her, causing you to ruffle his hair.

“I mean, I can’t argue against that,” you laughed, taking another bite of the cake.

“Sue got an A for her drawing, by the way,” Zack suddenly said, and Tara watched with a wide smile as Susan blushed when you, proud of her, got up and kissed the top of her head.

“I’m proud of you, Sue,” you smiled, hugging your daughter when she wrapped her arms around you.

Susan shrugged. “It’s just the usual stuff,” she said, though the smile on her face gave away the fact that she enjoyed the praise.

“Maybe, but,” you pulled Zack into a hug as well. “we’re both still proud of you. Both of you. No matter what you get at school, as long as you’re happy and put effort into what you’re doing, we’ll both always be proud of you,” you told them, and it was something both you and Tara told them as often as possible. No matter how big or how small, no matter if they succeed or fail, you would always be there to celebrate with them or cheer them up.

And Tara got up to hug the three of you at the same time. It felt good to have her entire family with her again, even if you were away for only five days.

~X~

It was late at night when you and Tara finished returning the kitchen to the original state. “Did you three have a whipped cream fight?” you asked incredulously as you brought the ladder to clean a few bits of whipped cream stains that somehow ended up on the ceiling.

Tara chuckled uneasily. “I’d like to tell you how that happened, but this whole night feels like a fever dream,” she sighed as she slumped into the chair, exhausted and sleepy, but not complaining for even a moment. Hell, she wanted to clean this all up alone and let you rest. As if you could rest knowing she was fighting the kitchen mess all alone.

At least Zack and Susan got too tired to make a fuss about their bedtime.

You climbed down from the ladder and approached Tara. “I appreciate the thought, Love,” you said, getting behind her and massaging her shoulders and neck slowly.

“That’s the spot,” she sighed contently and closed her eyes, just surrendering to the sensations of your touch over her shirt, well, your shirt, but at this point it was a shared closet. “How did your business trip go?” she asked while you lowered your hands to massage her back, or at least whatever you could reach above the chair.

“Eh, they were being greedy so I went and made it very clear we were paying them enough already, but I might need to look for another export company soon enough,” you said, thinking over the past few days. “Oh, and I managed to make a good deal, the company should earn a bit over a million from it, so that’s always a good thing,” you told her more, going into details on the deal and the work you did over the past five days.

All the while Tara nodded, congratulating, and praising you every now and then. Safe to say, you didn’t have to worry about money, and with how things were going Zack and Susan would be fine and able to pursue any interest.

~X~

Next morning you and Zack came back from the two-mile-long morning jog. Zack’s been training with you almost every morning, nothing too intense, but he went with you on a jog and did some cardio with you as well. He had no interest in martial arts though and just liked being active, and he liked to focus on the training he did do.

You followed him into the home gym you set up and, as he sat down to rest from the jog, you put on your gloves and began shadow boxing. It was one of your favorite exercises, as you moved in response to the imaginary enemy, maintaining the speed and power behind your hits as the doors opened.

You grinned, but you didn’t stop training. “Drawing again, Sue?” you asked, effortlessly switching from one stance to another.

“Yup!” Susan sat down next to Zack with a notebook and a pencil in her hands. While Zack had no interest whatsoever in martial arts, Susan did, though not the way you did. Instead of training or developing an interest in the uses of martial arts, she was mesmerized by the motions, the stances, the artistic side of it as she called it. Repeatedly she captured your movements and stances as she drew sketches, she later turned into detailed pencil drawings. She could easily depict a small fight scene through her drawings, and she was technically still nine. You were eager to see where her talent would take her. And while Zack lacked the more artistic talents, he had his own share of skills, mostly rooted in logic and math.

So, as you continued going through the motions you found yourself thinking you were the luckiest person in the world. You had two wonderful children and Tara with you, and absolutely nothing would make you happier than spending the rest of your life by their sides.

About an hour later, while you were in the middle of punching the sandbag you and the twins heard the doors upstairs opening and Tara came down with laptop in hand. “Baby you need to see this,” the urgency in her voice made you quickly take the gloves off, but the excitement in her eyes told you whatever she had to show you was good news. So, you took a few extra moments to wipe the sweat off your face as she set the laptop on the table.

Zack and Susan ran over to the laptop and paused. “UFC?” Zack read, puzzled.

You raised an eyebrow, that was the last thing you expected, but you leaned against the table and looked at the mail you got. “An invitation for the charity event? All the money made from the ticket sales will be donated,” you read, grinning as you saw the details.

“Is it because we have money?” Susan asked.

Now that you thought about it, you never really told them you were once a world champion. It just never came up.

Tara placed her arms around their shoulders and pulled them a bit closer. “Let me tell you a tiny little secret about your mom,” she winked at you and you pretended to not pay attention as the kids got excited over the idea. “Your mom used to be a world champion, the strongest female MMA fighter in the who world,” she fake-whispered.

“What?! Mom?!” Zack exclaimed, looking from Tara to you and back as if he couldn’t believe that.

“That’s so cool!” Susan shouted and ran over to her phone. From the corner of your eye you could see her Googling you and sure enough she found the proof of Tara’s claim. “It’s true! Look Z, she knocked one lady out in one punch!”

“No way!” Zack ran over to her, and you just smiled as you pulled Tara into a hug.

“You look happy,” you muttered against her neck.

“Mhm. I know you’ll accept,” she said and placed her arms on top of yours. “All these years and you’re still so strong,” she whispered as she turned her head and kissed your cheek. “My badass, adorable, MMA fighter.”

“I’ll show you adorable,” you grumbled, annoyed that she still pulled that out every now and then.

Tara looked a little too pleased with that. “I’m counting on that,” she spoke quietly, just for you to hear her. “Mmm, Daddy.”

Fuck. She was going to be the death of you.

~X~

A month later you were more or less back in fighting shape and ready to fight. You felt good, light on your feet, with explosive punches and fast kicks and while you weren’t too confident in your grappling all these years later you had to admit that was never your go-to approach to begin with. So, here you were, once again in the octagon, surrounded by the fences and the crowd screaming your and your opponent’s name.

“You sure you don’t wanna give up, I’ll even bring you a chair so you can rest, after all, you might as well be a hag in the cage,” the girl was close to her prime, in her early twenties and, from what you heard, current world champion.

You just unzipped your jacket and tossed it outside to the team the organizers gave you and the girl paled a bit. She looked a bit like Anya now that you took a moment to look at her, only without any respect. “I’m good, brat,” you smirked bouncing on your feet and rolling your shoulders to warm up a bit.

The bell rang and the round began, and in that moment everything else disappeared, nothing mattered but the fight. Your body moved on instinct, with barely any thought in your head as you rushed the woman and landed a few quick, precise jabs.

She stumbled back, still completely open as you went for the haymaker and stopped right before your fist collided with her face. “Come on,” you pulled back and clapped a few times before beckoning her to come closer.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously as you smirked. She was faster than you gave her credit, but you weaved and dodged all of her attempts to hit you. You weren’t even keeping your guard up as she tried to go for your jaw. You just leaned back and brought your fist up, more bopping than hitting the side of her head, but she bared her teeth and tried to go for a haymaker.

You ducked and while her weight was off balance hooked an arm behind her knee and slammed her onto the floor. You didn’t follow up on it though, and instead just took a few steps back. You held up two fingers as she just blinked, looking at you as if she couldn’t believe what was going on. “One more chance, use it wisely, brat,” you said.

It wasn’t like you wanted to humiliate her, it was just that your instinct was to go for the killing blow, you needed to wait for the adrenaline to pass so you could follow all the rules. She tried again, though more cautiously this time. She was more precise, more focused, if you weren’t as relaxed and if she already wasn’t fighting at the pace you were setting she would have been a challenge, as it was, you just glided around the octagon, swaying and moving out of the way of her hits. She tried to knee you, but you just blocked her knee and pushed her back slightly. She stumbled and you went for a high kick. Her eyes widened, but once again you stopped before you could land the hit and stepped back once more.

“Warm up is over,” the easygoing smile disappeared from your face, leaving only complete focus on the fight. The cheers of the crowd became louder when you caught her in a clinch before she could even figure out that you went on the offensive. You hit her twice, breaking her hastily put up guard and then hit her face. While she regained her composure you went for a spinning back kick to the side of her head, ending the match with only a few hits and before the first round even ended.

“And the winner by knock-out is Y/N L/N!” the announcer shouted as the crowd cheered and you raised your arms high. You looked to the front row, to Tara, Zack and Susan cheering for you and, driven purely by emotions you swiftly climbed over the fence and ran over to them.

“Mom you were awesome!” Zack ran into your arms and Susan followed just a few moments later.

“Yeah? Your mom can still kick ass?” you lifted them up and kissed their cheeks.

“We have the strongest mom,” Susan giggled as her and Zack took the belt the judge was trying to give you. He looked uncertain but you just nodded, lifting your kids up higher as they raised the belt up high.

It was a short reunion with the octagon, only one fight, but you remained undefeated in your career, and you were satisfied. You fought one again, with rules and regulations and still won despite all of your instincts telling you to dispose of your opponent. And you got the chance to fight in front of your children, to show them who you once were, before the company, before training became just the way to stay in shape and capable of keeping your loved ones safe.

Eventually they gave the belt back to the judge and just hugged you tightly. With Zack and Susan still in your arms Tara stepped closer. Her eyes softened as she caressed your cheek, and then she just hugged both of your children and you at the same time.

It took years of trial and error, years of fighting to keep you and Tara and everyone else you loved alive, and you’d fight again if there was ever the need to do so. But right now nothing mattered but your family, and no matter what, as long as Tara and your children were by your side you would never be…

Lost.

A/N: So, that’s the finale, as far as the main story goes. As for the future of this story I want to do some side stories, some that are completely canon to Lost, and some that are more what-ifs than anything else. So, maybe I’ll write a few chapters about what would have happened if Tara called R over the night Amber first attacked her. Or maybe I’ll write something you request, so go ahead and tell me if there is something you’d really like to read. Truly, how often I come back to these two is as much up to you as it is up to me. Either way, thank you for reading!

Story masterlist / First part / Previous part / Next Part

Taglist: @alexkolax

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x female reader #scream #jenna ortega x reader #x reader #x female reader

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