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the-kr8tor · 2 months

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Reporting for duty Captain!

A tasm Peter Parker request for a shy reader who likes Peter but backs out when she wants to talk to him or- OR, (more like and) a reader with w rizz who's known Peter since forever and ever. Who has the same interest in photography as he does?? Works in a photo store??

Cook chef!

*gasp* a peter parker request?! Got you, my love 🫡 happy to oblige.

Pairing: TASM! Peter Parker x fem! Reader/ TASM! Spider-Man x fem! Reader

Tags: use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mentions, Love struck Peter, Fluff.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Peter doesn't need to ask around campus for you, he already knows where you are, a perk of knowing you since grade school. He evens his breathing when he finally reaches the worn out doors.

The bells jingle as he enters the old store, yellowed wallpaper greeting him and drab shelves lined with rolls of films, the vintage cameras make up for the boringness of the gray shelves. Ancient posters of movies lined the walls, a time capsule of the early eighties. It's silent inside, no other customer than him.

His sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he walks towards the cashier, expecting to see your smile, your hands occupied with whatever book you're currently (hating) reading. He finds it empty.

Peter's spidey senses don't tingle so he can relax knowing that you're in the back of the store. He jumps over the counter effortlessly thanks to his abilities. Knocking on the door, he hears the muffled sound of your speaker.

“Y/N?”

“In here, Pete—! Wait!!” With a creak, Peter opens the door without skipping a beat. The light from the store filters through the dark room, white covering and filtering out all the red. “No! Close it quick!”

“Oh shit!” He shuts it quickly behind him, too fast and harder than he thought, the wood almost cracks at the sheer force. Wincing, you both mirror each other's expression.

“Pete…” you sigh, closing the distance to check the door, you can't afford to lose a chunk of your paycheck for repairs. But you don't blame him, it's hard to stay mad at Peter especially when he's looking so apologetic at you, almost like a kicked puppy. “You got too excited to see me huh?”

He shuts his eyes with a smile, head falling down, chin atop his chest. He looks exasperated but he did it to hide the blush on his cheeks, hoping that if you manage to glimpse it you'd think it's from the red light.

This won't do, you thought. You missed him too much today just for him to hide his face from you. To remedy the feeling, you grasp his cheek, thumb gently placed right under his eye.

“There you are webhead,” your voice is saccharine, the ruby light bouncing off your face, illuminating your features perfectly. Peter thought he'd melt right on the spot. “Missed me?” In truth, you're the one who misses him most.

He wants to say yes without a second thought but knowing you, you're already aware of his answer. Even though you refuse to acknowledge it. Under all the teasing exterior there's shyness underneath it all, with just one flirty comment thrown your way you'd probably collapse.

Peter finally meets your smiling eyes and for a moment you're the only thing that matters.

With classes and spiderman responsibilities, hanging out with you has been scarce, he needed a fix right away, that's why he came sprinting towards the store immediately after a three hour class and after swinging across town to your favorite deli with his wind swept hair and shirt that definitely needs ironing.

“Not really.” A lie, an awful lie on his part.

“Aww,” you dramatically clutch at your chest, hand leaving his skin to his dismay. “Hear that? You just broke my heart, Parker.”

“D’you even have one?”

“Hey!” You playfully punch his shoulder. “You're the one who ruined my pictures.”

His eyes flick towards the clothesline filled with pictures that just screams ‘you.’ “I can see from here that they're not ruined.”

You click your tongue, hands on your hips, you walk back towards the table. “What are you doing here then, webhead?” Lowering the volume of your speaker, you decide to shut it off when his voice is a much better alternative.

“I feel like I should be offended by that.” Peter stands beside you, hip to hip, arm brushing along yours.

Placing his hand on the small of your back casually, he loops his thumb around your belt loop, pressing softly on your skin. He's done this a hundred times during your friendship but it never fails to wake up the butterflies in your stomach.

“I've called you that numerous times.” Holding the tongs, you carefully place the developed photo in the chemical mixture in the basin, eyes watching the picture pop up slowly.

“Stop being mean, I've come bearing gifts from the deli you like.” His voice is quiet, soft just for you.

“The one that's on the upper west side? Peter, that's really far away.”

“I don't mind, that's what web swinging is for right?”

You scrunch up your nose, Peter has the best seat in the house while he admires your expression.

“And here I thought it was for fighting crime.” You chuckle, pushing the paper further down in the basin. His deep chuckle stops abruptly at the sight in front of him.

Peter's own smiling face greets him and your charisma cracks.

“Oh” you manage to let out with your dry mouth.

You can hear him shudder a breath next to you. The picture is framed perfectly, his face centered in the middle amongst the crowd, zoomed in more like. You clearly avoided having other people in the frame, your main subject was him and him alone.

“...Good picture.” He slaps himself mentally.

“Yep, one of my best, I think.” You say quietly, too quietly. Clearing your throat, you avoid his eyes, “why don't you ready the food? Outside, please?”

Peter shakes himself awake. His skin feels like lava, there's a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. Hands clammy, he nods wordlessly. He awkwardly pats your back before leaving your side.

Walking towards the exit, your back turned towards him, shoulders slouched and tensed. He turns towards you before exiting, “looks like you missed me more, sweetheart.” He's called you that millions of times, all filled with more affection than the last but this one, oh this one he added with so much love that it could stop your heart.

And you think it has.

Peter hears you squeak, a sound he hasn't heard you make since high school when he asked you to dance during the winter formal.

You whirl around, catching sight of his Parker smile, charm oozing out of him that's already gone before you could admire him in the crimson light.

He leaves, shutting the door quickly. Laying his sweaty forehead on the door, he tightly closes his eyes again, feeling like a lightning just struck him and adrenaline coursing through his veins, needing to swing off the extra energy.

Blowing hot air, he takes his clammy hands off the doorknob to take out the food he bought, grinning through it like a mad man.

Meanwhile, you clutch the table with a grip, heart threatening to jump out of your chest, heat in your cheeks as the photo of Peter smiles at you.

Laughing to yourself, you take out his picture to clip it on the clothesline next to the other pictures. You have no idea what to say to him once you leave the room, or do you just stay in the dark room forever? Either way, you're absolutely fucked.

#request done #peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker x you #peter parker x fem!reader #tasm peter parker #tasm peter parker x reader #tasm imagine #tasm fanfic #tasm x reader #tasm!peter x reader #peter parker fluff #spiderman x reader #spiderman x fem! reader #cw food mention #fanfic #the kr8tor's creations

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octuscle · 1 month

Text

Fun on the not so fair ground

Where Darren was, Darren wasn't there because he was particularly clever or hard-working or charming. No one knew exactly how Darren had made it to division manager. And how he had remained division manager despite dissatisfied colleagues and customers. No one liked the arrogant, smug asshole. He was moody, incompetent… But he was divisional manager and because of some skeleton he had in the closet with some board member, he remained divisional manager.

One of Darren's most striking characteristics was his stinginess. And his resentment. He was annoyed that he hadn't won any tickets for the rollercoaster or the Ferris wheel in the lottery organized by the HR department for the company outing to the fair. But he was all the more delighted to win a ticket for the ghost train. Everyone else had always won two tickets. He suspected that the ghost train was so expensive that there was only one ticket for it. And he had it.

For Darren, going to the fair was more of a chore. Having to deal with his colleagues in the evening was an imposition. But since he had won the ticket, he had to go. And he especially had to go on the ghost train. His colleagues wished him a lot of fun, the meeting was in a beer tent in half an hour. Darren joined the short queue. The ticket taker looked at his ticket. "Oh, the special tour!" he said with a grin. His eyes just lit up red for a moment. Must be some kind of special effect, Darren thought to himself. The bar on his gondola closed. The ride started.

It was a terribly boring ride. Only small children would be frightened on something like this. Darren was happy when the ride was over and the bar opened again. He walked towards the exit. Suddenly a door slammed shut in front of him. And a hidden wallpaper door creaked open. This had to be the part with the special tour. But here too: Lame, boring effects. Some of them were obviously broken. And the dust and cobwebs seemed to be real. Darren stood in front of a picture with the caption "Your greatest horror". Well. Biggest horror. It showed a young man with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and obviously no future. Darren wasn't afraid of people like that. He ignored people like that. There was a mirror next to the picture. It was captioned 'Your future'. Darren saw a young man with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and clearly no future. Fuck! He grabbed his face and the reflection did the same. His skin, which had just been flawless for a man in his late 30s, was blemished. As if from too much alcohol and nicotine. And too little care. Maybe it was the remnants of acne, because the man in the mirror was younger than Darren. Maybe in his early 20s. Badly shaved. His hair styled in a preppy undercut. And he stank. That couldn't have come from his reflection. The jacket was made of cheap, badly tanned leather. Sweat. Cheap deodorant. Nicotine. His fingers smelled like those of a chain smoker. And his teeth were yellow like a chain smoker's. In a panic, Darren looked for the exit. He found himself behind the ghost train. There was a "Staff only" sign above the exit. Darren tried to open the door. He rattled the handle. A man opened it for him. Behind the door was a small staff room. The man asked if he wanted to apply for the position of young man to travel with the fair. Darren ran away in a panic.

Where to now? To the beer tent? What would his colleagues say? They wouldn't recognize him. He tried anyway. The bouncer turned him away. For invited guests only. Darren had an invitation. He used to have an invitation in the inside pocket of his jacket. Now he had an almost empty pack of filterless cigarettes and a battered Zippo. His wallet hung on a chain from his torn jeans. With a bit of cash. A ten-ride bus pass that was almost used up. And a driver's license. For big trucks and tractor-trailers. Bloody hell! He still had to be on this ghost train. It was better than he thought. But he didn't feel like it anymore. He wanted a shower and then to get into his silk pyjamas. But his car key was gone. And where his car had been, there was now a completely different one. He had to walk, Darren had no idea how he was going to get home on the bus and he didn't have the money for a cab.

He had been walking for almost half an hour when he finally got home. In the dark windows of his elegant old apartment on the mezzanine floor, the "For Sale" signs were covered with "Sold". The. Is. A. Cursed. Nightmare! Darren no longer had a key for anything. Not for this apartment that used to be his, not for a missing car, not for his office. He had no cell phone, he had the few things he had on his person. A nightmare! His worst nightmare! His biggest horror! Darren climbed over the fence. It was surprisingly easy. His new body was athletic. He had already noticed that on the way here. There was a Victorian summer house at the back of the garden that belonged to his apartment. And he always hid a key there. Under a flower pot. A flowerpot that no longer existed. Everything on the porch of the garden shed was an army duffel bag. With a rucksack in it, a tracksuit, underwear. Everything wasn't quite clean anymore. But it was obviously his. Darren picked up the duffel bag, walked over to the fence, threw the duffel bag over and climbed in after it. A policeman shouted "Freeze!" And Darren ran for his life.

It had taken him three quarters of an hour to get back to the fair with his duffel bag. No idea why he had come back here. A few drunks staggered out of the beer tents. Darren didn't recognize any of them as colleagues. Most of the rides were just closing. "Son, can you give me a hand?" Shouted an older gentleman struggling on the bumper cars. "A few dollars, a bowl of soup, and by the look of you, you could use a place to sleep." Darren took a deep breath, grabbed his duffel bag and helped the man push the bumper cars together and lock them up.

The first few days were hell. Darren wasn't used to physical labor, even though his body was. The little money he earned was enough for cigarettes and pre-paid cards for a cell phone. And the guys he had to share the trailer with snarled and stank. But Darren probably snarled too. And he certainly did stink. The only thing he enjoyed was sex. Plenty of sex. Apparently there were lots of girls and boys, young and old, who liked the fairground rebel type. Darren had stopped counting how many cocks he had sucked between the frames of the rollercoaster, how many asses and pussies he had fucked. Sometimes for free. Sometimes for a handful of dollars. He could put that money to good use. A buddy had a booth at the fair where he did tattoos. Real works of art. Of course Darren got a special price. But even among the bros here at the fair, nothing was for free. The first few days went by. The first weeks went by. Darren, who everyone had long since just called Daz, had gained routine in building and dismantling "his" rollercoaster. The other guys who helped out here were runaways, vagrants… They were usually gone again after a few days. Not Daz. This was his home. This was his family. He loved his job. And he was damn good at it.

When Daz took over the management of the small fairground company with a rollercoaster, a bumper car and a lottery booth a few years later, nobody was surprised. Daz belonged here. Always in a good mood, always ready to help. And always horny!

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #inked man #tank top #age reduction #leather tf #white to blue collar tf #ai image

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undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

this year's love.

simon ghost riley x f!reader

wc: 5.5k warnings: angst. fluff. smut. feelings. usual jo things. summary: And then you begin calling him Riley. It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful. Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips. an: from the drabble where ghost 'dates' a non-militant he meets in a pub. this is dedicated to @yeyinde for reminding me why British pubs are adorable, and also to @guyfieriii because she hates my angst, but loves my fluff, and makes me want to write better.

simon ghost riley masterlist

He suspects he should stay away.

As soon as he began to crave the sight of you. Ignoring the fact he’s heard This Year's Love by David Gray three times already—and he has only been here an hour. The condensation beads from his glass pools on the picked-at-bar mat, drenching his fingers and wrist.

Not that he cares.

Ghost—

Simon knows it’s all part of the charm.

It has been since the day he turned eighteen and his boss at the butchers took him for his first pint.

The place hasn’t changed since. Everything from the same ten to twelve songs which crackle through the worn and tired speakers. The smokey air, and discoloured, yellowing wallpaper.

Things don’t get replaced either, the chipped glass ashtrays are the same as the ones he remembers. The same chipped mahogany tables with the ill-matching chairs and stools that are wobbly.

The scent in the place is familiar, a mix between festering ale and Mr Sheen, working men and cheap perfume, fust and smoke—both from the crackling winter fire and cigarettes—even if one hasn’t been smoked inside of it for years.

The place, to outsiders, would look like any stone-walled pub on the corner of two streets they’ll never remember. Then they’ll step in, their eyes glancing over the peeling wallpaper, moth-eaten curtains (that never close) and the once-white nets in the windows, before questioning what they’ve walked into. That’s before they’ve noticed the white ball on the pool table is in fact another black ball and that the dart board triple 20 has been chipped out after Bald-Andy lost his rag.

The pub has been a real gem to those who know what real diamonds are for as long as Simon can remember. None of the regulars care that the bar stools have burns from cigarettes being stubbed out, they don’t care that the musty smell doesn’t vanish even with Febreze and sheer will. It’s expected, just like how the bar is always sticky and the energy always feels right.

Here, he can relax.

When he’s home, he feels purposeless. A man with a map but no direction. But, he can unfurl his shoulders from his ears, even let his hood slide to the back of his neck.

Because in this place, strangers aren’t welcome. It’s a local pub, for local folk. Those who wander in, thinking the pub on the corner of quaint and quintessential will provide them with a typical British evening, normally leaving before Freddie Mercury has reached the bridge of whatever song is on rotation.

But, Simon isn’t just here for the bourbon or the ale, he’s not here because the wooden fire licks every wall of the place. He’s not here because it feels more like home than his actual home.

He’s here because there’s one thing that has changed, and it’s you.

You with a rosy, sweet laugh that usually accompanies a smile which makes his heart gallop. It calms whatever storm rages inside of him when you look at him—when you bore your pretty, fucking eyes into him before you lean over, hand on the beer pump as you call him Simon.

Simon.

His name has never sounded more serene than when it falls from your lips. The way you say it makes it seem less than ordinary, almost unique. Humour sways in your eyes, a glint he knows there’s more too—and wants nothing more than to explore.

You’re a vibrant surprise in the middle of my mundane, and it took him all of five minutes to discern you’re both difficult and charming all rolled into one.

And then you begin calling him Riley.

It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful.

Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips.

Women haven’t tended to last here—except Tracy. Tracy, who like the urinal cakes, has been here since Simon’s first pint. Her lines had deepened in her skin over time, but her hair has remained that putrid blonde she tries to claim is natural.

You, on the other hand, are far younger—kind, soft, unless someone gets lairy and then there’s a ferociousness to you that’s packed into something so small. He suspects you know what the men at the bar look at when your eyes aren’t looking, and it’s not the way you command the small space stuffed with offerings and glasses.

He’d paid no mind initially. Tried not to, anyway. He’d decided it would be for the best. Then you’d bite back at Dave that you may be too young to remember a song, but you could still get down on her knees without them creaking.

He had smirked at that.

Deciding his new seat at the bar, on the rickety bar stool was his new favourite seat.

To this day, you always smell floral, but the accompanying scent with it changes. Sometimes you’re sultry, sometimes you’re just sweet. Each time he is able to return ‘home’ he’s never sure which one he’ll get—but it burns a place in his nose all the same.

Hard to shift, difficult to smother, not that he wishes to do either.

Their first exchanges were simple. Contractual. Another? Yes. Your usual? Yes. Then you had placed a deck of cards in front of him, a teasing smile on your face in the quietness of a Wednesday evening.

Keep me company.

It was difficult for him to grasp how soft your eyes were, how it made his mind blank and his heart both hammer and stutter all at once.

Now, it’s normal.

He’s used to it, fucking welcomes the way they land on him. He thinks about them on the plane ride home, how Alan—the chef who’ll serve anything off-menu for a packet of fags—makes a mean all-day breakfast sandwich. But mostly, it’s you.

“You back for long, Riley?”

“No.”

“Never are.”

“You sound disappointed, sweetheart.”

You always smile the same when he calls you that. Always half-roll your eyes before shaking your head, as though flirting with you is oh so wrong.

Especially when you start it first.

“What would you do if I was?”

That’s new.

His fingers pick up a crisp, watching you lean on the pump in front of you. The star earrings hanging from your ears, catch the bar spotlights, making it seem as though you’re literally glowing.

But then, you are—to him at least.

Someone calls for you, pint raised in hand—saving him from answering. You wink, and mumble you’ll be right back, the words lingering in the space you once stood.

You’re too good for him.

Too normal. Too unscarred and untouched. He suspects a bad thing has never happened to you. You’ve not plunged a knife into someone’s throat, not shot a moving target with a precision that most try to replicate on their controllers and headsets.

For that reason, and that reason alone, he knows he should stay on this side of the bar. Even when it takes all of his self-restraint to do so.

It’s hard though.

More so when you give him that look—that one which makes his cock twitch and his thoughts turn feral.

Because the nice girl from the pub may have a sweet, soft voice, but fuck he knows you’re anything but.

You’re all red lips and righteousness, a siren and enchantress who chooses floral perfume to try and disguise the way your eyes undress him.

Not that he complains.

He’s done the same.

Fucked his own fist to the thought of the noises you’d make and how you’d feel enveloped around his cock.

Tonight he’d likely do the same.

Winter is in full effect when he next returns.

Snow was thick on the streets, the roads a horrid mix of ice, slush and asphalt.

You’re behind the bar, Bald-Andy and his wife in the corner near the fire, and the crackling, gruff voice of Oasis is playing. You look up, lips smirking, eyes glistening.

“The usual?”

He considers it. Sweet, caramel and vanilla notes hit his tongue in memory. But he shakes his head, pulling out a stool, and sitting opposite you as your perfume greets him.

“Surprise me, sweetheart.”

You stand fully, hair falling around your face, making his heart lurch and his stomach burn.

“Living dangerously, I see,” you say, turning your back to him as you pull at spirit bottles.

If only you knew.

He suspects something sweet when you place the glass in front of him. The sound of it meeting the worn wood so loud, not that the other two patrons look over. As though it’s just the two of you. No one else. His eyes lift, hooking themselves into yours—unwilling to let you tear them from him as he tries to bury the aches of war and fighting.

It’s caramel coloured, darker at the bottom of the glass than the top. Ice. So much ice.

“Go on, try it, Simon.”

And he does.

It’s sweet, and zingy. It’s mellow but spicy, and he tastes the hints of ginger and rum as the cold hits his teeth.

“What y’made me?”

“You like it?”

Yes.

The tip of your tongue swiping across your bottom lip, watching you lean smugly. “Dark and stormy… the epitome of you.”

A groan leaving his lips, your laugh tasting of sunshine and happier days.

A long moment stretches between the two of you, one that makes the air thrum and him having to shift his jeans. A continuous voice in his head, telling him no, telling him to put a stop to this now.

He drinks it. He even orders it again.

Time ticks fast—too fast. He wants it to slow. Ever since their first flirtation, if you’ve finished when he’s there—he walks you to your car.

You drive something small, your entire backseat is always covered in coats, shoes and books. Something normal, and so typically you.

He does the same tonight, hands in his jacket pockets, periodically scanning the area as you lock the big wooden doors of the pub. You shake them, ensuring you have, pocketing the keys before turning to nudge him.

Simple. Soft. Each gesture in the short walk is always seemingly effortless. You don’t worry he’ll take offence, that he’ll shatter or snap.

Not that he would.

His arm lifting, letting your small hand slide around it for stability as the snow falls thick and fast. It paints the streets in a blanket that crunches under their boots. And there’s something about the snow landing in your hair, on the tip of your nose, even on your lower lip.

He wants to brush it from your mouth, and trace the bow of your upper lip with his thumb.

Because it’s all a contradiction. Snow makes you look innocent, something close to a character from a movie or a Disney film. And, you’re not any of those things.

You’re snarky, huffed whispers and quick retorts when drunkards try to hit on you; you’re witty, funny and boldly brilliant.

So much so, he’s never sure why you work there. He knows you’re studying, knows you’re trying to better yourself. You’ve told him as much over a Pepsi Max in your hand and something stronger in his.

He knows it’s odd to keep staring at you. Your eyes staring up, making your eyes seem wider and bigger than they actually are—pretty sure the flurries of snow, stars and moon are shining in them. But it’s his treat—his reward. The thing he thinks about when he’s knee-deep in mud or covered in blood, sweat and bruises.

Your feet stop at your car, unlocking it—the beep and flash of your headlights casting light across the car park.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

Smiling, you lean against the rear window. “Never are.”

It’s a pattern, a habit. An exchange that has become the norm for the two of you as much as hello and goodbye.

Then, you sigh.

Something you rarely do, not to him—not with him. His brows knitting, tightening, heart thundering in his throat as you drag your eyes up his chest, and neck and land on his face.

“Do you know how perfect it would be, if you grew a pair and kissed me in the snow, Riley?”

Your hand slides into the handle, opening it as your smirk turns into a grin. One which is brighter than your headlights, the moon—hell, the fucking sun.

“Guess I’ll have to wait for a shooting star, instead.”

And, you laugh, leaning your back against the car—expression blended with vulnerability and searing heat that should melt the settling ice on your face.

“Y’seem like the sorta woman to make me work for it.”

“Oh yes, because eighteen months of will-they-won’t-they hasn’t been tedious enough.”

He grabs your elbow, roughly pulling but finds you fall into him with far too much ease. The snow continues to fall, leaving soft cold kisses on his face, but he doesn’t feel cold.

How could he? You’re staring up at him with the searing heat of the sun.

“Y’want me to kiss you, Sweetheart?”

“More than I want to go home and sleep, Riley.”

His hand cups your cheek, warm meeting cold as he pulls your lips to his. Cold, soft lips slide against his, and he tastes the orange from your cordial swirling with his bourbon-covered tongue. Your car groans when he presses you against it, your hand clutching him with the same desperation as he’s flush with your body.

Your cheeks are warm against his hands, eyelashes fluttering open as the two of you break apart.

“You… you want to come back to mine?”

Yes. Fuck yes.

But—

“Next time.”

“Yeah?”

His fingers brush down your cheek, and he nods.

He got your number.

For convenience. You tell him he didn’t need to come in and drink one of your piss-poor beer pulls just to get in your knickers.

So he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text when he first lands. He gives himself a day—a moment to shed the Ghost and become Simon. When you do you don’t reply with anything witty, just straight-laced—just like he likes it.

A time. An address.

He expects you to size him up at your front door, even bracing for a changed mind. You don’t do either. You let the door open, standing two steps inwards dressed in something lace and rippable.

Fuckin’ fuck.

It’s the only thought he has before he slams your door behind him, striding towards you and practically throwing you over his shoulder.

You don’t taste like what he expects—it’s better.

His tongue flattens against you, two fingers inside your warm cunt as you whimper. You reluctantly still clutching to the promise you’d made earlier. The one where you informed him it’ll take more than a few fingers and a skilled tongue to make you scream.

So he sucks. Bites. Nips.

He finds that squishy part, stroking it as your thighs twitch by his ears.

It’s then he grants himself the chance to look at you, finding your lipstick spread in a way which seems deliberately chaotic—even if he knows it isn’t. Your lashes wet, eyes clamped shut as you try and try not to give in.

So fuckin’ stubborn.

Your hands, all smooth and soft, clutching your breasts, the pink of a nipple poking out between your index and thumb as your chest rises and falls as you fight calling out his name.

He likes that you have convictions—it gives him something to break.

His tongue swirling, knowing already what he needs to do to undo you.

And then—

Simon—fuc-k, Simon.

It’s better than classical, better than whatever is number one on the fuckin’ charts. The sound of you coming hard, and fast, trying to bury it in a whisper than the scream you actually want to release. All of it is a better sound than his knife plunging into some unsuspecting op—because he will make you scream.

He laps up every ounce you give him, your pleading whimpers and nails in his hair making him groan against your cunt until you almost snap his neck—or try to.

“Take them off. Now.”

He doesn’t like orders.

He fucking detests them. He gives them. Normally loud and booming. But your voice, all sweet and high-pitched, trying to give stern eyes when your lashes are coated in tears he’s caused…

Your eyes widen when he stands naked. And he knows he’s big.

He’s very fucking aware of it. He’s seen plenty of evidence to support the fact in the wild, surprised eyes of those who he’s dropped his trousers for.

You now being one of them.

But fuck, he fits in you perfectly. So much so, he wants to mould your insides to match him, to ruin you for every other person who thinks they stand a chance with you.

Because they don’t.

But then neither does he.

Not that he’ll squander a moment to fuck with heaven—to hear the cadence shift when he hooks your leg over his hip as he drives his cock into you all the way to the hilt.

He coaxes another out of you, your tight cunt like a vice around him as your manicured nails leave scratches on his back. His tongue swipes across your jaw, before haphazardly capturing your mouth.

You taste like mint polos and sex—a taste he is already sure he’ll crave.

And he wonders to himself if you know how fucking perfect you are. If you have any idea of how stunning you truly are.

Especially like this. Your body shimmering with sweat, each thrust making your breasts bounce as your fingers tease his hair at the nape of his neck.

And then he wonders about something else.

Something far from coating your walls in his come.

Would you fit in his life?

Would you fit as well in it, as he does inside your cunt?

And then you’re clenching, hips lazily trying to meet his as you whimper, moan—

And then you scream.

Not Riley.

But Simon.

Mission accomplished.

It has become a habit.

You have become a habit.

He lands. He waits a day. He fucks you until you are raw, sore and breathless. His lips are on yours, hands still on your hips as he hears how hoarse your voice is.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

But this no is different.

It’s tinged with half a teaspoon of regret and sadness.

You hide your face when he answers now. Sometimes by slinging your arm to shield him from your eyes or by turning from him. It’s like you know he likes them. Likes being able to see each infliction of emotion in them—shimmering, dancing, storming across in front of him.

Somehow, you’ve fit into his life too well—cutting yourself a hole, forcing your way in, and making it seem as though you were always there.

Simon lets you be, too.

You have one of his t-shirts, baggy, black and covered in your perfume. He finds he has one of your hair ties around his wrist, not even realising until he slides on a pair of gloves. Flicking it against his wrist as he thinks of you, something he only allows himself to do briefly.

Things have changed. Shifted.

But the Earth hasn’t fallen off its axis and he’s not fucked up a mission. So he counts his blessings. He doesn’t know if he believes good things can happen to him, but he could be persuaded that he can have nice things. A belief he even starts to accept. A reality he begins to wish for, rather than keep at arm's length.

You’ve left the pub. You hadn’t been working every night for a while. Your studies had ended—receiving a photo of a cap and gown without your face when he was in the middle of a desert.

Now you’re working a better job, one you deserve more—it’s creative, more you. You make the world brighter, and better while he’s getting dirty and riding the world of darkness. You text him once, the day you got paid, that you bought him something nice.

Something he ripped with his teeth when he landed—much to your annoyance.

You’re no longer the girl in the pub. You’re perfectly applied make-up he fucks off your face. You’re high heels and pencil skirts—and sometimes fitted trousers that hug your arse so beautifully, he’s almost a bit jealous. You’re the pink sky at night, laughter that warms his chest, and a smile he thinks about as he falls asleep.

“What would my alias be?”

Your hand slides over a plate to him. Cheese on toast. Nothing big, nothing major, but he stares at it all the same. Because you’ve made him something.

You’ve been doing it for a while, and each time is as perplexing as the last. His brain is unable to figure out how, why and what he’s done to deserve it. Even if it’s toast, a sandwich, or a fucking meal.

Because it’s something outside of sex. It’s outside of holding the back of your head as he fucks your throat; outside of him pinning you against the dark alleyway of the pub he first saw you in, making you both cold and warm all at once.

Even if he knows—constantly turns it over and over in his mind—that this isn’t just sex. He’s not entirely sure what this is. Except…nice?

You take a bite of your own, the crunch filling the air, crumbs littering your top—his top. “My call sign.”

Simon isn’t sure why he told you about what he did. You were in his arms, warm, smelling of sex, flowers and something sharp. And, it fell out of him. Still drunk off your cunt, lost in the tenderness of your fingers on his chest, playing it a pattern with your nails.

Not everything. Fuck, he couldn’t tell you everything—wouldn’t. But you know enough.

Enough for him to know you’re not running, that you still want him knocking on your door whenever he lands—whether it's morning, noon or night.

Now, you’re making him food. Legs long, his black t-shirt skimming your thighs—all his. Looking ever so inviting, making it hard not to push you up on the counter and give your neighbours something to talk about.

“Egg.”

You snort, sharp and light. “Egg?! You’re fuckin’ rude, Riley. Egg? No, that’s shit, give me a better one.”

“But, true. You’d shatter, you’re more yolk than shell, you.”

“C’mon, be serious.”

He gives you a look, finding the one you’re giving him sultry, teasing—demanding.

“Snow.”

You stare for several seconds before you hum, crunching the corner of your food with your teeth. “Lemme guess because I’m oh-so-delicate?”

No—

It’s because you’re fucking perfect.

Because you’re his favourite season and favourite moment.

On some deeper level, he suspects it’s because you’re pure. That you’re unruined. Untainted. Your body has no scars—except the one from chicken pox and one on your hand from a glass bottle shattering. But, that’s it. He’s kissed every inch of you to know, to be 100% sure.

You’re Snow because each time he sees it, he thinks of you. Those red lips, all that fucking audacity and the way you kissed him, tasting as warm as bourbon and as sweet as sugar.

“Yeh, ‘cause you’re all pure and innocent, Sweetheart.”

You laugh, richly. Head thrown back, perfect thin neck exposed to the air—to him.

And he wants to kiss you.

He wants to taste your laugh and smile, let his hands run around the back of your thighs and feel you against every inch of him.

That’s when your eyes land on him again—all full of questions and spice. Your tongue drags across your plush bottom lip, wiping up the grease from the cheese as he swallows.

His throat suddenly dry.

Because the girl he met in the pub—the one standing before him—is standing in his t-shirt. Looking every bit delicious, good enough to eat and never come up for air.

And he thinks—

Realises, he actually, might—probably—miss you when he goes back to Price.

It’s stretched on for months. A year.

He lands, uses the key you gave him and stamps the snow from his boots, half smiling to himself as he does. Whenever he gets here, he doesn’t wait, he finds his way to whatever room you’re in.

Sometimes he doesn’t get far, your body colliding with his. All curves in his hands and arms around his neck, and he’s not sure what the fuck this is, but he likes it.

Loves it.

It’s something like a song about falling in love and a peaceful Sunday morning; it’s those moments you see in movies that make your eyes swell with tears as he stares at you, wondering how on earth you’re so goddamn amazing.

It’s familiar, and yet he has no idea what is happening next or why.

Mostly, though, Simon knows it’s something because he said your name to Johnny.

Not because he was dying, not because he was hurt. But in the middle of a normal conversation, one exchanged on some dark rooftop, stars twinkling, and eyes fixated on a building down a scope.

Normally, he wouldn’t have answered. Would have ignored him.

If y’could be anywhere, right now, Lt. Where’d y’pick?

He didn’t need to think.

He didn’t say home. Because home wasn’t his place, the pub or even the fuckin’ city he’s always ever known. It’s wherever you are. It’s where your heart beats and your bed is placed; it’s where your annoying, shitty music taste is blaring and that sleepy smile is when he wakes up next to you.

So, Simon said your name.

Simple. Easy.

Except it wasn’t simple or fucking easy. It was messy, and complicated. Because Johnny tilted his head, in that obnoxious way he does, demanding more information than he is ever prepared to ever share.

‘Fuck off, Johnny, before I punt y’off the rooftop and tell Price you’d been a cunt.’

Because you are locked away when he’s here. You are chained inside his chest, the deepest fucking secret—one no one will ever fucking take no matter how much they dig, how much they push him too.

You are his.

Something only he gets to enjoy—gets to see, hear and taste.

He’s done all of that for the last hour. Getting some sick satisfaction from edging you until you’re pleading with him, begging him with every breath you have to let you come as you wriggle and wiggle, urging him to lift your legs—just like he likes it, how you like it, and make you see fucking stars.

Now, you’re barefoot.

A different t-shirt of his hiding the welts he’s left, the growing bruises from the way he’d needed to hold you in place. Watching, observing—admiring—the oddness to your steps as you flick on the kettle. He’s always close—looming in the sun’s shadows across the kitchen he knows better than his own.

He has to be. Wants to be.

You’ve not just carved a place in your life, but in his chest—his heart. You’ve seeped into his skin, into his soul, merging and bringing to life something he thought had wilted and died. He doesn’t care that he’s vulnerable, that he’s not jagged edges and sharp stares.

“You wanna go out with me? Tonight?”

You pause, tea bag in hand, looking over your shoulder at him as if he’d asked you to slaughter a pig, a child, a whole bloody family.

The moment is tender, almost fragile.

It trembles under the weight of his question and the silence of your thoughts.

Then it stills—

“You don’t… you don’t have to do that…”

“What?”

Dashing the tea bag into the cup, you turn. Hips leaning against the counter, sigh falling from your swollen, pink lips as your arms fold. The air scented with that familiar smell your home always has—jasmine and pineapple, the sun kissing your toes and legs as your face shows thunder and rain.

The air shifts, changing. It’s speckled in ice with a cold breeze punctuated by you suddenly not able to meet his eyes.

“Date me. Change… this. I know that you… I know you don’t have time for that.”

Except he doesn’t hear that, he hears me.

He suspects you don’t say it to hurt him.

But it does.

It wounds—

It fucking burns. It’s on par with a bullet or a rusty knife, twisting and twisting until it’s hitting nerves and making muscles quake.

It worsens when the kettle clicks, ready—waiting. It blows steam under your cupboards, billowing out around the edges before it rushes to the ceiling. Twisting, turning, desperate to escape the uncomfortable space between the two of you.

But, he just wants to pull you close—impossibly close. He wants to cradle and fucking hug you, even if he never hugs anyone. Simon wants to tell you that he hasn’t been doing this with anyone else. That it’s been over a year of this, and even he knows it’s something.

Admittedly, yeah, he didn’t think he’d have fucking time for someone, and then you came in and blew that all to shit. But, on some level inside of him, he knows they aren’t the words he should be saying. So silence fills the space instead.

Doubling. Tripling. Expanding like foam and smoothing over crevices as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

And he knows he should just ask again.

Softer. Maybe with a bit more emotion. Counting in his head. One. Two, fucking Three.

Your body turning, holding out a mug you got him—big, black with tiny ghosts on it. Because you’d pestered and pestered to know what he was called. What his alias is when he shoots people. The mug made you grin when you handed it to him last time—tired of him taking your favourite. The one with a quote from a television show you keep promising to show him. Sarcastic. Almost makes his teeth show when he smiles. He almost does the same when he takes the mug, and you turn away from him.

Now when he takes it, your eyes drop to the floor. To the space between the two of you.

The one which feels vast, and far larger than the bar ever felt.

All Simon wonders is why there’s a pit opening inside of him—why it is filling him with a feeling he wants to cut out of himself. It’s not light or nice, it’s dark and twisty.

Because he’s the same person who goes on stupid solo missions where the percentage of survival is low, and still fucking comes back to base with whatever was asked of him. He’s Ghost—a man who many fear. Who is often coated in more of other people’s blood than he is dirt.

And yet this—

You.

Terrify the living fuck out of him. Not that he’s showing that. He knows he’s stood with a stiff back, and a face devoid of any emotions.

“You said it when we first… Just… I know your job is important. I know you can’t commit and I respect—”

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes meet his. Teeth biting your lip, arms crossing over your chest.

And shit, he hopes to never see this face ever again. This nervous, unsure face that he’s put there. One which complicates everything and pulls on every string inside of him.

You are an enigma, and he’s not even sure you know it.

You’re something he never deserves, something he never thought he’d have, get, or keep.

Yet, here you are.

Someone who has seen every inch of him. Knows what he does. Where he goes. You even know brief moments of his past, the parts of him that he’d rather take to the grave.

You are important. You matter.

He’s falling—free-falling, in fact—and has been for a while, he didn’t even acknowledge it. Pushing it down, letting it sit with all the other things he doesn’t want to deal with.

“Do’ya wanna go out with me tonight?”

Each word hits you, strokes you. He watches as each syllable lands, your eyes reading him.

“You back for long, Simon?”

His lips twitch. “Little bit.”

And then you smile. All devious and cunning, lips twisting as you unfold your arms and adjust your stance. “I think I’d prefer a takeaway. Keep you to myself, while I 'ave you.”

Standing, crossing the small space of your kitchen as he cages you in. Your hand clutching his cheek, soft, gentle, and more than he fucking deserves.

His head lowers, lips close to your ear as you curl your body into him as he whispers, all gruff and quiet so only you—and not a fly or spirit could hear—says, “I’ve always been just yours, sweetheart.”

Simon doesn't expect a response. More a kiss. Maybe even a roll of your hips.

It's why he doesn't expect the words, "I'd hoped so", or the way they make him feel like he's walking on air.

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erwinsvow · 6 months

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𝐭𝐞𝐧, 𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧, 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

summary: domestic bliss with agent hotchner is hard to come by. you take advantage of your time with him at home when you can.

word count: 1.4k

author's note: eeeeeee. cannot stop writing for this man. not bau!reader explicitly and also not smut explicitly, more in between. enjoy!!

The house you and Aaron buy is small, and in one word; picturesque. The outside panels are a soft, faded yellow and the shutters are brown.

It’s not a fixer-upper by any means, though Aaron talks often about the wood floors that will need to be redone in a few years, and the kitchen tile and backsplash that aren't in the condition he would quite like.

There’s other things too, like the downstairs bathroom with the peeling, floral patterned wallpaper and the carpet in Jack’s room. He worries about redoing the wallpaper—visions of hours of peeling it off and getting new sheets up and if there’s mold behind the paper, but you like it. It makes it feel like you’ve lived in this house your whole life.

Your shared bedroom is upstairs, down the hall from Jack and the first room off the stairs. You like the simplicity of this house most of all, nothing too grand or vain. When the realtor had taken you for a showing, Aaron was off on a case in Florida and Jack was at school. You felt silly touring alone, because it would have been easier to imagine living here with Aaron and Jack by your side, but you do it anyway.

You love Aaron’s apartment and you have more memories than you can count there—visions of making oatmeal raisin cookies with Jack and your first date with Aaron (a dinner that he cooked followed by a record playing softly and dancing in the living room) pop into your mind—but it’s running out of space, and it’s not quite like home.

This house is home in all the best ways. A big kitchen with an island, where you can picture a cookie jar and a tall counter stool where Jack sits and eats his oatmeal before school.

The living room has big windows and there’s a smaller playroom off the foyer, and in an instant you can picture the rest of your life here. You tell Aaron that night on the phone, and the three of you pay a visit the following weekend. You’re signing papers and packing up boxes two weeks later.

It doesn’t feel like it’s been much time at all, but you realize you’re coming up on almost a year of this house. Your house, the both of yours, the family house. This will be Jack and his siblings’ childhood home.

If you can ever get your husband into bed, that is.

It’s eight-thirty on Friday night. Jack has been at a birthday party-sleepover night since about five. Aaron returned from a case in Michigan less than twenty four hours ago. You had been asleep, late Thursday evening, when he came back home.

He’d gone to the office today and then picked up Jack from school to bring him over to the sleepover. You had triple checked that he’d packed everything he needed—pajamas, toothbrush, his emergency Epi-pen—but forgot the birthday boy’s present in the back seat of your car.

You and Aaron drive back over to deliver the gift, make polite small talk with the parents, and then rush out of there.

Aaron had set up a whole plan. Dinner reservations, dessert at the ice cream place near the house, and then a quiet night in, which was long awaited and desperately needed.

However, nothing goes as planned. You miss the reservation window by ten minutes trying to get Jack’s friend the stupid gift—a Lego Star-Wars kit—before they open presents and cut cake. The ice cream shop is closed due to renovations. You return home to missed calls from your boss and a stack of Aaron’s paperwork on the counter.

“Take out it is,” Aaron says, rifling through the drawer next to the oven. There’s more flyers in there than he thinks, and he still can’t find the one he’s looking for. “Honey? Where’s the menu for that one Indian place-”

“Side of the fridge,” you call back, typing away on your laptop. He doesn’t have to finish his sentences anymore. It makes him smile every time. He locates the menu and brings it to you on the couch.

“What’d you think? The usual?”

“I have a couple ideas.” You are starving, and not for food.

You’re in Aaron’s lap before you can even think about it. He has big hands, very big, very strong hands, that grip you by the waist and hoist you on top of him in a moment. It takes your breath away, momentarily, and then he really takes your breath away.

He kisses you like it’s his first and last time ever being able to do so. His hands roam all over your body and it makes every part of you tingle in anticipation. He grabs your ass with both hands and then slaps it hard—hard enough that it hurts, but he knows you well enough to welcome the moan you emit into his mouth.

Your hands run through his hair and then focus on loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. It’s hard to think, though, with him beneath you and his hardness pressing against you in all the best ways. You want to stay here on the couch and grind yourself against him until you’re both sweating and cumming—but he has other plans.

Always a gentleman, always patient, he pulls away from the kiss and lets you catch your breath. Your foreheads are pressed together, noses touching, and you briefly take in that after so many years of knowing him, Aaron will always take your breath away.

“Why’d you stop?” you question innocently, and he thinks he’ll lose his mind. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Why? I think this is perfect.” You lean back in to kiss him hard, losing yourself in the sweet taste of his mouth—always coffee—and his aroma, which draws you in no matter where you are.

He laughs into your mouth, pulling away again. You make a soft noise of displeasure, but it all goes away when he lifts you up to carry you to your bedroom.

He puts you down first, and gets rid of the tie you undid downstairs. You watch with big eyes while he hovers over you, until he finally leans down and your lips meet again. It’s all too natural to take off your dress and spread your legs and help him pull off his button-up, moaning into your kisses and enjoying the feeling of his hand in your hair, pulling softly.

You like Aaron all of the time, but you’re incredibly biased when he’s like this. You’ve never had to ask for anything, and he somehow knows everything you like. He lines more kisses along your neck, down to your chest. Just as you hear him, low and heady, murmuring, “Tell me what you want,” and getting ready to answer, needy out of your mind and ready to tell him that you need to be fucked, hard, now, his phone goes off.

You exhale. Aaron drops his head in defeat against your chest.

“I’m sorry, honey, hold on a minute,” he starts, leaning over you to get his phone from the nightstand.

“Who is it?” “JJ. It must be a case, I’ll just-”

“Wait, wait,” you whisper. “If it’s a case you can go in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” he questions, eyebrow raised. You look back at him sheepishly.

“Okay, fifteen minutes. I mean, nothing’s gonna change in a half an hour, right? Fifteen minutes here and then fifteen minutes to get there.”

“Honey, I really shouldn’t-”

“I mean, think about it. Everyone else probably isn’t even there yet. You’ll just be sitting around waiting for them before you start. So really, I’m saving you time.”

You both lock eyes and burst into laughter.

“I’ll get your go-bag,” you say, as he answers JJ’s call. You’re about to get up, looking for your haphazardly discarded dress and Aaron’s shirt, when you feel Aaron grip your forearm.

“Hotchner. Okay, JJ, thanks. I’ll be there in forty.” He hangs up and looks back at you, frozen in place. “You have twenty-five minutes to tell me what you want.” You squeal when he pulls you back into bed, kissing you hard.

He gets to the office an hour later.

#eeeeeee. i love this man #aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds #hotch imagine #hotch x reader

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corazondebeskar-reads · 7 months

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you know you never stood a chance - chapter one

you know you never stood a chance series

one: you know you never stood a chance

series masterlist | next chapter

qz!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When QZ!Joel finds out you're planning to take up prostitution to earn enough rations for your sick sister, he makes sure he's the first one to pay you a visit.

Warnings: Prostitution, dub-con due to power imbalance, Joel Miller is bad at feelings, kind of mean!Joel, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), inexperienced reader, mention of cordyceps, brothel

Originally written for Kinktober 2023 - Day 9: Cumshot/Prostitution from this list by @absurdthirst

also on aO3

“Come in,” you called through the door, trying for your best laid-back, confident voice.

It wasn’t very successful. Joel rolled his eyes and opened the door. You were knelt on the bed, looking soft and demure—except for the way you were wringing your hands.

And the way the sweet look fell off your face when you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” You snatched up a pillow, hugging it over your torso like he hadn’t already got a good look at you through the sheer fabric.

“Gardening. What do you think I’m doin’ here?”

“This isn’t funny, Miller. Get out.” You grabbed another pillow and threw it at him.

He deflected it away from his face. “Jesus, woman.”

“You’ve had your laugh; you can go now.” You stared at the dingy Berber carpet of the shitty old motel room. It had probably been shitty before the whole world fell to pieces. The peeling wallpaper had sickly yellow stains to match the cigarette burns that pockmarked the single tufted armchair in the corner.

“Didn’t laugh,” Joel said gruffly, tossing something at you.

You had to drop the pillow to catch the bottle of water, nearly fumbling it, and looked up at him. “What’s this for?” you asked warily.

“It’s for drinkin’.”

“Ha ha. Look, can you not—don’t fuck with me right now. Why’re you here?”

It’s then, as you took a careful sip from the bottle, that Joel got a good look at your outfit.

Periwinkle tulle had been sewn roughly into an approximation of a dress, like something out of a Victoria’s Secret magazine had been poorly described to a seamstress who had never heard of lingerie. Actually, now that he thought about it, there was a good chance that was exactly what happened.

It had crooked, lacey ruffles on the top and bottom and did not suit you in the slightest. “What the hell are you wearin’? You raid a JoAnn’s?”

“Hey, I tried my best,” you said, bottom lip quivering.

“Ah shit, sweetheart, I didn’t—”

But you smirked. “Wow, you were really about to apologize, weren’t you? I shouldn’t have cut you off; go on, I want to hear Joel Miller say ‘sorry.’”

“Wasn’t gonna,” he scowled.

“Right, sure. Anyway, nah, they got a box of this shit in the office. I don’t know who makes it, but they want us to look extra dolled up or something.”

“Take that shit off. I can’t do this with you lookin’ like that.”

The smirk slid off your face. “Can’t do what?”

“Can’t fuck you, sweetheart. Isn’t that why you’re here? I paid for ya’, after all.”

Your stomach churned like the angry sea you had only read about in Moby Dick. You felt about as well as a sailor might have, too. It’s not like you had any misunderstandings about what would happen if you worked a shift at a whorehouse. But with your sister sick and unable to work, you’d been out of food for two days. So.

He looked at you with something too close to pity, so you pulled the dress over your head and threw it on the floor, staring right at him and daring him to say anything. And he did, but it wasn’t what you were expecting.

“You got pretty tits, sweetheart.”

“Thank you… ?”

“What was your plan here? What if it wasn’t me? You just going to let some old creep come in here and do whatever he wanted to ya?”

“And you’re not an old creep?”

He rolled his eyes and sat down on the chair, tugging at his boots. “This ain’t your first time, right?”

“Obviously not,” you snapped. It wasn’t. But he didn’t need to know there had only been the one time. You hadn’t found the experience worth repeating, but the guy seemed pretty happy so you figured you could just lie there and let them do whatever.

“You know how to suck cock?”

You flushed and shook your head. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands, rubbing at his forehead for a few seconds.

“Okay, alright. ‘Nother time, then.”

You were too nervous to clock what he said. He rose and walked over to the bed. You looked up at him with wide eyes, and he knew he had to wreck you. He couldn’t walk out of this room without ruining you for every other person who dared to lay hands on you.

He set his hands on your hips, and you flinched, so he rubbed soothing circles with his thumbs until you relaxed a little. When you had adjusted to the weight of his heavy palms, he slid them and cupped a breast in each.

“Damn, sweetheart. These are real nice.” He fondled them like that for a minute, enjoying the heft in his palms, before rubbing his thumbs over your nipples. He was rewarded for his efforts when a small moan slipped out of you.

He tore his eyes away from your chest to check your expression. Though your lips were parted and eyes glazed, you still looked afraid. “S’all right, honey, I’ll go slow.”

He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth while he rolled the other between his fingers. You moaned again, louder this time, and he took that as permission to give the other breast the same treatment. When you finally started to ease up, to lean into his touch, and he felt more assured that you weren’t about to cry, he stepped back.

“Turn around, hands and knees.”

The apprehension filled the lines of your face quickly, but you turned around, relieved he wouldn’t make you look at him.

He ran a hand across your bare back, pushing your shoulder blades down with one hand and your knees apart with the other until you were arranged how he liked. You tensed, holding your breath and waiting for him to push in.

Instead, you felt a gentle hand on your mound. He cupped it before parting your lips, sliding his fingers through. You were damp, but nowhere near wet enough to take him. Not without a whole lot of pain, at least.

“Got a real pretty pussy, too. You’ve been holdin' out on me.” He circled your clit with the pad of his middle finger for a few seconds, watching you squirm, before he pulled his hand away.

“Anyone ever tasted you? You ever taste yourself?”

You shook your head.

“Shame.” It was a puff of hot breath over your cunt, followed closely by the warm, firm pressure of his tongue.

You wailed. You might have been embarrassed if it hadn’t been the best thing you’d ever felt, beating the record he had set seconds ago with his finger.

He didn’t ease you into this. It took no time at all for his skilled tongue and thick fingers to pry an orgasm out of you. He had worked one finger in you by the time you fell apart, but it wasn’t going to be enough.

You wriggled when he didn’t let up, trying to lurch away, but he pulled you back with a hand on your hip. “Hang on, let me open you up good.”

It was intense, and you were loud, swearing up a storm. When he eased another finger inside, you pushed back against his hand, grinding your hips. He sucked on your clit, flicking it with his tongue, until you came again, this time with a low groan pulled from deep in your chest, sinking back onto his fingers. He slid another one in, pumping furiously until the second orgasm turned into a third, and you were shaking apart.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, stroking soothingly along your spine and drawing his fingers from you. He wanted to push them between your lips, to watch your eyes go wide as you sucked your juices from him, but decided he better not push you too far. Not today, at least.

“You ready for me?” he asked, unzipping his jeans and letting them fall around his ankles.

“Please, Joel.”

And goddamn, if that wasn’t the sweetest sound. “Yeah? You want my cock now?”

“Please, please fuck me, Joel.” You were pushing back against him, grinding your ass against his erection.

“Alright, sweetheart, I’ll take care of ya.” He held you in place with one hand and notched the fat head of his cock at your entrance.

You cried out as he pushed in slowly. “Oh my god. What the fuck. Why are you so fucking big?” You didn’t even mean to be complimenting him. The one dick you had before had certainly not felt like this, like you were being pried apart.

“You gotta relax, sweetheart, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“That’s easy for you to say; you’re not being — oh fuck,” you broke off as he pushed in further.

“Not being what, honey? I didn’t hear ya.”

“Not being fucking split in two by some fuckin—”

He knocked whatever insult you were gearing up for out of you in a strangled breath as his hands gripped tight to your hips and pulled you back on his cock.

“Almost there, don’t worry. I gotcha,” he murmured, reaching around to rub at your clit. It didn’t take much to get you off again, and when your body shook and convulsed, he slid his cock in all the way.

He had planned on giving you a moment to adjust, but you started gently rocking yourself back and forth on it like a fuckin’ handwritten invitation. He began pulling almost all the way out before slowly sinking in, letting you part around him. His groan had you arching your back.

You thought he’d fuck rough. It might have been easier if he had. When you realized he was serious about it, that he had paid real fucking ration cards for access to your body, you figured he’d use you, cum, and leave.

Instead, he took you apart with precision. You wondered if he was a musician before, the way his fingers seemed to know right where to go, just how to thrum your body to draw out sounds you didn’t even know were inside you.

The rhythm he set was fluid and deep. You felt like you might explode, each stroke leaving you with fewer coherent thoughts. He hefted you against his chest, thrusting up into you and reaching around to your breasts.

It was a little overwhelming. Your whole body electrified, just the brush of his arm against yours sent waves of too much too much coursing through. All the while, his hips rolled into you, and yours mindlessly sought him back.

He was getting close, his thrusts a little sloppy. He held you to him with one hand cupping a breast and slid the other down to press against your clit. “Cum on my cock,” he growled in your ear.

It didn’t take long with the steady pressure and the way his cock nudged something inside you that made you twitch with every thrust. When you came, he shoved you down into the mattress, pulling out to cum over your ass.

You must have dozed off for a minute, because the wet washcloth landing on your back brought you abruptly into the world.

“Clean up, drink that, and get outta here.”

You glowered at him, head spinning from the sudden shift. He made you off-kilter and vulnerable, which was not an option, so you snarled back, “What, you think you’re my only client? I’ve got other men to fuck today, Joel.”

He finished tying his boots and stalked over to you, bending down to get in your face. “No, you don’t. You’re gonna go home like a good girl. And next time, you come straight to me. Understood?”

“What?”

“You still cockdumb? Poor thing.”

“Fuck off, Joel.”

He pressed the water bottle into your hands. “Next time you need cards this bad, you don’t come here. You come to me.”

“I’m not taking your handouts, Miller.”

“I’m not offerin’em. But you keep comin’ here, doin’ this? You’re gonna catch something worse than fuckin’ cordyceps. Or get yourself knocked up. We can make this same little arrangement if you need to.” He tilted your head up to face him. “Understood?”

“Fine,” you spat.

He stood up. For a moment, you thought he might say something else, but he just shook his head and left.

next chapter

*title from "Stood a Chance" by Taking Back Sunday

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou fic #qz!joel #pre-tlou #kinktober 2023 #you know you never stood a chance series

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wen-kexing-apologist · 7 months

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Who is Mew Anyway?

I realized we are over halfway through Only Friends now, and that I have only talked about Mew once in my write ups. Which…makes sense for me, all things considered, until now he’s kind of been a blah character in my eyes. And I am leaning in to and really appreciating how intentional that is beginning to feel on behalf of Jojo and co.

When you think about it, until literally halfway through the show we have known almost nothing about Mew besides the fact that he is the table keeper for his friends, he is a hotel management student, and he’s a virgin. If you asked me to list any other facts about Mew’s life or his role in life, I would not have been able to answer much of anything.

And that’s because Mew isn’t really anything. Personally, I feel like Mew thinks he has a strong sense of self and the second that something comes along to question that, all those illusions he has of himself start crumbling. When I look at Mew’s character, and I mean start getting in to the nitty gritty of Mew’s character, I don’t think Mew has any idea who he is. Which, for a show about college students is fucking brilliant. I thought I knew who I was in college, and then I graduated and promptly became queer and trans. I thought I knew what career I wanted, and then I ended up going to grad school for something outside of my initial plans. I know @waitmyturtles mentioned something similar about trying on different personalities in college in her Episode 7 Review.

Think about Mew’s apartment, it was his mother’s old place. He took it over after she moved out. He didn’t choose this place, we can’t be certain this is the type of apartment or the location that Mew would actively decide to be in. When he brings Top home the first night they meet, Top comments on the place:

“Your room is nice, it suits you”

To which Mew replies ‘It’s my Mom’s old room. I decorated it using ideas from the internet”

Which says to me that Mew’s own personality, his own interests weren’t even involved in the creation of his own personal space. He decorated it based on inspiration from what other people had done to their own places. And Mew’s apartment fascinates me further, as a color-coder in BL kinda person. Because Mew’s apartment is all over the place in its decoration.

On one wall we have striped wallpaper, in orange hues.

On another we have light blue walls with white and golden patterning. A yellow couch, a blue bookshelf.

In his room he has a wall that is painted a solid green

And I can’t quite get a good image of it, but the opposite wall in his room is painted a dark turquoise with white patterning, which is different from Ray’s house, but still evokes a similar visual point of comparison.

Even Mew himself, when we first meet him is alllllll over the place with his colors. He has lines all over his shirt, with squares of different colors. His second look of the show is a solid light blue shirt over top of a striped shirt with orange, green, yellow.

His bed sheets are similarly stripes with dark gray, green, yellow, and orange.

Which is to say, at the beginning of our time with Mew, it is hard to pin down who he is as a person. He doesn’t have a color, he doesn’t have a pattern, to associate with his character. He fluctuates between rich, saturated colors and light, washed out pastels.

When I think of Mew, I think of all the outfits he’s worn that have a strong green tint to them, but honestly, looking back through his wardrobe, Mew has a broad range of colors he chooses from.

(Now, I recognize that all of this could be because the costuming department does not actually care about color coding, and that the eclectic styling of Mew’s apartment was just how it already was. And that’s fine, but I’m here so I’m gonna overanalyze it.)

All this to say that, Mew’s colors, Mews home, Mew’s pattern choices are all very disparate. All this to say that as a result I am now assuming that Mew does not know who he is, and neither do we. He could go any number of ways. Mew could go orange, yellow, green, blue. He could be complicated (with complex patterns) or straight forward (with solid colors). But none of us know at the beginning of this show quite where he will go.

Truthfully, the only aspect of Mew that I have seen be steadfast throughout the show, is Mew’s moral superiority complex. Everything else is mutable. Mew has throughout most of the show, regarded himself as a good person. He doesn’t drink much, he doesn’t dance much, he doesn’t sleep around at all, and that somehow in his mind, grants Mew the opportunity to talk down to his friends.

He’s not an alcoholic like Ray who he has no problem lecturing in the bathroom about how he is going to be dead by 30, despite knowing that Ray is/was suicidal. He’s not a slut like Boston, who is far too obsessed with Mew’s virginity, etc. etc. etc. Mew fucks with Top, deciding that he is going to wait to have sex with him for awhile. And that is his right, but Mew doesn’t say he’s waiting because he isn’t comfortable with sex. He tells Boston and Cheum that he is waiting to have sex with Top to make sure that Top is serious about their relationship. Because if Top is serious about dating Mew without sex being involved, that means that Mew is worthy of the top tier because he is top tier, and not because he is an easy lay that Top can use for bragging rights (bagging a virgin).

And I would have previously entertained a conversation around whether or not that is true, but unfortunately for any dissenters to my read of Mew, now that Mew has decided to #embracethenasty, there is no convincing me out of my observation that Mew does not know who he is.

Why? Because the second that Mew starts retaliating against Top, the second he decides to ruin Top’s life, to stoop low, to be the lesser person…Mew starts dressing like Ray. I am certainly not the first person to notice this, it has been circulating in multiple different forms across my tumblr page, but.

Gif from @firstmix

Mew doesn’t know who he is, Mew doesn’t know how he fits in to the world now that he has decided to make Top’s life a living hell. I am not convinced Mew is capable of seeing himself as a bad person, because he isn’t a slut or an addict or a cheater. [As an aside here, this is Mew’s thinking, not my own personal beliefs on what makes someone a good or bad person]. So, of course, if he wanted to become a bad person. If he wanted to play at being as toxic and terrible as the people around him, it makes sense Mew would don the wardrobe of his “best friend”, Ray. Ray, who Mew looks down on for being an alcoholic, for not valuing his life. Who Mew has told time and time again to love himself, and to quit drinking and doing drugs, as if that is going to cure Ray’s addiction. And who in under five minutes just took a blowtorch to everyone’s relationships.

Why? Because Mew is so self-righteous that he looks down on others around him. Mew isn’t ready or willing to look at and acknowledge the nasty, flawed parts of himself, so he adorns the nasty, flawed parts of others, to abstract himself from his own behavior. He uses Ray’s clothing, Nick’s methodology, and Boston’s personality to retaliate at the people he feels wronged by.

Mew uses Boston against himself, wielding Boston’s sexual prowess, his willingness to fuck, his Hunter charm to get himself in to Gap’s apartment. He uses Nick’s methodology to steal the video of Boston and lords the knowledge over Boston’s head (like Nick did to Top), and again, he is wearing Ray’s clothing. But while Mew is trying to be a chameleon in his behavior, his appearance, his strategy to get back at Top, Mew’s own flavor of flaw starts becoming ever more clear.

Mew has a superiority complex.

It is absolutely, unbelievable shitty and vile to threaten to out Boston to his father. To treat Boston’s privacy and safety with such disdain. Boston records others and he keeps those images as evidence, so Mew steals Boston’s MO. Mew takes the recording of Boston, looks Boston in the eye, and makes Boston think that he is going to hold on to that for evidence.

Now, right before this, Mew does actually draw a comparison point between himself and Boston.

“You and I have something in common.” he says

“We’re both gullible”

Mew makes Boston beg. And after he has made Boston sweat sufficiently, he throws the flashdrive on the ground. He says: “I’m kidding. No matter how much I hate you, I won’t do it. Because I don’t betray my friend like you did.

“Then I’d be just as filthy as you are.”

While Mew is able to identify a potential flaw of his own, being gullible isn’t a fundamental aspect of Mew’s personality or character, being gullible isn’t who Mew is. It’s a flaw that he is pointing out only because he is still reeling from allowing himself to be fooled by Top and Boston. It’s a flaw that he is point out so that he can weaponize his superiority complex.

In other words: “You and I have something in common, but I am better than you because I don’t betray my friends” As if he didn’t just threaten to publicize Boston’s sex life to his father, the implications of which could have a national impact.

And while it is ultimately unsurprising that Mew channels Ray in doing all of this, it is interesting. Interesting because Mew is using Ray. Mew not only knows that Ray is capable of fucking up his own life, and the lives of the people around him, he also knows that Ray is the least liked by both Boston and Top. Boston’s distaste for Ray is subtle, as his obsession with Top and Mew has been more at the forefront of his interactions with his friends. But we have seen from the very beginning of this show that Boston does nothing to care for Ray. Boston is assigned to take care of Ray and make sure he is safe when he’s been drinking too much. Boston literally never once helps Ray when he’s drunk. Boston sees Ray and Sand crossed, cuddling, and generally having a good time, and Boston goes and airs Ray’s dirty laundry. Ray is the first person to confront Boston about cuckolding Mew.

So wearing clothing that is reminiscent of Ray when Mew goes to Boston’s house to threaten him is a flavorful undertone for how Mew is hoping Boston will see him.

At the points in which Top and Mew interact during the episode, Mew is not dressed like Ray, but he sure as shit does lord Ray over Top just to fuck with him. When Top comes to apologize to Mew, Mew asks Ray to find a new designer, literally asking Ray to replace Top. When Ray helps treat Mew’s injury after the group fight, Mew decides to use Ray as a rebound. To use Ray’s feelings for him as a way to experiment, once again, with the type of person he wants to be and the type of person he wants to be with. We end the episode with Ray and Mew dancing together at the bar, Mew dressed in a very Ray style

Because Mew is trying Ray on for size, trying his fashion, his company, his lifestyle (as we see from the promo for next week) and that is prone to make RayMew crash and burn, because Ray is self-destructive enough as is, and I don’t think Mew is going to do well with treating himself with Ray’s level of self-care.

Mew doesn’t know who he is, Mew doesn’t know what he wants, the only thing Mew knows is that he’s better than everyone around him, and he can only stoop as low as them is by pretending he is them, rather than facing the fact that he's just as terribly human as the rest of the group.

#only friends the series #ofts #only friends #raymew #topmew #forcebook #book kasidet #khaotung thanawat #neo trai #force jiratchapong #ofts meta #ofts analysis #only friends analysis #only friends meta

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lovebittenbyevans · 14 days

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The Wrong Sister | Prologue

Summary: You and your sister Jasmine don’t always see eye to eye. When she starts to bring her husband Andy Barber around more, you kept a distance from him until things began to change between you two.

Pairing: Andy Barber x Female Reader

Warnings: slight slow burn, cursed words

Author note: I missed writing this series. This series will be a short series and different. Enjoy reading!

Prologue

One missed call from Andy Barber (brother-in law)

You grabbed your phone after you put on your my hero academia t-shirt. You heard your phone buzzing again in your hand as you finally checked to see who kept hitting you up like this.

Andy Barber: I’m outside! Open the door, please

You reread his text message one more time like it was a joke or not. You placed your phone on the nightstand and walked out of your bedroom. You didn’t expect to see him anytime soon since your sister made plans for them tonight.

When you opened the door of your apartment, you saw Andy standing there in the pouring rain holding a duffel bag. “Hi.”

“Hey, can I stay here tonight?” He asked you.

You quickly moved to the side of the door to let him in. “Uh, you and my sister got into it again?” He walked inside taking his shoes off as you closed the door.

He sighed. “Um, kind of.”

You honestly were not expecting to see him tonight most of all. Your heart began to pick up fast as you walked past him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

It has been a long time since you had anyone staying with you. You can’t even remember the last time you had a guy stay over at your place.

Andy has been to your apartment more than once but only when your family wanted to have parties or get together at someone's house. You needed your heart to calm the fuck down right about now.

You led him to the guest room and opened the door. “Let me know if you need anything.” You thank god you were able to get rid of the yellow wallpaper and paint the guest room wall a nice light green color.

He clears his throat and walks past you inside the guest room. “Just water.” You nod and head directly to the kitchen.

You filled an empty glass cup with water and made your way back to the guest room. A skull mixed with a lion tattoo on his back caught your attention as you were about to hand him the cup with water.

Shit!

“Here you go.” You said making sure you spoke clearly.

Andy turned around with a smile and took the cup from you. “Thanks.”

You nod. “Well, let me know if you need anything else.” You were about to walk out the door when he called out to you. “Y/N.”

“Yes?” You responded while glancing at him.

Sometimes you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. There was something about Andy that had your heart racing fast and you can not see yourself being around him for long especially when Jasmine always tried to be in you two conversations.

His blue eyes locked with yours. “Why have you been avoiding me? I’ve been calling you and texting you for the past week.”

And there it is…..fuck!

For the past week you have not been answering his calls and text messages. He was not stupid. A part of him missed hearing your voice. He wanted to make sure his sister in law was doing okay.

“Uh.” You paused for a second. “What did my sister and you argue about this time?” You tried to change the subject.

You would be lying to yourself that he shouldn’t be on your mind. He was your brother in law for god sake. Your heart shouldn’t be beating fast for a married man. You should not feel butterflies in your stomach.

“Y/N.” He studied you as he tapped the spot on the bed next to him. He missed having real honest conversations with you. He missed seeing you as well.

You sigh and sit on the edge of the bed leaving space between you two. “Did Jasmine say something to you? I know we follow her rules.” He continues to talk.

You rolled your eyes and scoffs. Your sister and her stupid rules she always made up every time she dates or married someone which you have to follow regardless.

“No.” You shake your head.

Confusion showed on his face. “Is it about that day what happened between–” You cut him off immediately. “No, No, No.”

There you go lying again

Andy brows raise. “Y/N, Don’t do that.” He can tell when you aren’t telling him the truth. You were sometimes easy to read.

“Andy.” You said quietly.

That day should have never happened but it did. He reaches toward you and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “It’s ok.”

You didn’t realize how close he was to you. You were pretty sure he could hear the way your heart was pounding.

Exhaling a shaky breath, he leans in close, nose brushing and whispers against your lips. “I want you to have me.” You move your head away before he could kiss you.

“Time to get some sleep.” You got up from the bed and let out a yawn. “Goodnight, Andy.” He was almost hard to resist but you was not going to give in. You walked out the door feeling butterflies in your stomach and your cheeks flustered.

#chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans x you #chris evans series #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x black reader #chris evans fanfiction #andy barber #andy barber x reader #andy barber x you #andy barber x female reader #andy barber x y/n #andy barber fanfiction

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doorp · 8 months

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NEVERMORE AND FLOWERS !!!!!

one of my favorite things to think about with nevermore is the flower symbolism and how it correlates to Lenore’s mental health/perception of herself, as well as when she arrives and departs. A lot of the times people say that the flowers represent Annabel, but I think they actually represent Lenore herself.

1. The Funeral

there are so many instances where Lenore compares herself to flowers/flowers represent her departure or return, but the first time is in the maze when she is thrown into the memory of her brothers funeral. She goes up to her past self, and memory Lenore asks her to remove a fallen lily thats found itself on theos casket. Lenore responds to her request, telling her that you can’t put a flower back once it falls from its stem, and that you can only throw it away. After the accident, Lenore threw the old version of herself away. They locked her away, called her damaged and tried to pretend she didnt exist.

2. The wall paper + Annabel’s arrival

The wallpaper in the attic room that Lenore is locked away in has a yellow flower pattern on it. As she lost herself to the isolation and madness of being stuck up there, she ripped the wallpaper off the walls proclaiming “there’s no need for flowers here. After today there will be no more flowers” The flower wallpaper is gone, as is her sanity, and her hope of healing and being herself again. The flowers are gone, and she believes she leaves with them. Then Annabel’s carriage arrives. She is taken down to the sitting room, and sees flowers on the table. Lenore thinks “I thought there would be no more flowers” She thought there would be no more of *herself*, of freedom or feeling whole again. She then has the first actual conversation she’s probably had in forever. Annabel, if even for her own gain, treats her like an actual person and asks her about herself. Lenore even says herself that Annabel coming to see her brought her back to life long before she died. She sees the flowers on the table, and sees herself again.

3. Smashing the vase

When Annabel tells her that their whole friendship was an act, Lenore becomes furious. As Annabel leaves, Lenore turns around and leans on a table with a vase of flowers on it. When Lenore sees the vase of flowers on the table, she’s weak, leaning over, clutching her stomach. She calls the flowers insipid, cloying, devious, things that could describe Annabel as she’s just seemingly betrayed her. But then she says “pointless, Fragile, Disgusting, beautiful flowers” as she shifts to anger towards herself, she’s referring to herself with those last few lines, infuriated that she can’t do anything abt this situation, that she’s weak and can barely stand, her hair done up and trapped in her flowing dresses. She hates this weakness, her lack of agency, how she knows Annabel did not want to do this but has no choice, that Annabel’s desperately clinging to any lie of control she can. She hates herself, how she can’t help the person she loves, that the person she loves has to help her up and fan her face and be terrible to her so she’ll feel hate instead of loneliness when she has to leave. She refuses to believe that she’s a wonderful pianist. She thinks herself guilty, of theos death and tearing her family apart. She thinks a person so guilty and weak and pointless as her can’t be capable of the talent Annabel speaks of.

4. Annabel’s flashback

In part of Annabel’s flashback after their conversation at the widows watch, Annabel sits in her bath. As she sits she starts reciting hamlet, of all things. Specifically Ophelia’s monologue. She floats in her bath, and repeats to herself lines speaking of flowers and mourning. As she attempts to calm herself after learning her friend has died in a vicious fire, she distracts from thinking by reciting poetry about FLOWERS. And what cuts her thoughts off? What does she see, what does her subconscious cause her to hallucinate, as she’s thinking about flowers and flower poetry in her bathtub. She sees LENORE. She thinks of flowers and hallucinates LENORE. Lenore driving her under the water, Lenore strung up with beautiful red ribbons, charred, embers flitting through her hair, berating her and haunting her, telling her the same words she did when they last met. Telling annabel that anything could tip those close to her off to the fact that she might not be all there. She recites flower poetry and proceeds to have horrific hallucinations of lenores ghost haunting her.

In the morning, annabel pulls some flowers out of a vase, holding the lily of the valley. She holds it after learning that there’s a mysterious man no one knows waiting to meet her. That he’s asked for her specifically. The lily of the valley in Victorian flower language represents return to happiness, and who shows up minutes later, dressed as a man and ready to wreak havoc upon her fathers estate? Lenore vandernacht. She then says, staring at the flowers that she’d like to wear something floral.

Annabel’s mourning clothes

As Annabel walks down to meet this mysterious visitor, she wears a black dress with FLOWERS ON IT. The day after learning a very dear “friend” has been killed in a fire, she wears a black dress with flowers on it, after having hallucinated said friend in the bathtub after talking to herself about flowers. She wears a black dress with a flower pattern on it in mourning of Lenore.

5. Pet, and the flower ring

Pet - in some places (not too sure on this one) pet can be short for petal, Annabel literally calls Lenore my petal

The engagement ring Lenore gives Annabel has a flower in it. The gift that’s supposed to symbolize lenores love for her, that’s supposed to be a piece of Lenore that Annabel wears, IS A FLOWER. ANNABEL IS WEARING LENORE. SHE WAKES UP IN PURGATORY, STILL WEARING THOSE RINGS. NOT EVEN DEATH COULD GET HER TO GIVE UP THAT PIECE OF LENORE SHE CARRIES. THE FLOWERS ARE LENORE LENORE IS THE FLOWERS.

All that is to say RAHHHH FLOWERS RAHHHH LET LENORE RELAX AND FEEL DESERVING OF LOVE AGAIN RAHHHH

#nevermore webtoon #lenore nevermore #annabel lee nevermore #the flowers the flowers the flowers #RAHHHH #lmk if I missed anything im crazy #OH WAIT LENORES CORSET HAS FLOWERS ON IT TOO #Annabel also probably likes the taste of fl-💥 🔫

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sister-lucifer · 2 months

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Who’ll Stop The Rain?

Tim Wright/Masky x Gender Neutral Reader

READ PART ONE HERE

READ PART TWO HERE

Genre: Comfort, fluff, slight angst but nothing heavy, not explicitly romantic

Summary: The thunder rouses you from a nightmare-filled sleep, and in your distress you run to Tim for comfort

Content/Warnings: None really, reader has nightmares due to unspecified trauma but nothing is explicitly written, Tim is a little emotionally constipated but does his best, no explicit romance.

Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio (request rules + masterlist in pinned post)!

Also, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out

Feedback is encouraged and appreciated:)

Not fully proofread! Let me know if you see any errors!

You nearly jump out of your skin when the screaming thunder rips you from your fitful sleep. You sit up so fast you almost fall out of bed, your jaw hanging open like you’re trying to cry out despite no sound leaving your throat. Your chest is heaving so fast you start to choke on your breath. It takes a moment for your eyes to focus, and even longer still for you to remember where you are.

Do you recognize this place?

Home?

This isn’t home.

No. Not quite.

A home, yes, but not your home.

The TV is still on.

The wallpaper is still peeling.

The shag rug is still discolored.

You know where you are.

You look around for a second, taking in your surroundings and making sure your assessment was correct. It’s like a flood of memories coming back to you in an instant, and for a second it’s almost calming. That is, until you get to the part that made you so afraid in the first place.

The nightmares have been pervasive for weeks now. You’re not sure why. It’s some sort of episode you think, one of these days it’ll stop, but it’s been wearing on you. You’ve hidden it from Tim as best you can. You don’t want him to worry, that’ll only make you feel worse, and usually it’s easy enough to shake the thoughts from your mind.

Usually.

But this time it’s lingering, an unwanted guest meandering in the doorway for an uncomfortable amount of time, like dirty smoke permeating everything around it and yellowing the walls with its horrible malodor.

God, it’s everywhere.

You squeeze your eyes shut, bringing your knees to your chest and hiding your face in them. It’s a feeble attempt to calm yourself, to stop the images of your nightmare from flashing in your mind over and over again, but it does little to help.

The thunder cries out again and you yelp in surprise, the harsh noise cutting through the static buzzing taking over your mind. It irritates the pounding headache you can feel coming on. You’re exhausted, only being kept awake by the obscene amounts of adrenaline being pumped through your veins.

God, it won’t go away.

There are just some thoughts that can’t be forced out no matter how hard you try. They can’t be pushed away or covered up or cut out of you. You can only wait until they dissolve on their own, but right now they feel like a cement block weighing you down from the inside.

The headache is coming on faster than you thought, and you wince under the pressure of pins and needles in the back of your head.

God, it hurts.

You can’t stay here.

You can’t stay in this room.

It’s like the walls are closing in on you, the darkness barely shrouding their approach.

It’s not safe here.

You need Tim.

He’ll know what to do.

You jump from your bed and tumble to the floor, not even taking a moment to acknowledge the pain as you thrash your way out of the covers tangled around your ankles. You barely manage to stumble to your feet, slamming into the doorway as you flee the room. It stings, but you don’t care.

You’ve forgotten all pleasantries or manners as you burst into Tim’s room, slamming the door open so fast the knob rattles from the impact. Tim jolts awake with a grunt of surprise, and for a moment his hand jumps to grab the revolver he keeps in the dresser drawer. He only fumbles with the handle for a moment before he blinks a few times and pauses. He squints at you, tilts his head, then sighs in both relief and annoyance.

He collapses back onto the bed, rubbing his eyes.

“God…dammit, kid!” He groans, and you feel a pang of guilt that’s quickly washed away by the flood of tears stinging your eyes and burning your throat.

You rush to his bedside, collapsing against the mattress and gasping for air as you try to collect yourself. You try to breath in, but the air is forced back out of your lung before you can take a meaningful breath. You choke out a pitiful cry of Tim’s name, but with the old TV being the only light in the room and his vision still blurry with sleep he can’t see the distress that’s evident on your face.

He turns over onto his side, brows furrowed in annoyance and a hint of a scowl on his lips.

“What do you need, kid?”

You don’t get to answer before the thunder comes down again, making you flinch and forcing a surprised noise from your mouth. Tim turns and looks out the window, sighing and rolling his eyes.

“Is it the thunder, huh? You scared, kid?”

“Yes,” You finally choke out.

He pauses, his expression instantly shifting to one of concern. He scrambles to sit up, making room for you on the bed.

“Okay, okay,” He says softly, “Come on, get up here, I got you.”

You claw at the sheets as you climb up into bed with him, your hands immediately finding his body and grabbing onto his shirt. You pull yourself into him so desperately he almost falls over, barely managing to catch himself just in time to keep you both from going down.

He’s almost as frantic as you are, large hands fumbling with you as he clumsily pulls you onto his lap and into his chest. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, your fingers clutching the back of his shirt so hard your knuckles are getting sore. It hurts, but you can’t let go. You hiccup and your breath stutters as you fight for air.

“Hey, hey,” He whispers, trying to keep you still against him without crushing you, “Are you hurt or anything?”

“No,” You answer, not relaxing your grip for a second. You feel Tim nod.

“Okay, okay. What’s wrong, kid, what’s got you all worked up?” He asks. Hopefully you can’t hear that little shake in his voice.

“N-Nightmare,” is the only reply you can stutter out, but it says enough. It strikes a nerve somewhere deep inside of Tim’s being, and it hurts like hell. He knows what it’s like to wake up screaming, terrified and alone.

You’re not alone, though. Not this time. He won’t let you suffer like that.

…But god, he is so bad at this.

He loves you with everything he’s got, but he can count on one hand the amount of times he’s come right out and said it. It’s embarrassing for him, that’s all, the words taste contrived and sticky in his mouth and it’s just unbearable. It’s not something he can make himself do.

What else can he possibly say?

He ponders that question as he keeps you against him, almost afraid to let you go. He can feel your hot tears soaking through his thin night shirt now. He doesn’t know how to stop them. He’s always suffered alone, he doesn’t even have a frame of reference here.

Think, dammit, think, Tim.

He won’t tell you everything is okay. It’s not, it never will be, and he’s not going to lie to you.

He won’t tell you to stop crying. It’d be a horrible thing to ask of you, full stop. Christ, at this point, you deserve a good cry.

He won’t stay quiet. It’s completely out of the question, he has to say something, and it has to be the truth.

He has to tell you the truth.

“…You’re safe with me, kid,” He sputters, trying to get the words out as fast as possible, “You’re safe, I ain’t gonna let nothing happen to you. Not ever.”

You go quiet for just a moment, like you’re surprised to hear that. Then you hiccup and suck in a harsh breath, and the sobs roll in once more. He sighs and starts to rub your back in smooth circles.

“Whatever’s scarin’ you, kid,” He mutters in your ear, “I won’t let it get you. Nothing‘s gonna get to you while I’m here. You can sit here in my lap all night if you want, I ain’t lettin’ you go nowhere ‘til you feel safe.”

As he talks, you slowly start to calm down. It’s gradual, but when he stops talking your hiccups and sobs have gotten just a bit quieter. Your grip on his shirt has loosened a little, too.

You believe him.

God, you really do believe him.

And for some reason, that’s the most amazing thought that’s ever crossed his mind. You really do trust him to keep you safe.

He plans to keep it that way.

He adjusts you in his hold just a bit, moving to lean back against his pillows. He tightens his grip a bit just to keep you from moving. He doesn’t want you to think he’s trying to get away from you, he just wants you both to be comfortable.

Both of his hands rest on your back, slowly sliding up and down as you hide your face in the crook of his neck. Your body shivers against him, the heaving in your chest starting to level out bit by bit as you catch your breath. He can feel your lungs expand and contract with each breath.

He reaches up to scratch the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around you. He listens intently as your voice quiets until you’re silent, and then the only thing he can hear is your steady breathing.

He just sits there for a minute when he realizes he’s actually managed to calm you. He’s almost impressed with himself. In any other universe, that was probably a disaster.

His hands still and move to rest on your back once more. He doesn’t feel the need to keep you held so tight now. You’re not going anywhere.

Are you even awake?

He turns his head to look at you, and you stir a bit in response. He quickly turns his head back so as not to wake you if you are asleep. He’s not going to get up until you are.

He sighs softly to himself, his eyes turning back to the TV and whatever trashy sitcom he fell asleep too a few hours ago. He doesn’t really care. He won’t be up for much longer. Now that the adrenaline has worn off the exhaustion is quickly taking over, not to mention the warmth and comfortable pressure of you laying on top of him is more relaxing than he’d like to admit.

He’s only just allowed his eyes to flutter shut when he feels you stir, and suddenly they fly open again. He stays still, but alert. You’re not having another nightmare, are you? Shit…

He tenses as he listens to you, watching your movements carefully. You don’t seem upset, at least not yet, but that can change in an instant.

He’s ready to hold onto you if you freak out. He’s thinking about where he last left the first aid kit, just in case. He’s wondering what he’ll have to say this time if he can’t bring you down again.

But then you go still.

And you’re quiet.

And you’re breathing steadily.

And everything’s okay again.

Then Tim flinches as an unexpected mumble of his name falls from your lips, and he turns to look at you in surprise and slight concern.

“Yeah, kid? What is it?”

He gets no response.

Your eyes are closed. You’re asleep.

Thank God.

He huffs at his own anxiousness before laying his head back again. He pats your back softly, and his eyelids are starting to feel heavy again.

“You know what?” He whispers as he reaches to pull a blanket over both of you, “I’ll ask you in the morning. Sweet dreams, kid.”

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months

Text

If You Can't Dance 1

Warnings: dubcon, noncon, other possible triggers. Proceed with caution.

Note: this is what you get when you encourage me. Please leave any and all feedback! 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Part of The Club AU

“It's so nice to finally meet you in person!” Melinda beams as she holds out a bright drink. The layers of blue and purple make you wonder about its contents.

“Yeah, so awesome,” Faye hollers as she sips from a yellow cocktail. “Must be lonely working from home.”

“Oh, uh, not really,” you sway, trying to avoid the bodies around you. Your throat scrapes as you have to yell over the pumping bass. “It's…quiet.”

“Quiet!? Carly giggles, “then It's good you got out! This merger is going to be lit.”

“Lit?” Melinda, the eldest of the trio rolls her eyes, “you young ones.”

You wade with them through the crowd, the heat of the clubgoers catching beneath the wool of your sweater. You feel out of place in your dowdy pullover and long peasant skirt, especially as sequins and bright prints refract in the rainbow of lights. Even your coworkers belong, blouse sleeves rolled up and blazers handed over to the coatroom.

“Hopefully they're still down for work drinks!” Faye trills.

“Bigger and better. Work mandated cocktails should just be a thing,” Carly guffaws.

“Mmm, and what about work mandated flings?” Faye ogles past you.

You crane to follow her eyeline. You see several men, striding through the crowd with ease. Tall and not bad looking by common standards. You see nothing especially alluring but you understand what people look for; good posture, nice eyes, broad shoulders.

“Erm,” you look back and taste your drink, giving a face. “Is there alcohol in this?” You call over.

“Duh!” Carly laughs again, “oh my god, you're so adorable! Oh, you know what, you should start coming into office. We do lattes on Friday.”

“I er… don't mind….”

You don't finish your protest as the tempo shifts and Faye squeals, “oh this is my song, girls!”

They throw an arm up each, balancing their drinks in their other hands. You sniff the glass and try another gulp. You cough and hide it behind your hand. They barely notice you. No one really does, you're tiny and dressed like wallpaper.

As they shimmy and swing to the music, you don't know what to do. You wiggle awkwardly, but you don't dance and have no rhythm. You find yourself downing the drink out of anxiety.

You feel an odd sensation in your eyelids and a ripple in your brain as you get to the bottom of the drink. You copy Carly and leave your empty glass on a table. Another song and the heat beads on the nape of your neck.

The flashing lights and wall of sound makes you dizzy. You shouldn't have finished the drink. You don't feel right. You look at the others and how they giggle and joke. You don't fit in. Just like always. You know your coding and you know how to be alone.

You sidle close to Melinda, she seems like a mother, well, she kept mentioning her kids. “Is there a bathroom here?”

She laughs, amused by your obvious question, “over there.”

She points through the crowd. You see the top of a sign but not enough to read it. You smile and wave to the other girls, fleeing as they barely notice.

You get caught between a couple as you try to squeeze by. You squeal and get knocked around by a large guy on the other side of them. You're caught in a tidal wave of people as you peer desperately at the neon blue sign.

You can't get there but you need to get out of here. Your skin is on fire, your vision is streaming, and you can't breathe. The air is hot and humid and putrid.

You claw before you, forcing past the crush around you, stumbling towards the entryway. You trip out the door and heave in, gulping down cold air, trying to get your head straight. Your chest hurts and you're shaking. You need help!

You look around for anything. Anyone. The bouncers are distracted with those seeking entry and those in line don't seem to see you. You lean on the corner of the building and put your hand on your sweater.

You clutch the wool and shake your head. It's been a while since you felt this. The world spirals around you as you struggle to steady yourself. You keep your other hand on the wall and murmur. You're going to pass out.

You shouldn't have come here. You knew this would happen. But they didn't give you a choice. The email said mandatory. You need this job. What are you going to do? Everything is falling to pieces.

“Pardon me, are you alright?” A lilting voice startles you. You part from the wall, nearly falling against it as you teeter on your feet, “oh, woah, watch yourself.”

The man catches your arm, keeping you from tipping over. His touch surges in you but you know you can't stand on your own. You gulp and gurgle, fanning yourself.

“S-s-sorry,” you pants, “I just… I can't breathe.”

He leans in as you can barely speak. His blue eyes are intent on you as he keeps you upright, firm but gentle. He nods as he listens to your staggered words.

“I… too hot… inside…”

“Oh, dear, yes, I agree,” he smiles kindly, “here, why don't you…. lean here, yes,” he eases you against the brickfront, “catch your breath,” his accent is soothing, “and…” he looks around, gesturing to the bouncer, “Pardon, yes, would you fetch some water for the lady?”

The man grumbles but glances inside the club. He must know the stranger before you, “you have some water and it'll be just fine. Hmm? Will you count with me?”

You give him a bewildered look but he's already counting, “one, two, three…”

#jonathan pine #dark jonathan pine #dark!jonathan pine #jonathan pine x reader #drabble #au #series #if you can't dance #the club #the night manager

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rustedhearts · 3 months

Text

listening to 'asleep' by the smiths

tw: child loss

"do you think it'll be sunny all the time?"

"hmm...the occasional rainy day might be nice."

"mm. i like rain."

on the muted floral colors of your pillowcase, steve turns his head. hair whooshing with the gentle shift, splaying out in hazelnut colors. the green of his sweatshirt has faded in the wash, blown soft by the wind on the drying line outside the window. overhead, it blares the orange and yellow light of mid-afternoon.

he's looking at you, eyes flicking over your profile. "yeah...me too"

there's an old water stain on the ceiling that steve once said is shaped like an elephant. you think it just looks more like a blob. but you have been staring at it above your bed for far too many years.

"it's nice," you whisper, trying not to give into his peering.

steve continues anyway, letting his cheek touch the flattened pillow. your bedsheets are rumpled between your bodies, cushioning yesterday's clothes. you never changed when you came home. couldn't get past the bed.

"yeah...it is," he agrees just as quietly.

his finger enters the plain of your palm, grazing the skin so delicately that it tickles. you twitch at the touch, a smile ghosting over your mouth. he wants to capture it—this moment—in a photograph and paste it on the old wallpapered wall. in this tiny trailer, where you'd spent your youth, where you shared a home. where you dreamed of worlds outside of the one the pair of you were continually stuck in.

"how would we go?"

"a plane. a plane with the fanciest seats and all the roasted peanuts you want. and they hand out free headsets and airplane pillows."

you let your eyes flutter closed, humming again. "layover?"

steve swallows, and against the stiff quiet of the room, it echoes. a dog barks somewhere, a few rows away. children scuttle and chatter. it's saturday, and there are much better things to do.

you never knew fridays could be capable of what yesterday was.

"one," steve replies, still running circles over your palm. "texas."

your lips wiggle into another half-grin. closing your eyes makes you tired, and the room feels warm. regaining circulation, losing blood—it fatigues.

"that's out of the way."

steve shrugs, though you can't see it. he can't stop looking at you. he's worried if he stops, you'll disappear. he's always worried you'll disappear.

"just a little fun. it lasts a day, and we'll go to the rodeo. get an iced tea for the flight home."

"an iced tea," you marvel breathily.

steve swallows again. it clicks and sizzles down his throat. he swallows a lot when he feels tears coming on. your nostrils flare with the onset of your own.

"yeah," he agrees, mumbling now. "with all the sugar you want."

"l-lemons?"

"lemons, too."

snapping your eyes open, you flick your head over and bump into his nose. he shuffles closer, nuzzling the tips of them together. the breath he releases seems needed. your hands claps together between your sandwiched bodies.

almost twenty-four hours since you left the clinic. hours of collecting bedsores between waddled and winced trips to the bathroom. not once in those long, taffy-pulled hours did you cry.

but here they are, those inevitable tears.

"you th-think she'll have l-lemons, too?" you whimper, lip wobbling.

steve presses his forehead against your own. when his eyes close, they squeeze free hot tears.

"y-yeah, honey. she lives in a world full of lemons."

you sniffle and sink further into his soft and colorful clothes. "good. she liked lemons."

his thumb catches a tear beading down your cheek blindly. "yeah, she did."

for three weeks after the first test, all you did was drink iced tea with lemons.

it might be silly to think that in heaven, god gives away something so small, but one could only hope.

#rolly!#steve harrington #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb

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ineffableigh · 4 months

Text

Thinking a lot about some memory parallels in season two...

About how everyone in Soho is dressed VERY ANACHRONISTICALLY, but not at all coordinated with each other. Clothes look pristine, brand new, unsullied, unworn. Caricatures of humans from the 40s, 70s, 90s, 2000s. Like an oversimplified idea of what Normal Humans look like.

Like uhhh excuse you white fur coat, leopard print skirt and platform shoes? Weird BRIGHT FUCKING YELLOW shirt, a flowy vest and leather pants? 70s crochet sweater with brown pants, crimped hair and chunky heels?

Rosie the Riveter This lady (Rosie is a different extra!) over here is either wearing big flowy skirts or actual mechanic's overalls like the war posters. She's EVERYWHERE throughout the season:

Rainbow tie dye, big hat, overcoat with pinback buttons? Like the guys in the cemetery?

Lady why are you fully lurking behind a pillar and staring at the Hamm Hams

What's my point? Point is... point is...

Gabriel's memories are the same.

RUSSIA - big hammer and sickle neon sign outside, two guys in back playing chess, one with a big bushy beard and the other a flat cap. Background music sounds like traditional/folk Russian music played on a balalaika, but playback on a ratty old stereo.

USA - Route 66 sign, hubcaps, money wallpaper, budweiser neon sign, bar/pool table/pool cues, American flags fluttering in the wind outside, 50s style radio on the shelf, SAME TWO GUYS IN BACK but now playing cards, and the one on the right has a baseball cap instead. And I don't wanna be like "what modern bar would be playing Buddy Holly on the radio" but... after hearing the background music in the Russian cafe, that is a CHOICE.

Hell, check out Not-Billie-Piper back here and her GIANT 50s up-do:

SAME THING AT THE RESURRECTIONIST, YEAH? ALL THE SONGS ON THE JUKEBOX ARE SCOTTISH OR PERTAINING TO SCOTLAND. "Letter from america" by the PRoclaimers starts playing but it was released in fucking 1987

And of course we know this pub is COVERED in Pressburger references, which we know carry way more meaning than simple fun cameos or whatever. Barring that, this is the Scottishest-Pub-est-looking-pub I've ever fucking seen, and it's SO CLEAN.

A fly IN the movie playing on the screen while we watch Gabriel's memories being returned to him from the fly he receives in this memory? More likely than you think (I can't find the movie name! Not in the X-Ray apparently)...

Anyway all that to say I think the show is trying to tell us SOMETHING is wrong the entire season. There's evidence shit's out of order, everything is WEIRD and high saturation, even people's makeup (Crowley's bloody orange half the time), and it all feels Extremely Set up...

OR poorly remembered.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #my brain hurts #IneffabLeigh's Meta Tag

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kryptid-writes · 10 months

Text

Chapter 1 - Dream a Little Dream of Me

Y/N has nightmares of a winged man haunting her dreams. When her dreams become reality, her world changes completely.

(1.3k)

The sound of wings rustling, knife slashing, and faded screams echo all around. The stink of metallic blood and rotting corpses burning my nose. I’m choking on the thick air, and it feels like my chest is caving in as my breathing gets shallower by the second. There's blood everywhere. My eyes widen as my gaze falls on the mangled corpses upon the forest floor, each one twisted and bent in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Rays of moonlight pours through the trees, dancing across their mangled remains like some twisted classical painting.

I sink to the damp forest floor. There’s no escape.

In the blink of an eye, a large ominous figure towers over my shaking form. His short dirty blonde hair and strong hands are covered in fresh blood splatter and pieces of sliced flesh. His striking eyes glow a dark red, reflecting the color of blood painting every surface. But what I truly could not take my eyes off of is his large white wings that block out the view of everything around it. His intimidating wingspan wraps around us like a dark feathery blanket, reminiscent of a night sky with no stars.

“I promise I will never let anyone hurt you, never let anyone come between us,” he says in a surprisingly soft voice. He flashes me a smile that’s intended to be comforting, but it comes out sick and twisted. He pulls me close and wraps his muscular arms around me, a low buzzing feeling humming between the two of us.

I can hear his heart beating in his chest, slow and steady, far too calm for a man that just slaughtered a dozen people with ease.

------------------------------------------------------------

I bolt up out of bed, nearly falling off completely, but I catch myself at the last second. A cold sweat clings to my skin and the worn-out sheets, my breath coming in heavy and ragged. It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed of the winged man, in fact it seems to be the only consistent thing in my hectic life as of lately, but waking from the dreams never seems to get easier, always a struggle to shake the sinking feeling.

It takes a few moments to remember where I am, the crappy motel room I rented for the night, not so different from the countless other run-down motels I’ve stayed in across the Midwest, all with the same stingy smell.

Obnoxious yellow floral wallpaper lines the wall, caked with dirt and God knows what else that’s been accumulating for years. Ceilings spotted with black mold and blotchy water stains. An outdated box television plays the local infomercial about some miracle cleaning product, but it all sounds muffled and far away. The digital alarm clock on the bed stand reads 2:00 AM flashing in big red bulky numbers.

Just a dream, I remind myself with a relieved sigh. I swing my feet out of bed, throwing on some jeans and my signature leather jacket, scuffed and torn in various places. I need some air. Just need to get out of here.

I recall the rundown bar I drove by just down the street. It’s a good way to kill some time. Plus, I could really use a drink right now. The bitter taste of alcohol is the only relief I get from these nightmares that torment me at night and haunt me during the day.

The cold air bites at my skin, but it’s surprisingly pleasant, grounding me back into reality and away from the painful dreams. It's the twelfth dream I’ve had this month and they only seem to be getting more intense, more real. They always end with the same winged figure. The same demonic, yet charming smile. No matter what I do, I just can’t seem to shake that haunting face.

Entering the bar, it’s nearly empty with a few patrons here and there. Most of them are older men wearing bulky leather jackets, a bit rough around the edges, perhaps a local biker gang. Some of them playing pool, others chatting about their glory days over a bottle of beer. The sound of the jukebox in the corner playing the best of eighties rock drowns out their conversations. It's apparent there’s not much of a buzz going on, unlike most bars at this hour.

The voices and music around me fades to background noise, it feels as if the rest of the world has disappeared, that I'm the only one left on this miserable planet.

I slide into a worn bar stool that’s certainly seen better days, taking off my worn leather jacket and placing it on the sticky wooden bar. I sigh and halfheartedly raise my hand to get the bartender's attention.

“What can I get you, hun?” A nice older lady asks, shining a glass behind the bar.

“Just a whiskey please. Jack Daniels if you got it,” I give her a weak smile, trying to blink the tiredness out of my eyes.

She nods and pours me a generous amount of light amber whiskey in a fancy glass, sliding it over to me.

I take a swig, the warm liquid slides down my throat with a pleasant burn, already giving me a sense of calm. These days, whiskey has been my best friend and I’m okay with that. People just disappoint you.

“Make it two.” A large figure takes the seat next to me.

My body stiffens. I recognize that voice from somewhere. I slowly turn to face him and see him staring back at me with those intense red eyes and intimidating wings that I’ve come to know all too well. My stomach drops. It's the man from my dreams. I freeze, my body going into fight or flight mode. In a matter of seconds, I decided to take my chances running. I leave my drink and jacket behind, making a beeline to the door, slamming it closed behind me, giving me any sort of advantage to get away.

He doesn’t follow, but that doesn’t stop me. I run and run and run until I physically can't anymore.

The streetlamps and apartment buildings around me turn into a blur and my head starts to feel dizzy. The world spins around me, clouding my vision. The cold air feels like it's burning my lungs as I struggle to gather oxygen. My legs feel like jello, ready to give out any second. I’ve lost track of how long I've been running, maybe minutes? Maybe hours? Everything in me is begging myself to keep running but I physically can’t force myself go on any further.

I tuck myself into an alley, leaning against the ragged brick wall that painfully digs into my back, yet it barely registers in my brain. My heart feels like it’s pounding out of my chest. I close my eyes and try to catch my breath.

God, please let this be another bad dream.

“I was going to pay for your drink, and you just ditch me like that? Rude.” The man scoffs.

My eyes shoot open to see the man from my dreams less than a foot away, arms crossed, looking nonchalant as ever. My blood turns cold.

How is that possible? He couldn't possibly have run that fast!

A knot twists in my stomach. Deep down I know. This man is not human, and he certainly does not have good intentions.

“L-leave me alone!” I try to sound brave, but my words come out a sloppy stutter. I hold my arm out in front of me, as if that will deter him in any way. Stupid. This intimidation tactic is clearly not working.

“Oh, don't be so dramatic Y/N.” He rolls his eyes, then presses a gentle finger to my forehead.

The world goes black.

Series Masterlist

Full Masterlist

#dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester #lucifer x reader #lucifer x reader supernatural #lucifer supernatural #castiel #crowley #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural #spn fic #slow burn #love triang;e #choices #reader insert #love triangle

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hurtmyfavsthanks · 3 months

Text

Febuwhump 2024 Day 1: Helpless

Content warning: young whumpee/caretaker. Not intended to be minors but could easily be read as such.

Five days after Whumpee went missing, Caretaker got a text from their phone number. It was simple, direct. An address, instructions to arrive alone, a threat of what would happen if they didn’t comply.

A picture of Whumpee, head pulled back by their hair, exposing a tearstained, bloodied face.

Caretaker had been out of the door before they could think.

And that’s how Caretaker found themselves sitting in their mom’s car at 2 am, parked in front of the shadiest motel they’d ever seen. It was dimly lit, with only the palest glow and the flickering ‘OPEN’ sign to give any hint it wasn’t abandoned. Even from the outside, the place looked dirty, like their fingers would come back black if they touched anything.

It looked like the sort of place where a mystery bloodstain was simply covered up with a cheap rug, where some bastard could drag in a hogtied captive without causing a scene. And Whumpee was there.

Caretaker’s hands shook as they gripped the steering wheel, their knuckles white. They swallowed thickly, begging the panicked thumping in their chest to slow. It didn’t.

It took Caretaker an eternity to build the courage to leave their car. They felt exposed once they did. They all but ran down the rows of doors, not taking long to find the one they’d been ordered to enter. They found themselves frozen in front of it for a long moment.

Everything in them demanded they turn back. Every sense of logic said they were over their head, that this was dangerous. Their legs were jelly beneath them, anxiety threatening to bring them to their knees. The thought of Whumpee, bound and gagged and terrified, was the only thing allowing Caretaker to stand.

They couldn’t back out now. They had to do something, they were the only one who could.

Caretaker brought a shaking fist to the door and knocked once, twice, three, four times, just like Whumper had ordered. Each knock rang like a gunshot in their ears.

The silence that followed was deafening. Each second felt like an eternity, time moving at a snail’s pace. The darkness around them was suffocating, and they couldn’t help but feel phantom eyes on them. They flitched at every noise, expecting Whumper to jump out at them from the shadows at any moment.

They nearly screamed when they heard a chuckle from behind the door. “I can practically hear your knees shaking out there. Come in, and close the door behind you.”

Caretaker obeyed. For a moment, they felt relieved to be out of the darkness. That feeling left only a moment later, the fear of being exposed replaced with the fear of being cornered. Caretaker tried to swallow the fear, standing stall despite feeling so, so small.

Their eyes locked on the figure lounging on the bed. They looked…unbothered, relaxed, arms comfortably folded over their middle as they leaned against the backboard. There was a lazy confidence that stood in stark contrast to the tension running through every one of Caretaker’s cells. It put Caretaker’s teeth on edge.

Neither of them spoke. Whumper seemed satisfied to sit in silence, a lazy smirk on their face. Caretaker’s tongue felt paralyzed in their mouth.

They forced their eyes to leave Whumper for a moment, quickly taking stock of the room. It wasn’t the torture dungeon they feared. It was an old, cheap motel. Yellowing wallpaper, a carpet the color of a filthy mop, and the smell of mothballs. It looked entirely normal.

Their heart stopped at what they didn’t see.

The room was small. The bathroom and closet door were wide open, giving Caretaker view of every inch of the space. There was nowhere a person could be hiding. There was nobody else there.

Caretaker heart stopped. “What–you said…where’s Whumpee?! You said you’d let them go if I came!”

“They’re not here, and I never said they’d be; I said they’d be safe if you came,” Whumper shrugged, as if their words weren't tearing a hole though Caretaker's chest. “You came, and so they’re safe. For now.”

Their words felt like a slap to the face. Whumpee wasn’t here. They weren’t here, and that fact drained whatever strength that’d allowed Caretaker to confront Whumper in the first place. Suddenly, they didn’t feel like they were coming to save their friend. They didn’t feel like they were brave, that they were doing the right thing. They felt like a defenseless rabbit caught in a trap.

Panic, animalistic and untainted with any sense of duty, flooded Caretaker’s veins so rapidly that it nearly knocked them off their feet. They were alone, miles away from home, standing in a room with a known kidnapper. Nobody was coming for them, nobody even knew where they were.

Caretaker’s stomach dropped. They took a step back—

“Walk out that door, and the police will be ‘finding’ Whumpee scattered around half the city for the next month.”

–and froze in place, too terrified to do anything else.

Whumper didn’t need to move to stop Caretaker in place. Their words felt like a pin holding Whumpee in place. Underneath their lazy posture, underneath the almost amused expression, there was something sharp, something that drained the bravery from Caretaker’s veins.

“Now here's what you're going to do. First, you’re going to get any silly ideas about playing the hero out of your head,” they gestured to Caretaker’s side. Caretaker flinched. “Then you’re going to drop whatever toy you brought with you.”

Instictually, Caretaker’s hands moved to cover their left pocket. They realized too late how stupid that was. “I don’t–I, I didn’t bring anything…” they could only mutter, eyes dropping to the floor.

Whumper raised an eyebrow. “Are we really going to do this? They always bring something. Maybe your dad’s gun, a knife from your old kitchen set, something. Don’t waste my time. Drop it.”

For the briefest of moments, the idea of fighting flashed in their mind. But their hands felt clammy and uncoordinated at their sides. Even if they brought out their weapon, they weren’t sure if they’d be able to do anything with it. They couldn’t stop shaking.

Whumper’s eyes didn’t leave Caretaker for a moment, and the eye contact alone nearly brought Caretaker to tears. They watched, frozen, as Whumper’s hand reached towards their waist, grabbing at something. Caretaker could’ve sworn they saw the glint of metal.

Caretaker’s hands were digging into their pockets before they could think. The contents of their pockets fell to the floor a moment later.

A small, cheap switchblade and greasy wad of bills bound in a rubber band plopped onto the carpet. A weapon and a ransom, all they could get their hands on in the little time they’d been given. It was all Caretaker could think to bring.

Whumper chucked, low and amused, and made a show of returning their hands to their torso. The sigh of relief that forced its way from Caretaker’s throat was a half sob. “Good kid. We both know you’re in way over your head. Just follow my lead, and we’ll all walk away happy. Alright?”

Caretaker’s tongue was led in their mouth.

“Alright?”

Terror forced them to speak. “Y-yes.”

Whumper gestured towards the chair in the corner of the room.

“Good. Now sit,”

Their body moved on command, mind too numb with fear to think of resisting. Everything had fallen apart so quickly. Their mind reeled from the whiplash.

They could only drop boneless in the chair. they didn't know if the tears dripping down their face were from frustration, shame, or pure terror.

From the chair, they could see what Whumper had been reaching for. A large pistol sat at their waist. Whumper followed Caretaker’s gaze and grinned.

“Now, here’s how things are gonna work from now on.”

#febuwhump #febuwhump day 1 #febuwhump 2024 #caretaker turned whumpee #whumper #caretaker #kidnapping whump #whumblr #whump #my stuff

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strawberryspence · 1 year

Text

Part 1 / Part 2 (please read part 1 first)

Robin Buckley finds birthdays weird. The first one you ever have, all the people around you celebrate while you don’t understand anything. You don’t remember much of the next few ones, maybe your seventh, your eighth.

Robin’s favorite birthday from her childhood is her twelfth. It’s nothing special. But she remembers the day so clearly, her friends, grandparents and parents singing in the park as she blows out candles. She remembers playing at the park for the rest of the day with her friends and this one boy. Golden hair, brown wide eyes, and a toothy smile. She remembers telling him it’s her birthday and she remembers the boy softly singing three lines of Happy Birthday as her other friends play in the background. Robin watches him make a flower crown with daisies, before offering it to her, as a birthday present. Robin takes a few daisies, tucks it into his brown hair. Before he leaves, Robin asks him to keep the daisies, to remember her by, and Robin keeps the remnants of the flower crown tucked in an old book somewhere.

Robin’s best birthday ever is her nineteenth birthday. It’s the first of her birthdays that she and Steve celebrate together as bestfriends. Steve makes a big deal out of it. He bakes a chocolate cake, garnished with shaved chocolates on top just the way she likes it. Steve drives them to Indianapolis, takes her to her favorite stores, buys her a tiny rainbow pin and tucking it in her jean jacket with the softest smile. He buys one of his own, tucks it in the sleeve of his ridiculous wine red sweater.

They go home, and at home Steve shows her his room. He’s shy, doesn’t even want to show her. His room, even with dull and colorless wallpaper has never been dull when Steve Harrington is in it. But tonight, it’s filled with the brightest fairylights, stringed around the room, turning it into the smallest and most wonderful wonderland.

“It’s the closest thing to Paris I have right now.”

Because Paris is Robin Buckley’s dream destination. Because Steve Harrington knows her, like the back of his hand. Because Steve Harrington is his soulmate.

There Steve sings her a soft, quiet Happy Birthday and asks her to make a wish. They sit in bed all night, eating the cake with two forks in the same plate, wearing ridiculous party hats, as the lights surround them.

“Someday, we’re going to Paris, watch the lights, and eat some ridiculously expensive cake.” Steve announces.

Robin laughs, “All right. It’s a deal, Dingus.” She playfully puts out her pinky, and Steve laughs, looping his pinky into hers.

Steve gives her his gifts, an old pocket book for touring Europe and a black denim jacket, with sherpa collar. It has patches sewn all over it, carefully choosen and sewn together.

“Dude, did you make this!?” Steve laughs, shaking his head, no. “Well, I didn’t do everything. But I did this.” He takes the coat, flipping it inside out. In the right chest, just above the pocket is a rainbow sewn in patch.

“Steve.” She chokes out, hand shaking as she gently caresses the patch.

Steve smirks at her, “If you need anything, you will find the key here.”

Robin laughs, “Stop being so creepy!”

They laugh.

It’s Robin’s best birthday ever.

It’s Robin Buckley’s first birthday with Steve Harrington.

It’s Robin Buckley’s last birthday with Steve Harrington.

Her schmuck, her bestfriend, her soulmate, her Steve. Just gone.

All she has left is money, clothes and a box she can’t even fucking open.

She storms his closet, greedy for anything that had even the smallest hint of his smell, that ridiculous hairspray and some kind of fucking wood that she can’t name. She takes a box out, takes that ridiculous yellow sweater he threw at Eddie. The same sweater they went back for, the same one he cried over, the same one he was clutching as he admitted feeling that hint of electricity with Eddie. She sees the denim vest neatly folded in the bottom of his closet, and Robin knows she needs to give it to Dustin or Wayne or to anyone but she shucks it to the box. She takes his letterman jacket, takes the stripes polo she always made fun of, took some of his old Hawkins shirts, she knows she can’t take everything. Max and Dustin and Erica would want some, but she wants everything she can take, anything that has a smidge left of Steve Harrington. She wants— no, she needs it. Because her bestfriend is just gone.

The moment her hand furls against the familiar fabric, tears fills her eyes. Robin has cried so much in the last twenty-five days that she should be empty, she should be all cried out. But the moment her hand touches the wine red sweater, she breaks, her knees buckling as she falls to the floor with a thud. She touches the sleeves, and something prickly touches her, she knows what it is. But the sight of the raindow pin still tucked in the sleeve makes her scream, a scream stuck between a sob and a wail, as she hugs the sweater closer, Steve’s ridiculous fucking perfume sweeping her nostrils.

“I can’t fucking believe you, Steve Harrington!” She sobs, she hears the door swinging open, and she’s not even sure who’s comforting her, who’s hugging her, but they’re also shaking, chest sobbing. Robin crumples the sweater to her chest, as close as she can as if it’ll squeeze out the essence of her bestfriend.

“I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this without you, please, Steve."

Robin has never cried harder, she’s exhausted, her throat is hoarse, she hasn’t slept in the last twenty-five days and someone is holding her.

If she squeezes her eyes shot hard enough, holds the sweater close enough to smell and imagine. It’s just another day, just another day, she just woke up with a the worst nightmare and Steve is holding her in his familiar arms, lulling her back to sleep, to safety with his warmth.

Robin blacks out. It’s the first night she slept all through the night since Steve Harrington died.

Robin’s twentieth birthday is quiet. The kids, Nancy, Jon and Argyle baked her a cake. It’s not chocolate, but it tasted good. They sing, and Robin acts like she’s making a wish. She doesn't have the heart to tell them that no amount of candles, or birthday wishes, can ever bring back her wish. They watch more than three movies at the Wheeler basement, eat junk, eat cake and laugh, like there aren’t missing holes in their lives.

When the time comes, they all go home. Robin goes home, hangs her black denim jacket on the wall, and just like the days before the box on top of her desk taunts her. She hasn’t opened it yet, not that she knows where the key is. Her bestfriend only decided to be cryptic when he’s already six feet under the ground. Once, Dustin saw it and smiled at her, some kind of understanding flashing in his face, “You haven’t opened it too, huh?”

“How do you want me to open this, you fucking Dingus?” Robin whispers, shaking the box.

A thud makes her turn around, the hook where her jacket was hooked fell of the wall, leaving a dent and a few holes on the wall. Robin squints at it, the hook has been there since she was a child and has never went loose. She slowly moves closer to take the jacket off the floor, when she catches glimpse of the embroidered rainbow patch.

She smiles at it, slowly caressing it, and as if he’s just behind her, a whisper of voice in the back of her mind, “If you need anything, you will find the key here.”

“You fucking weirdo.” Robin laughs, tears starting to fill her eyes as she ransacks her room for a seam ripper. When she finds one, she’s laughing like a maniac as she tears a small part of it, not intending to remove the whole patch but just enough to take the key out. Robin squeezes just enough for the key to fall out. And there it is, in her hands, a small golden key.

She scrambles to reach for the box, falling to the floor as she tries to reach for it. She sits on the floor, criss-crossed as her hands shake and tears falls from her eyes. She opens the box.

It’s filled with white envelopes. A small note clipped on the lid:

If you’re opening this, I am sorry. I promise I am with you for every birthday. I tried my best to do as many as I can.

You are my soulmate, Robin Buckley. Maybe in some other universe, I will spend birthdays with you since day one. For this one, I hope this will do.

Happy Birthday. I love you.

- Dingus.

P.S. Go to Paris for the both of us, huh? Buy the most ridiculously expensive chocolate cake you can find.

Robin thumbs over the envelopes, numbering from 20 to 90. With shaky hands, she reaches for 20, gingerly opening it.

It’s a hallmark card, with three ice creams on the front. CONE-GRATULATIONS! It’s your birthday!

Robin chuckles as she opens it, her bestfriends familiar handwriting scribbled on the white card.

Happy 20th, Buckley! I hope to God you don’t get to read this card! I want to be there for your 20th and I sure as hell will be there!

In the off chance that you’re reading this, fuck, I am sorry. I must’ve done something stupid. I am sorry we don’t get to spend more birthdays together. I will be with you through a card every year.

I am so glad you were born, I was nothing without you.

Love you, Robs. Happy Birthday!

— Your schmuck, Steve Harrington

“And I am nothing without you, Steve Harrington.” She gasps, holding the card to her chest, sobs rocking her body as she slips into the red sweater she wears to bed every night.

She hasn’t washed it once and it barely smells like him anymore. She wonders when she’ll forget how he smelled like, wonders if she’ll ever find the perfect candle that smells just like him so she can light it up anytime she needs it, wonders if they’ll ever discontinue the Farrah Fawcet spray she uses in her hair even though she doesn’t need it.

Robin falls asleep with a card clutched in her hand and a sweater that barely smells like her bestfriend anymore.

Robin’s twenty-sixth birthday is when she finally goes to Paris.

She leaves everything in the hotel but the old pocket book Steve gave her and her 26th birthday card.

She buys the most expensive chocolate cake she can find, asks for two forks and finds a sit just in front the bright Eiffel Tower.

She opens her card, laughs, cries, and thinks about what Steve could have been doing beside her right now. Golden hair, brown wide eyes, and toothy smile, in a wine red sweater and a scarf around his neck.

She eats her cake. It’s good. But the best chocolate cake she’s ever had was in a bed, in a bedroom filled with lights, eaten with two forks in one plate.

She clutches her coat closer, the wine red sweater keeping her warm, like it always has in the past six years.

She opens the forgotten pocket book. The one Steve gave her on her nineteenth birthday. She’s never opened it, never wanted to face the fact that she’s going alone. The cover is battered, the pages yellowing as she flips the book slowly.

A single piece of picture falls from it. It lands face down. Robin can recognize the handwriting from anywhere.

“This is 12 year old Steve in front of the Eiffel Tower! In a few years, it’ll be you and me! Happy nineteenth birthday, Robs! P.S. Don’t mind the flower! I got it from a friend! Didn’t want to remove it because it’s really old and dry.”

Robin flips the picture, and there he was. Golden hair, brown eyes, and toothy smile. The same boy she played with, but in front of the same tower she’s in front of right now.

A single dried daisy is taped on the corner.

Robin laughs, smiling with tears at the picture.

Way before they both realized, way before they even properly met, way before they scooped ice creams together, way before blood and drugs made them close.

Way before everything, there were two kids, who played together in a park, daisies weaved into their hairs.

Robin Buckley spent her favorite birthday, her best birthday, and will continue to spend the rest of her birthdays with her soulmate.

Because even beyond the grave, her soulmate will never let her celebrate alone.

Steve Harrington will be there, one way or another.

(again, i am very sorry. if it helps u feel better i can barely see through the tears while writing this)

#wine red sweater is the sweater steve was wearing when he dropped of dustin to the snow ball #stobin forever <33333 #my favorite platonic soulmates.#dae writes #daeheadcanons #stranger things headcanons #stranger things fic #stobin headcanon #stobin my favorite platonic soulmates #platonic stobin #steve harrington #robin buckley #steddie headcanon #steddie #stranger things #tw major character death #tw mcd

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