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urhoneycombwitch · 1 month

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plan b

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foreword: thank you to this anon, this was just the right amount of sitcom Spider-man pointing meme-ery that I needed. wrote this with husky!neighbor!Eddie since I thiiiink I’ve established that version of him is modern so hopefully this aligns with my made-up canon. lol.

wc: 1.9k

cw: weight mention (in the context of finding meds, no numbers used), embarrassment on R’s end of kink discussion, frenemies vibes between R and Eddie (they get under each other’s skin but in a hot way <3), Eddie is soft-domming in public, no actual smut but still +18 mdni

DISCLAIMER: Plan B can really fuck your shit up and shouldn’t necessarily be used when introducing new kinks. Please do your research and consult w/ a medical professional before using. Putting the fiction in fic with this one.

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Christ, there are too many options.

Your vision is swimming in the Family Planning aisle, fluorescent overheads of the CVS taking up residence in your left temple.

You press your fingertips against the spot, massaging gently as you pull different brands of boxes from the shelf to inspect the instructions.

This one says take within twenty-four hours, that might be- oh, shit, there’s a weight cap. Dammit. And this one’s… twice the price? For fucking why?

Frustrated, you shove the expensive thing back in place. The words on the blue label next in line catches your eye- Pre-Seed Fertility Lubricant- and you snap your hand away, as if scorched. Nope. Opposite of what you need. Christ. Pre-Seed?!

It’s almost giggle-worthy. You take out your phone, glancing up and down the aisle; the store is empty this late at night, just an older woman behind the front registers who had greeted you earlier with bored corporate formality, eyes fixed on her magazine.

Picture of Pre-Seed, taken. Check that one off the list. The only person who you’d want to share a laugh over text about this with is the one person who does not need to know why you’re in the goddamn Family Planning aisle at ten PM. On a Thursday.

At least, not yet. You lock your phone, pocketing it before zeroing in on the purple and green-themed Plan B that boasts One Tablet, One Step.

Although it’s pricier than some of the other morning-after pills, it’s the only one that you feel fully confident about buying. You give the box a little toss, feeling the next-to-nothing weight of it in your palm. Fifty bucks for a tiny pill, one that you may not even end up using- but you’ll be goddamned if you’re caught unprepared.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Your blood flashes cold, then hot, as you realize who the voice belongs to- attention focused elsewhere, you didn’t hear Eddie sidling up the aisle until now.

He’s leaning into his arm on the nearest shelf, grinning wolfishly at his own joke, chocolate eyes lit up at having found you here. He looks obscene- biceps and chest bulging at the stretched fabric of his t-shirt, hair unspooling dark curls from a low bun, black ink tattoos rippling over his bare forearms and peeking out from beneath his collar.

Honestly, you don’t know why he wasn’t stopped at the door by the woman on night shift. He’s bordering public indecency with those fitted Levi’s alone.

Fortunately the shock of hearing Eddie’s low voice is not enough to send the Plan B in your hand flying- too late to reshelve it without him seeing, you cling to it tighter, plastic creaking under your grip as you pray to every god ever that he doesn’t notice.

“Oh! Hey. Hi. Haha, very funny.” Well, that was smooth, but at least you said something comprehensible. “What’re you doing here?”

Eddie doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, using his free arm to reach for a pack of condoms near your head- “Late night shopping. Stocking up for the weekend. Can’t seem to keep these around, seeing as I’m being fucked out of house and home.”

”Well… apartment,” you correct, heart leaping at the smile lines that jump around Eddie’s eyes. This is good, maybe you can just keep him talking and find a second to shove the Plan B into a random spot or perhaps launch it into the sun-

Nope, too late. Mid-crinkle, Eddie’s eyes drop to the package in your hand, and you watch his face drop as he processes multiple trains of thought at once.

“Oh, shit. Is that… did we…?”

There’s a pinch between his dark brows, likely running through the last few weeks of your hookups (which have all been protected) and trying to do the mental math; you shake your head, trying to stammer through the flush of embarrassment that’s overtaking your system.

“No, it’s not- not from us. Not from you. I mean…” you trail off, shifting uncomfortably from one sneaker to the other as words hit a jam in your throat.

Eddie’s in a full frown now, pushing off the shelf, standing to his full height, confusion and hurt seeping into his expression, voice quiet and pitched deep- “Is it from someone else?”

“Oh my god.” This was a nightmare, right? You’d like to wake up now. “No, no, not from anyone else. It’s-”

A sharp exhale, a shake of your head, and the words loosen all at once- “I was gonna get it for us, for me, for this weekend, if you wanted to give me a reason to use it.”

Eddie goes as still as you’ve ever seen him before, fingers stopped in their usual constant tapping, blinking at the box in your hands.

His face smooths.

Then he smiles.

Your stomach flips.

Eddie slides the condoms back into the wrong spot, not bothering to look as he leans in close enough for you to smell the spice of his cologne as he says in a sex-dipped timbre: “Well if you wanted me to fill you up with my cum, why didn’t you just say so?”

A horrified, awkward squawk escapes before you can bite it back; your head whips down the aisle to make sure no one else was within earshot of his dirty mouth as you blindly shove the Plan B away, deep into a shelf. “Oh my god. Jesus christ.”

”Eddie is just fine,” he responds mildly, the cool demeanor to your rapidly heating one as his grin simmers wicked between dimpled cheeks.

“Forget it,” you start, shaking your head and making to brush past, embarrassment flooding in hot, “Just forget-”

Eddie catches you by the elbow, effectively locking you in place with a single move, but he’s not looking at you; with his free hand, he snaps up the slightly crumpled box and scans the words.

“Y’think one will be enough?”

The flood subsides, gives you pause enough to stutter out, “W-what?”

Eddie’s fingers flex on your arm. He turns the box over in his big hand, rings glinting. “We’d better get two. Just in case.”

Your skin feels the impression of his palm even after he lets go, like a Polaroid in rapid reverse as he grabs a second box, warmth fading fast from your skin. “I don’t think- I mean, that’s not how they work, I should probably find a more permanent sol-”

“Just for the weekend.” His eyes are back on you now, self-satisfied smirk giving way to something darker, more intense. “Yeah?”

A shiver casts goosebumps down the length of your body. He’s goddamn toying with you, in the middle of a fucking CVS. Despite your flare of irritation, you nod, voice nearly a croak as you echo, “Yeah.”

The grin lights up his face again. “Good girl.”

Eddie doesn’t give you time to react to this (verbally, anyways- your cunt is most certainly responding to the praise despite your best efforts to remain unaffected), using one large hand to hold both boxes and another to press at the small of your back, leading you down the aisle.

Truthfully, you’re grateful for the help (regardless of his dominance-based tendencies that don’t usually get you this easy); based on the ringing in your ears, you’re doubtful of your own ability to navigate the maze of aisles.

Eddie walks you both to the front register, and you watch as if outside of your own body while the cashier scans the barcodes and Eddie swipes his card.

He pockets the receipt, slides a finger through the handles of the plastic bag, and holds it out between your bodies. Right in front of the goddamn cashier.

”For you.”

This brings you back to yourself, a bit, mortification giving way to annoyance (a much more useful emotion in this scenario), and you snatch it to your chest. It’s your turn to grab Eddie’s elbow, half-dragging him towards the exit.

“Come again soon,” the cashier calls, still in monotone.

So close. You’re less than a yard away from the sliding glass doors that would have swallowed Eddie’s reply- but as it stands, he gets in one last cheerful wave, an award-winning, dimple-charmed smile to match his bright response.

“She will!”

Damn him. You give a final tug and you’re both out in the parking lot, glass doors closing automatically with a whoosh behind you, cool night air kissing at your cheeks.

”Seriously?” You’re mature enough to recognize that your anger is misplaced, adrenaline-fueled, but that doesn’t stop you from whirling on Eddie, giving his shoulder a sharp shove that (unfortunately, tantalizingly) doesn’t move him an inch. “I can never return to this fucking store. Thanks for that.”

Eddie really doesn’t help his case, grin turned shit-eating as he rustles through his various pockets for his pack of cigarettes- “Careful, sweetheart- you know how hot and bothered I get when you’re mad.”

”Unbelievable.” You turn on a swift heel, slipping the bag loops up your arm to dig for your keys. “You just got me blacklisted from our local drugstore and you don’t even care.”

There’s the snick of a lighter behind you, while your car a few spaces down chirrups and blinks in response to the furious press of your fob’s unlock button.

Eddie chuckles, sardonic and unsympathetic. “Too bad this is the only CVS in the whole world. I think you’ll live, princess.”

Ignoring this, you stomp towards your car, petulant, bag rustling; the door is half-open when Eddie calls, “So, are you coming over tonight, or what?”

“Obviously!”

The door slams with more force than you intend, sound ricocheting across the lot.

From the respite of your tinted windows, you watch as a streetlamp-haloed Eddie takes a drag from a cigarette, smoke drifting thick around a hazy visage of the hottest man alive. (Maybe you’re a touch biased. But your opinion is based on personal accounts, so fuck the naysayers.)

He tips his head back to look at the stars, pale column of throat illuminated- with a flush of realization, you scoff. He’s putting on a show for you.

Two can play, you think, driving your seatbelt into place with a click. But first I’m gonna have to make a stop at home. Namely for new undies.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #husky!neighbor!Eddie #husky!neighbor!eddie x reader #eddie x reader

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silverzoomies · 4 months

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Turkish Delight

peter maximoff x reader smut

chapter 1: sweet talkin'

warnings: shameless smut, porn without plot, phone sex, mutual masturbation, best friends, dirty talk

word count: 6,368

a/n: hiyaaa !! i'm back with more filth !! peter speaks russian in this one. i've seen people use russian in place of sokovian language before. and since i've been learning russian for a while, i thought i'd give it a shot !! if you're familiar with the language and anything seems off, please let know asap !! as usual, apologies if peter seems ooc, or if my writing isn't up to par !!

tag list (if i forgot you, please remind me !!): @dewberryobssesed @violetharmonscupcake @kaismanwich @jellyluvr @taintandviolent @ahoyladiesz @scene-and-dandylover @quickandsilvers @luttic @billielourdslays

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Chillaxing on the sofa in his mom’s basement, Peter drew out a sigh. His hooded eyes gaped at the TV screen. As he channel surfed, his thumb tapped lazily on the remote. Peter stopped to check each channel in abrupt intervals. Afternoon cable was boring as hell today. It failed to grasp his short lived attention span.

Seinfeld reruns? He saw just about all of ‘em. Soap Operas? Those were more his mom’s thing. Huge pass. Nature documentaries? Could be cool. Guess it depended on which one, though.

Oh. It was the one about the polar bear’s great journey across the arctic! Nifty enough. Except, Peter saw that one three or four times already now. Скучный (boring). Так скучно (So boring).

‘Kay, soooo…TV was kind of a no-go. Instead, Peter popped on the PS1 and settled for a game of Metal Gear Solid. The game’s opening intro was a little too slow for his liking, but Peter forced himself to focus. It sucked he was so antsy today, so fidgety and impatient. He needed some kind of distraction. Any distraction. And he needed one fast.

Peter bounced a leg, half invested in the game’s dialogue. His fingers absentmindedly flicked the controller buttons. Not even five minutes into playing, he found himself frustrated and bored again. This time around, he figured some company might ease his ennui.

He darted across the arm of the couch to a side table. Over a stack of comic books and empty cans of soda, he snatched the receiver to a Garfield phone. Peter dialed a number in less than a second. Too fast, at first. The phone didn’t even register his request. Rolling his eyes, he dialed the number again. Slower this time.

Peter kept the vibrant hunk of orange plastic between his cheek and shoulder. Buzzy ringing echoed on the other end of the line, as he waited for the recipient to pick up. The time it took for a voice to finally respond felt like fifty billion years. Your voice. One of Peter’s closest comrades. The pal he shared most, if not all, of his free time with.

There were days when you visited, and you laid back on the sofa with him. With your legs stretched over his lap and a magazine in your hands, you relaxed. Peter would always do his usual, playing whatever game he ‘bought’ from the local K-Mart. Every time he cursed himself for making a misstep, you giggled. You knew how frustrating it was for him, if he wasn't a hundred leaps ahead of everything. And just to get back at you - but also to hear you laugh again - he’d reach over and dig his fingers into your belly.

He loved that it took such minimal effort to make you laugh. You always had an easygoing warmth about you. And maybe you were also pretty cute too. Sometimes, the crook of your smile made him blush. Oh, and you didn't mind duking it out in Mario Kart sometimes. That was also kinda cool. What more could a lonesome guy ask for? Просто друзья. Ничего больше (Just friends. Nothing more). Yeah. He could be content with that. No problem.

Ten minutes into conversation with you, Peter breathed a yawn into the receiver.

“You know, I’m surprised you have the patience for talking on the phone.” You joked.

The speakers roared with a soft buzz in his ear. Peter didn’t register your words at first. Blinking lazily, he tapped the PS1 controller buttons at rapid speed. In the game, Snake fought off an onslaught of bad guys. Peter faked his offense with a scoff.

“Seriously? Man, what’s up with that? It’s like everyone thinks I can’t do stuff at normal speed without goin’ berserk.” He said, cursing under his breath as Snake got gunned down again.

A small part of him wished you were there, with your legs over his lap, cracking jokes at his expense. Over the phone, you emitted a gentle laugh.

“Because you have? Multiple times, dude!” You said.

Surely you could hear Peter’s eyes roll in his skull.

“Oh, yeah? Name five.” he pressed.

The fast paced clicking of the buttons echoed like a trill in the basement. He overheard the sound of rustling as you shifted in place. If Peter had to guess, he’d bet his left foot you were still lazing around in bed. It was a Saturday, after all. With the hour tipping on the edge of late afternoon. You always moved at the slowest of speeds on your off days.

“I’m just saying! I totally get it. Even I don’t have the patience for chats on the phone sometimes.” You said, and a squeaky yawn followed.

More rustles scuffed from your end, as if you moved to stretch. Keeping his gaze fixed on the flickering, CRT screen; Peter followed flashes of light from each grunt’s gun. His reaction time proved effortless as always. His methods, not so much.

“Nah, it’s cool.” Peter mumbled after a beat, “Doesn’t bother me much if I’m talkin’ to you. You’re not boring, first of all. And on the off chance I do get bored, I can just say - hey, babe, I’m gonna hang up. And you won’t get-uhhh…” He lingered on his next thought, distracted with gunning down more masked baddies, “You won’t get, like, butt hurt over it."

“Why would I?” You laughed, “Did someone seriously get offended by that?”

“My aunt did once. She got mad pissed ‘cuz I told her I was ‘kinda bored’ on the phone. She made me pass it to my mom, so she could rat me out. Said I showed a ‘lack of consideration'; ‘er whatever.” Peter paused, brows furrowed. In Metal Gear, Snake perished yet again. Peter rolled his eyes once more, “She’s kinda mental, though. это возмутительно (it’s outrageous).”

Your only response was a quiet hum of acknowledgement. Peter broke the silence that followed.

“Hey, you’re not busy today, are you? Wanna do somethin’ later?” He asked, knowing full well you had jack shit to do.

“I don’t know. I’m feeling soooooo lazy today.” You playfully teased.

The soft pattern of your breathing sent electric tingles down Peter’s neck. Shuddering, he shook off those unexpected chills. Another beat, and Peter groaned, as Snake perished over a low poly landscape. You gotta take it slow and stealthy, man - Peter reminded himself.

“Хорошо (okay)? So? Come be lazy over here then.” He replied, “Tell you what. If you do, I’ll go ‘n snag some of those Turkish delights you like. The same ones my mom gotcha for your birthday. Remember? From Sokovia?”

Your voice perked up instantly, bringing a cheesy smile to his face. Homely fondness simmered in his chest, and Peter felt himself blush. He pulled his lip between his teeth, pausing his game to focus more on conversation. Leaving Snake stranded in the middle of the snow.

“Oh my gosh!! No way?? I haven’t had those in forever! Seriously, the ones from Sokovia?” You chimed.

“Hell yeah! But you gotta get outta bed first, dingus. C’monnnn.” Peter whined, “I’m so bored here, babe. Oh! I totally forgot. I finally got my hands on a Gameboy Color too. Swear on my life I paid for it this time. You could come over ‘n try it ouuuuuut.” He teased in a sing-song voice, wiggling his brows.

“Gameboys and Turkish delights? You’re spoiling me today, Peter! What’s the occasion?” You joked over the line.

He shrugged, forgetting you couldn’t see him, “Bored outta my friggin’ skull. That’s what.” After a beat, he awkwardly added, “And maybe I like hangin’ with you? Do I even need a reason?”

“Well, I gotta admit…you had me at Turkish delights.” You feigned a dreamy tone.

Peter chuckled again. Under his breath, he muttered softly, “ Это все, что тебе нужно, да (That’s all you need, huh)?”

“Huh?” You asked, oblivious to his comment, “What’d you say? I didn’t catch that last part.”

Peter ran a hand through his silver locks, leaving his hair loose and messy. Cradling the phone in his other hand, he knitted his lips to one side.

“Nothin’. Don’t worry about it. You want me to come get you? ‘Cuz I can.” He checked his digital watch, decked out in a Star Wars theme, “I can right now, if you-”

“It’s fine. I love going out with you, but I really don’t wanna deal with motion sickness today. I just had lunch too. No offense!” Another yawn rang over the phone, hitching into a squeal at the end. Peter didn’t realize he was smiling so big until his cheeks started to hurt, “I’ll just drive over. Sound good?”

Peter rolled his eyes, sarcastically groaning. He threw his head back into the sofa cushions, playing up his fake frustrations.

“Auuuuuuugh! But that’ll take years.” He dragged a hand down his face, pulling his cheeks under his fingertips, “Is this ‘cuz you blew chunks last time?? You know that doesn’t bother me, right? Everyone does it, babe.”

You made a noise of disgust. Something like an eugh , “Please, don’t remind me. That sucked so much. Yeah, no, I’d rather not. I really need a break from it.” You sighed again. Kind of a bummer, but he could deal.

“It’s whatever you want, I guess. So, when are you gonna head out?” Peter asked, sitting up on the sofa and putting the controller aside.

He bounced a leg at rapid speed, his knee moving in a flesh tone blur of motion. Less from agitation, more due to anticipation.

“I’ll leave soon. Just give me a few minutes. Think you can wait?” You chuckled in that sweet, quirky way again. The melody gave Peter butterflies. Ignoring the fluttering in his belly, he pushed himself off the couch. Grabbing the base of the Garfield phone, Peter cradled the lil guy in an arm. He figured he may as well get dressed, and freshen up before you arrived, “It’s so cold today. I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet! I’m still bundled up in my undies. Got your jacket on too. You left a Game n Watch in the pocket, by the way. I didn’t even know they still made those!”

“Yeah. I totally called that one. Get up already, ya slacker.” Peter joked trapping the phone between his cheek and shoulder again. He scratched his bare chest. His fingertips grazed the sparse covering of white hairs there. Yawning, he nodded, “Okay. Okay. Okay. Sure, just-”

Something about your last statement finally clicked in Peter’s brain. He rapidly blinked, shaking his head fast enough to give himself whiplash. Peter did a quadruple take.

“Подожди (wait)! Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, waiiiiiit …hold on a sec.” He narrowed his eyes, “Say that again?”

“Say what again? The part about the Game n Watch?” You asked, and Peter’s brows furrowed.

“N-Nah. The…did you just…have you been lyin’ around in your underwear this whole time?”

“Uh, yeah? Why? Is this revolutionary information?” You chuckled.

“In my jacket? Like, I didn’t hear that wrong? What’d you like…sleep in it ‘er somethin’?” Peter arched a silver brow, pressing the phone handset closer to his cheek. As if doing so might somehow help him hear you more clearly.

It really wasn’t that big of a deal either way. You borrowed his jackets all the time. Peter never thought anything of it before this conversation. Aside from the fact that - when you did return them, he loved the sweet scent you left behind. The smell of your perfume, with the added bonus of your natural pheromones…

Ебать (Fuck)! Why was he even thinking about this? The two of you had such a casual thing goin’ on. But now, Peter thought of you in a different light. Something friskier. Not that he meant to. Maybe killer boredom + cute friend = horny speedster. Or perhaps the planets aligned in some totally off-the-wall way.

Whatever the case, Peter’s mind raced on autopilot. He pictured the way you might look right now. In your room, spread across your bed in nothing but your underwear and - Ебена мать (Holy shit) - his jacket. With your long legs bare, your knees bumping together as you squeezed your thighs shut. Tummy exposed. And your tits-

Woooooooah there! Slow down, casanova! Peter shouldn’t be…nah, he really shouldn’t be wondering what your breasts looked like. Ppfffbbbbt …’kay, so, maybe in the past he thought about it once or twice. But what dude wouldn't contemplate the hidden mystery of a pal's titties sometimes, ah?

“Well, so what if I did? That doesn’t weird you out, does it?” You asked, a careful waver in your voice.

“Uhhhh…nahhh, babe. Just…” Peter shifted in place, rerouting his thoughts, “Just…got one hell of an image in my head. Might’ve pictured you like that for no particular reason at all.”

Lucky for him, you didn’t seem to think anything of his confession.

“Not much to imagine…” You replied. Сомнительно (Doubtful).

“I mean…pffbbbttt…sure, yeah. Maybe not.” Peter awkwardly laughed, scratching the back of his neck. His voice dropped, a little more hushed, “Unless…you’re wearin’ some really cute panties over there.” Again, he laughed, rushing out a quick, “I’m kiddin’. I’m kiddin’. I’m kiddin’. I’m totally messin’. Just bustin’ your balls, babe.”

Except…he sorta wasn’t. Peter found himself oh-so curious. Twisting the phone's orange wire around his finger, he anticipated your reaction. Anxious you might think him weird for pushing things too far. Never had the two of you charted this kind of territory. It was a minefield, with a 95% chance neither one would make it out unscathed.

“I guess? I think they’re kind of cute.” You added, innocent as ever. Awesome. You weren’t peeved at him, at least. Peter brought the phone to his chest, exhaling an anxious breath to calm his racing heart. When he put the phone to his ear again, he figured you’d moved on. But your cadence shifted. To test the boundaries of your friendship, you teased, “They’re pretty small on me, though.”

Ah. Ah. Интересно. Очень интересно (Interesting. Very interesting). What an unexpected but totally wicked development. Peter lowered himself slowly onto the couch, setting the phone's base on the side table. He eased backwards into the cushions, and tightened his twisting of the phone wire. Swallowing hard, Peter found he had difficulty focusing. Especially with his imagination running so goddamn wild.

“Yeah? …How small is pretty small?” He dared to ask.

Long seconds of silence ticked by at the pace of a narcoleptic sloth. If Peter weren’t so eager to hear what you had to say, he may have torn his hair out. Over the line, you laughed.

“Small enough they barely cover my ass? Why are you so curious all of a sudden?” You cooed.

Peter fluttered his inky eyes, nibbling chapped skin on his lip. Fuzzy pink swarmed the rest of his face, as his mind conjured images of you so effortlessly. Clear as day. Heat stirred to life in his groin, and Peter pictured the way your plush cheeks might hold in tight painties. His breath hitched.

“I-uh…” Peter felt the heat in his cheeks creep down his neck, flustered at lightspeed, “Just thinkin’...maybe you should do somethin’ about that?” He gritted his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. What a lame response, “Черт возьми (damn it)!” He huffed under his breath, too quiet for you to hear.

Toying with this newly discovered sexual tension, Peter humorously asked-

“Sooooooo…what color?”

You giggled into the receiver, airy and light. His body registered the noise somewhere , down south of his belly. He wondered if you were as flustered as him. And the visual of your bashful face and shy smile had his heartbeat ramping up to mach 10.

“What? A-Are you for real asking me…oh my god, dude!” Your giggles turned into goofy snorts. Which he found so endearing. Once you composed yourself, you spoke again. Though, your tone came off as more flirtatious, “If you really wanna know so bad…then fine. They’re black. Lacy. With a little bow on the front.”

Дерьмо (Shit)...

His silver brows soared high, disappearing under his bangs. Paying little attention to his instinctive actions, Peter guided his free hand between his thighs. Inwardly, he told himself he was only adjusting his uncomfortable hard-on. ‘Cuz it’d be totally weird if he did anything else…right? Best to ignore the movement of his thumb, as it absentmindedly circled his bulge.

“Huh…that’s so…” Peter blinked, clearing his throat and masking his nerves with a chuckle, “‘Kay, I’ll be up front with you, babe. That sounds cute as hell. Very nice.”

“Really? Oh, please, Peter. They’d be cute on anybody.” You scoffed.

“Uh huh…” He smirked, dropping his tone even lower, “‘Cept, now that I’m really thinkin’ about it? I’m bettin’ they look criminally cute on you.” Peter lazily smirked.

You laughed, breathless like you ran a thousand miles, “Wh-...what are we even doing right now? Seriously, why am I talking to you about my-” The uneasiness in your voice bled through the line.

Your concern was for good reason. Nevertheless, Peter interrupted you mid-sentence.

“Easy there, chuckles. We’re just chatting. Nothin’ too unusual, right? We’ve had some seriously raunchy conversations before. Remember? That time I got laid on a golf course? You told me about that time some dude shot a load in your eye. What’s the difference, anyway?” Peter grimaced, as he recalled your story from eons ago.

You giggled yet again, “Peter, you know damn well what the difference is!” You clarified with a sigh, still playful. The phone wire went slack around his finger, as Peter second guessed himself. He parted his lips, on the cusp of apologizing. Bringing one hand up to the phone, he held it loosely. Your sugary voice chimed again, “I’m kinda wondering, though…what would you think if I told you I’m topless right now?”

His grip compressed around the handset.

“Topless, huh?” Peter cast a quick glance at his hard-on, twitching painfully under his boxers. His mind jumped straight to sinful places again. Peter thought about what your tits probably look like, embraced in his jacket. Nipples hard, grazing the inner-lining. He swallowed, “What’re you tryna tell me? You gonna drive over here in nothin’ but that?” Peter quipped.

A more sultry laugh melted through the receiver. Peter trembled, as your smooth voice coaxed him like a tempting song. His free palm squeezed his bulge, putting pressure to his length over fabric. Peter’s brows turned inward, and he fluttered his eyes shut.

“I guess that wouldn’t be so bad, if it wasn’t so cold outside. It’s freezing today. I don’t know how you can run as fast as you do when the weather’s like this.” Your tone disguised itself with lighthearted innocence again, “It’s not any warmer in my room either. My nipples could cut glass. They’re, like, soooo hard.”

Peter adjusted himself on the sofa, giving the swell of his bulge another teasing squeeze.

“ Ты маленькая соблазнительница (you little temptress)...” His hot breath fanned the phone.

“I love it when you talk like that…” You replied, “Even if I have no idea what you’re saying. It sounds really hot, to be totally honest.”

“Oh, yeah?” Peter teased his lip with his teeth, speaking in a more flirtatious voice; buttery smooth, “ Я забыл вынести мусор (I forgot to take out the trash)...” For added effect - just to embarrass you more - he tacked on a husky moan.

Peter made himself blush, as the sound came out far more pornagraphic than he intended. The rasp of his voice scraped through the line in a hushed, “ Oh, yeah, baby. ”

The erotic tension you felt from his teasing was palpable, even over the phone. Peter could sense the shift in the way you gasped. So faint, so shy, so cute.

“Oh…oh, wow...uhm…” You tried concealing your bashfulness with more of those candy coated giggles. But Peter could practically hear the blood racing to your cheeks, “What’s that mean? Something good, I hope.”

Peter bit his tongue, lips turning in a cheeky grin.

“It means you’re really turnin’ me on…”

Another hesitant pause fell between the two of you, before you scoffed.

“Oh my god, no it doesn’t! I can hear you laughing!” You griped, snickering along with Peter. A few more tension heavy beats pulsed over the line. You spoke again, “Hey…I’m sorry. Can I put things on pause for a sec? I just wanted to ask…are you okay with this?”

“Are you?” Peter gently asked, giving you ample time to think about it.

“I don’t know…maybe…” You whispered, “Isn’t this, like, super weird for you?”

“I mean…suuuuuuure. It’s totally weird. If you kept goin', I wouldn't be into it...at all...” He bullied you with a playful edge, hoping you could read the flirtatious undertone in his voice.

“Ohhhhh…you wouldn't be?” Judging by the saucy lilt in your voice, you most definitely caught on, “You know what would be even weirder?”

Peter adjusted on the sofa again. Getting comfortable, he laid on his back. His taut legs stretched across the cushions, and Peter propped his head on the couch’s arm.

“Whazzat? Enlighten me, babe. I’m listenin’. You got my full attention.” He teased.

“Your full attention, huh? I must be doing something right.” You snickered, “So…you know how I said I love it when you talk…like that?” Your voice wavered, “What I really meant was-uhm…when you do that on the phone…it makes me kind of horny.”

His brown hues burst open, wider than ever. Peter’s pupils dilated, expanding as far as the universe itself. He swallowed again, his mouth falling open. Your filthy confession set his arousal ablaze, making his dick twitch. As heated desire took over, Peter couldn’t restrain himself. He snuck his fingers under the waistband of his boxers, fingertips gliding over silver hairs. A small piece of him almost felt guilty for doing so.

“It does, huh? Хорошо знать (Good to know).” Peter whispered, tenderly grasping his shaft.

You made a naughty squeak of a noise in response, “Y-Yeah, Peter, I’m serious. You really have to stop doing that.”

“Почему (Why)? Are you soakin’ yourself over it? Gettin’ a lil wet? It’s cool. You can tell me…” Peter heckled, expelling a breath as he gave his dick a single tug.

“Oh, I bet you wanna know all about that, huh? You’re so bad, Quickie...” You teased, clicking your tongue.

Peter’s ears burned, turning pink as he took in the coquettish nature of your voice. Scoffing, he feigned his indignance.

“What?! Hey, nah nah nah! You started this! Это несправедливо, черт возьми (it’s not fair. Dammit)!” Peter laughed, carefree with you as always, “You can’t seriously drop a bombshell like that and expect me not to-”

“Not to come running?” You hummed, sweet tempered, “I’m just messing with you, baby. But since we’re on the topic…I made such a mess of these little panties. Just from listening to your voice.”

Peter couldn’t even pretend he didn’t like the sound of ‘baby’ on your tongue.

“Oh, man…anything but the panties…” He joked, “You should-uh…you should save yourself some trouble. Y’know…take ‘em off, maybe? Might be more comfortable.” Peter hinted, playing nonchalant, “Just tryna be a good friend. Give you some advice. You should for sure take it.”

“But I’m already so cold…” You whimpered, “Your jacket’s so warm. Smells good too. Really good. But it’s not enough to keep me covered.” You spoke with flirtatious innocence, and Peter played along.

“No harm done, принцесса (princess). I’ll warm you up if you need me to.” He reassured, sweet talking you over the phone, “Ты думаешь, что я не позабочусь о тебе? (Do you think I won't take care of you)?" Peter mumbled again. He listened to your sickly sweet laughs, before asking, “So…do you get like this every time we talk on the phone?”

“Mmmm…maybe.” You hummed, “What if I said yes?” You shuffled around again, and Peter’s mind jumped elsewhere. He imagined you shed yourself of damp, black lace. Leaving you wanton and needy in nothing but his jacket, “You know…we’ve been talking about me a lot this whole time. You wanna tell me what you’re wearing? I don’t really have a visual.”

“Oh…me?” Your request caught Peter off guard.

“Yeah, you. Who else, blockhead?” You playfully quipped, smoothing your voice to say, “You don’t have to be shy. I just wanna know, so I can think about taking it off of you.”

Peter didn’t know he could blush this much. Puffing a bashful laugh, he looked down at his body. Mostly nude and toned enough. He had his x-gene to thank for his pecs and hard abs. A fluffy bouquet of silver hairs peeked out from his boxers. Underneath, his dick throbbed, pressing eagerly into fabric.

“Uhm…I’m not wearin’ a lot? Nothin’ special. Just some black, boxer briefs, I guess. Wait, no-” Peter lifted a foot, his lips curling in a goofy smile, “Got my Star Wars socks on too.”

A sensual moan graced his ears, “That’s so hot.” You softly whined, “Star Wars socks? Peter, just take me now.”

Despite the fact you were totally messing with him, that playful comment made his chest tight.

“Nothing else though?” You pressed.

“Nnnnnnnnnnope.” He drew out the word, popping the P, “Just the-uh…yeah. Boxers ‘n sexy socks. Not much to take off.”

“And you’re pretty fit, aren’t you? You always looked really jacked to me, so-” You said.

Peter cocked a brow, snickering to cover his embarrassment.

“Wooooahhh…you been checkin’ me out, babe?” He asked, darting his dark hues across his athletic bod. Peter flexed an arm, “Sure, I guess I’m in decent shape.” He found he couldn’t dismiss your compliments. Peter looked good, and he knew it. But he preferred hearing it from you, “Hey, you wanna know somethin’, like, way crazy?”

“This? What we’re doing right now is so crazy, right?” You laughed, sounding as bashful as him.

Peter snickered, “True. Truuuue. But, uh…” He shrank in his spot on the couch, pressing the vibrant handset closer into his cheek. Pre-cum seeped through his boxers, as Peter tugged his dick steady and slow. Careful not to stimulate himself too much yet. He dropped his voice to a hushed rasp, “I’m kinda in the same spot you are right now. If you-uh…if you catch my drift.”

The two of you knew each other for a long time. Several years, in fact. But never once did Peter think he’d hear his closest pal say-

“Ohhhh. Are you hard right now, baby?”

Oh. Yeah, this buddy-buddy friendship was in major trouble. Doomed to crash and burn. As soon as the words fell from your lips, spoken in your honeyed voice; Peter’s breath hitched in his throat. He sank his teeth so hard into his lip, he almost broke skin.

“Y-Yeah. Since you-uh…started talkin’ about your panties. I’m sorry, babe. Just been kinda bored and worked up all day.” He sheepishly chuckled.

“You poor baby…” You coddled him over the phone. And while he should’ve been embarrassed, Peter had no problem with you talking like that, “Can I ask how big you are?”

Peter stalled for a moment, before pulling the front of his boxers down. His hardness flopped against his belly, pulsating and ruddy from his teasing. Taking his aching length in his hand, he rubbed the underside with his thumb.

“You mean my dick? It’s-uhhhh…like six, maybe seven inches almost?” He squeezed his cock, milking beads of pre-cum, “But size doesn’t matter, yeah? It’s the motion of the ocean, babe.”

“Noooooo, baby. You’re so perfect. Wish I could see how good you look like that…” You cooed over the phone.

Your kindly words and airy tone made the veins in his dick throb with electric heat. Peter clutched his cock tight, pumping the velvet skin a touch faster. Giving himself just a simple taste of relief. His stomach clenched, hardening his abs.

“Не так идеально, как ты выглядишь (Not as perfect as you look)...” Peter muttered, drawing in a shallow breath, “Babe, I gotta tell ya, I’m really feelin’ this. I’m so into you right now. W-Want you to keep talkin’ like-uh...”

His imagination took his depravity to the next level. Now, Peter thought about joining you in your room. He wondered how soft and smooth your skin would feel. Supple and hot under his fingertips. What might you look like writhing under him, whimpering as he played with you? As he teased you? Man, you were both so screwed.

“Never thought dirty talking with me would turn you on so much…” You giggled.

Peter secured the handset between his cheek and shoulder. With both hands free, he raised his palm to his lips. He drew a long stripe with his tongue, bringing his damp hand to his cock. The slick lubrication pulled a gentle moan from his throat.

“M-Maybe a little bit. Ебать (Fuck), maybe a lot.” Peter groaned, labored in his breathing, “Can you - Ебать (fuck) - you wanna do somethin’ for me? Just a little favor between friends? S’all I’m askin’, baby.”

“Anything you want, Peter.” You mewled.

“Can you- mmmmohgod -” Peter choked up. He almost chickened out, but pushed himself to ask, “Can you touch yourself for me? Please? Пожалуйста, моя маленькая принцесса (Please, my little princess)...” His foreign whispers weaved pretty whimpers from your lips.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, if you want me to. But you have to do the same for me too. It’s only fair, right? Equal exchange?” You whispered, acting playful again.

Peter breathed a guilty chuckle, “Uhm…yeahhhhh…about that…”

You softly gasped, “Have you been-”

“Playin’ with my dick this whole time? Maybe.” Peter admitted. His thumb caught another pearl of pre, spreading the slickness over his sensitive head, “But I’m not, like, totally jerkin’ it yet…” He lied, pressing you to encourage him.

“Oh, you’re not, huh? What are you doing then?” You asked, “Are you being a bad boy, Pietro?” The abrupt drop of his given name shocked him into silence.

Peter felt his groin tighten, and an exhilarating rush electrified his nerves. For the thousandth time, you giggled. And for the thousandth time, Peter’s heart leapt. Dumbfounded, he gathered his composure and played along again.

“Y-Yeah. So bad. You gotta help me, babe. I’m just-...I’m so hard. Don’t think I can stop myself if you keep talkin’ like that.”

Through the receiver, Peter’s ears caught wind of a needy mewl. He gripped his cock hard, guiding his fist in firmer strokes. His legs quivered, and the heels of his Star Wars socks slid across the couch.

“Does it feel good when you touch your pretty cock like that, sweetheart?” You cooed.

Peter almost went straight into cardiac arrest. He jolted in place, feeling his cock stiffen in his grasp.

“Святой трах (Holy fuck)..." Peter suffocated on his own groans. For an instant, his words failed him, “Uhmmm…hah…wow-uh…Ебать (fuck). Feels good, yeah. Don’t think it’s enough. I need-...uhm…I want-uh…”

“Yeah? What do you want, baby. It’s okay.” You spoke so sugary sweet again.

“I-...Я просто хочу увидеть тебя (I just want to see you)...” Peter’s veins tingled under his touch, as he tugged his dick with more urgency, “Shit! I-...how come I never knew you could be like this-” And to Peter’s ultimate humiliation, he whimpered your name. Along with another whiny, “ Ебать (Fuck). ”

“Like what?” Your coy voice teased him over the line.

“I dunno…so-uh…so damn nasty.” He joked, and even through the phone; he knew he had you flustered again.

“I guess we all have our secrets, hmm? Tell me more, Pietro. When you touch yourself like that. With those big, strong hands…how’s it feel?” You asked, driving him to keep going.

Peter snorted a laugh, “Strong hands? What??” His endearing playfulness took a backseat, as he grunted into the receiver, “God…feels like my strong hand’s not enough. Мне реально тебе нужно прямо сейчас. Нужна так сильно (I really need you right now. I need you so much).” His voice fell to a whisper. Pumping his slick, crimson cock through his fist, he breathlessly pleaded, “Talk to me, baby. Please. Tell me-ohhh…tell me what you’re doin’ over there.”

You squealed a sultry giggle, further igniting Peter’s pleasured frenzy. He squirmed in his spot on the sofa, forcing himself to stay put. Battling the forces of the universe, it was all Peter could do not to race to your room. Just to spread your legs and hump you like a speedy bunny.

“Mmmm…I’m just doing what you asked me to…I’m being so good for you right now.” You whimpered.

“Oh. Okay…uhm…far out. Uh…wanna gimme the steamy details?” He heckled again, fumbling his words in his nervousness, “Please, don’t hold off on me, baby.”

“I’m…” Your precious voice wavered, teeming with awkwardness as your confidence dwindled, “I’m playing with my little pussy. Just for you. And I’m so wet. I can’t stop thinking about your hands…so big…”

“Боже мой (my god).” Peter muttered. Combating impatience brought upon by his genes, he willed himself to take things slow. His strokes became steady and teasing, as he edged his aching cock, “Holy shit, babe. Yeah? Keep goin’...”

You moaned soft squeals into the receiver, “I want you so bad, Quickie. Please, baby, don’t make me beg. Can you touch this little pussy for me? Please? Your fingers are so big. I don’t think they’d fit all at once. It’s been a while, and I’m so tight.” Your naughty voice pleaded.

“God, I wanna touch you so bad. Я хочу прикоснуться к этой сладкой киске (I want to touch that sweet pussy).” Peter’s impatience got the better of him, and he quickly gave in. He grasped his cock hard, wringing himself fast enough to make his balls bounce. Creasing his brows, he groaned, “Ohhh..What’re you tryna to do to me, babe? Talkin’ about how tight you are…Ебать…”

“But I ammmm.” You whined again, “I’m squeezing my tiny fingers so tight. It’s so soft and hot for you. Bet it’d feel really good if you stretched me. With your fingers, with your cock - fuck, Pietro. I just need you, baby.”

“Please, baby, oh, please? Wanna be inside you. Wanna feel you. I promise I won’t go too fast. Я обещаю (I promise).” Peter whimpered. But as you mewled again, another forceful wave of carnal heat crashed over Peter. In a quieter tone, he choked, “Нет, я могу. Я пойду так быстро (No, I can. I’ll go so fast).”

“Pietro, you can go as fast as you want, baby. I won’t stop you.” You pleaded, your broken voice so kittenish and wanton, “F-Fuck. I’m rubbing my clit. So sensitive. Thinking about you. Thinking about your mouth on me.”

“Ебать!!” Peter moaned through clenched teeth. His self control rapidly abandoned him. Speedily rutting his sore cock through the squeeze of his fist, his body refused to slow down, “Говоря о скорости (Speaking of speed)...” Peter craned his neck back, raising a hand to keep the handset to his ear, “You gotta stop makin’ all those cute noises, baby. Please…I can’t-”

As surges of horny pleasure circulated through his body, Peter thought of you again. He imagined you on your bed, caged under him between his arms. In his daydreams, he kissed you intimately, touching your pretty, naked body. Peter wanted to feel how wet you were for himself. And hell, the danger of pushing your friendship past its limits made you more tempting. Such a lewd, risky thought pushed him closer to the edge of something righteous.

“Baby, I wanna see you. Can I? Can I see you stroke that thick cock? Would you let me? Ohh, fuck, Pietro.” You whimpered. And your noises were so shamelessly lecherous, you could’ve made a pornstar blush, “Can I kiss it, please? Can I kiss your big cock?” You whimpered.

“О боже мой, пожалуйста (Oh my god, please)!” Peter choked, every word hitching in his throat, “Baby…babe, you can’t do this. Ya really can’t be-” He laughed lazily, his dark eyes falling half lidded. His cock throbbed, bright red and turning purple at the tip. He rutted in a speedy blur, “Stop. Stop. Stop. I’m gonna…babe, I’m gonna bust-” He slurred.

You squealed his name as loudly as your hushed voice would allow. And Peter swore he could hear the slick sound of your fingers. As they played with your pretty, little cunt.

“I’m gonna cum, baby. Please cum with me. Please? Pietro, OH~!”

“я кончаю, я кончаю (I’m cumming, I’m cumming)! ‘M Gonna-” Peter’s moans seeped through the receiver, his wet lips parting and mouth hanging open.

His swollen cock erupted in white-hot jets, coating his pecs and belly. With all his muscles tensed, Peter’s legs trembled. He rode out those lusty waves in tandem with you. The pleasure of orgasm sounded leagues more intense on your side. You took longer to cruise through it, whimpering and moaning Peter’s name. As you did, Peter basked in his momentary afterglow. Keeping the phone pressed to his ear, his head resting on the arm of the sofa; he listened to you with a smirk on his lips. At the end of your journey in ecstasy, your moans turned into flustered giggles.

Peter's thoughts reeled him in again. Imagining you, looking so sheepish and fine in his jacket. Now, he desperately wanted the real deal. To see you in all your post-nut glory. Mere seconds later, his sore cock pulsed to life again. As his hardness squirmed on his belly, Peter breathed another sigh.

On his end, you heard nothing but silence. You kept calling his name, your tired voice infused with anxiety.

“Uhm…Peter? Hey…are you there?” You asked.

And he didn't say a single word more.

#peter maximoff x y/n #peter maximoff x you #peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff #txt #im terrified this is like...not as decent as my usual but whatever !!

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evanpeterswhoresblog · 4 months

Text

Linger

Sirius Black x rockstar! f!reader

warnings: smut, p in v, rough sex, like pretty rough guys he bites you till you bleed, underage drinking, underage smoking, a lot of smoking tbh, drunkish sex, kinda has a plot so yeah lmk if i missed anything

summary: you and your band mates decide to go out to a pub, where you end up meeting the most handsome boy you’ve ever seen.

word count: 4.2k

a/n: guys i’m so bad at these summaries holy. this is probably my favorite fic i’ve written. the flirting and the tension like omg. trust me. also, let’s pretend The Runaways are british and let’s pretend everything id accurate hahaha. enjoy ;)

~~~

“Do you think we’ll be recognized tonight?”

You turn to your bandmate, Joan, and shrug. “It’s fifty-fifty.”

“What pub are we going to again?” She asks.

“The one where they let underage people in, of course, you’re still the only one who’s twenty-one in the band you know,” you reply.

The other two members of your band, Sandy and Lita, are ahead of you, engulfed in their own conversation. You slide your hands into the pockets of your jacket and try to keep up. You’ve been in the band for a few months as the new lead singer. Their old one left to start her own band, claiming it to be more successful. Yet your band is the one that’s gotten sold-out shows, interviews on television, and pictures in magazines. Sometimes you like to think it was fate that she left, and you just so happened to be in town the night they were holding auditions. The fans surely enjoy your voice more, they make you out to be the leader even though you’re only seventeen and the newest member. You don’t mind though, and neither do your bandmates.

It’s almost ten when you arrive at the pub and thankfully no one has recognized you yet, or they have and simply haven’t said anything. There’s no one at the door to check IDs just like Sandy had said. The four of you enter fast and find a table. The music is loud, the lights are low, and people are dancing all over. You like it, a lot.

“Drinks?” Lita questions a few seconds after you sit.

“You know it!” Joan replies.

“I’ll be right back then.”

Sandy takes out a pack of cigarettes. “Care for one?”

“Obviously,” you answer, holding your hand out. She hands you one, you’re quick to light it and stick it between your lips, inhaling a deep breath of smoke. “How come the police haven’t found this place?”

Joan rolls her eyes. “They have.”

“And? Why don’t they shut it down?”

“They have people who come here, of course, sons, daughters, you know that sort of thing. It may be illegal but it’s trustworthy,” she explains. “Why do you care anyway?”

You shrug. “Just curious I suppose.”

Lita arrives back at the table, four glasses held in her arms. You take yours fast, eager to taste whatever liquor she got for you. It’s bitter, with a hint of sweetness in it. Based on the color as well, your guess is some sort of vodka mix. You drink it despite the awful aftertaste it leaves in your mouth. The cigarette between your fingers helps a bit. The four of you talk for a while and enjoy the peace of having no fans around.

“You should go to the bar y/n,” Lita says after some time. “Or well it might be too late now, but when I was there, I saw a boy your age, remarkably handsome.”

Sandy laughs. “You’re trying to send her home with someone already?”

Lita nudges the other girl with her shoulder. “No, I’m only trying to get some new song material.”

“We’ll see if there’s any potential,” you say, taking the last sip of your drink and getting up. You brush down your hair. “Do I look alright?”

“You’re always beautiful,” Joan answers, letting out a cloud of smoke.

“Wish me luck.” You chuckle before heading to the bar.

With every step you take, you feel eyes on you. Most belong to older men who shouldn’t even be paying you any mind. You’re used to the feeling of being watched, with all the fans and paparazzi that corner you before and after gigs. So, you move through the pub without a second thought about it.

In the back of your head, you curse yourself for not asking Lita what the guy looks like. For a moment you question how you’re supposed to find him, but then your curious eyes find one guy who stands out. He’s leaning on the wall, a glass in his hand and a cigarette between his lips. Based on his face, you figure he can’t be more than nineteen. And oh, how right Lita was. His hair is dark and long, almost reaching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a simple white tee shirt and baggy jeans. Despite the distance, you swear you can make out a sliver of a tattoo on his shoulder. He’s gorgeous, almost too gorgeous.

You approach him carefully, thinking of different opening lines in your head. Would it be wrong to use your fame to get him to take you home? Probably. But you’ve seen Joan do it plenty of times. She always says it’s simply a tool and that you should use it to your advantage. You’ve never done it though. Perhaps it’s your little amount of consciousness that remains that tells you it’s wrong. You don’t know and the alcohol in your system doesn’t help. So, when you reach him, you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Hi.”

He looks at you, the cigarette dangling between his lips. “Hello.”

“How old are you?” You ask, immediately feeling stupid for such a question.

“What are you a cop?” He chuckles.

You feel your cheeks heat up. “No uh... sorry.”

“It’s fine love, just not a very good pick-up line,” he replies. He takes his cigarette out, his eyes locked on yours. “Especially since you look like you’re sixteen.”

“Seventeen actually.” You correct him.

“Ah, well there’s something we share then.”

Something about the way he’s looking at you comforts you. There’s no recognition in his eyes at all. You can tell. To him, you are just another girl. Not the lead singer of The Runaways. Just a simple girl.

“You can try again if you’d like,” he says. You look at him, confused. “Try another pick-up line.”

You gently smile and think for a few seconds. Nothing better comes to mind.

“Come here often?”

He laughs. “Somehow I think that was worse than the first one.”

“Sorry. Usually, I’m better at this sort of thing,” you reply. You put your hands back in your pockets, suddenly feeling very hot with embarrassment.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s cute.”

There’s a moment of silence. He takes a sip of his drink; you stare at his hand. The way it looks wrapped around the glass makes your stomach fill with butterflies. You hate how much you want him to take you home. You don’t even know his name. But he’s handsome, so much so it makes you unable to think straight. You need to know more.

“Are you from around here?”

He nods. “Born and raised in London. You?”

For a split second you wonder, if he’s from London how come he doesn’t know who you are? Sure, your band isn’t on the same level of success as Queen or ACDC but you’re also not underground. You push the thought away.

“Originally from Westchester but now I’m here in London for... work,” you answer.

“Work? I thought you were seventeen.”

“Yes but, eighteen next month. I already finished school.”

He takes another drag of his cigarette. “Wish I could say the same, I still have another year left. Though, I rather enjoy school, gets me away from my dear parents.”

“Oh, where do you go?”

You notice the way he shifts his posture. “Out of the country, you wouldn’t know of it.”

“Like a boarding school?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

You look around the pub, a slight feeling of awkwardness blooming within you. You don’t know why you’re so nervous. You’ve done this before. You decide to blame it on the cheap vodka because really, you’re better than this.

“So, what’s your name then?” You ask after a few more minutes.

“Does it really matter?” He replies, catching you a bit off guard. He flicks the ash off his cigarette, his dark eyes on yours. “All of it’s the same.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Don’t play dumb love, I know this isn’t your first time. I’m sure you’ve chatted up many other lads and had them take you home.” There’s something about the tone in which he speaks that has your knees almost wobble.

“Why would you think that?”

He sighs, leaning over to a small table discards his cigarette in an ashtray, and leaves his glass. When he leans back on the wall, now with both of his hands-free, he buries them in the pockets of his baggy jeans. He looks down at you with an expression that could send your morals far out of mind. You want him, terribly. And you think he knows this.

“Besides the fact that you said you’re usually better at this, you’re also possibly the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he eventually answers.

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “I highly doubt that, but nevertheless thanks for the compliment.”

“I mean it. Most girls I see still wear those long skirts and sweaters, but you, you’re dressed like you could pass as a rock star.”

Your face heats up once again. You know he’s right. With your leather jacket, flared jeans, high-heeled boots, and small tight top you know it’s clear what kind of person you are. Your makeup only adds to it, black smudged eyeliner and glitter on your eyes. It’s a toned-down version of what you wear on stage. He doesn’t need to know that though.

You give him a smile and shrug. “Rock is my favorite genre, what can I say? You sort of got that look too though, not quite as intense.”

“Not a gentleman?” He chuckles.

“No.” You laugh, shaking your head. “At least I hope not.”

“I see. You don’t fancy the good boys. Well fortunately for you, I’m a bit of a troublemaker. At least, that’s what my schoolmates and family say,” he mentions. “What’s wrong with the good boys anyway? They could treat you like a lady.”

“Too gentle, I’m not a fan of it,” you answer honestly.

He smirks, sending warmth straight to your core. “So is your intention to get me out of here and treat you... not gently?”

“My intention is simply to buy you another drink, maybe enjoy a dance or two. What happens at the end of the night is not particularly on my mind right now. I’m more focused on learning your name. Why? Is that what you’d fancy?” You counter, looking up at him through your long lashes.

It has the effect you hoped for because he stands up straight, his back finally off the wall. He offers his hand to you, and you take it softly in yours. It’s so much bigger, so much warmer. You try your hardest to kill all the thoughts of where else you’d like him to touch you with his hand.

“Sirius Black,” he introduces himself.

“Like the star?” You question without thinking.

“Yes, like the star. Now what’s your name.”

“Y/n y/l/n,” you say.

“Charmed. So, how about that drink?”

You smile. It’s going to be a good night, you know it.

The next few hours go by in a flash. You and Sirius drink more than you probably should and dance to the many different songs that play on the jut box. A few different times throughout the night you find the eyes of your bandmates, each of them giving you big smiles and thumbs up as they watch you with Sirius. At one point Joan makes a lewd hand gesture, and you barely get a chance to see Lita smack her. It’s past twelve when you find yourself outside the pub with Sirius sitting on a curb sharing a cigarette.

“I hate these bloody shoes,” you mumble as you dig your heel into the pavement. “They make my feet sore.”

“Then why do you wear them?” Sirius asks, amusement evident in his tone.

You exhale a long breath of smoke, passing the half-burnt cigarette back to him. “I dunno. Beauty is pain.”

“For some, but I’m sure even without those things you’re just as pretty. Actually, I would bet pounds on that being true,” he replies.

“I think I’m rather plain without all this. Would you think the same of me without my makeup and outfit?”

You watch him smirk. “I should think you look even prettier without all of that on. Especially the clothes.”

Your stomach fills with butterflies for the thousandth time tonight. Your shyness left hours ago when you took your first shot. So, instead of simply blushing and looking away, you stand and look down at him with your own smirk.

“Quite the charmer. How about you find come back to mine and find out for yourself?”

He takes one last drag of the cigarette before standing, flicking it to the pavement, and crushing it beneath his sneaker. You watch helplessly as he releases a cloud of smoke, his hand now held out to you.

“I’d quite like that. Lead the way.”

~~~

You don’t know how you keep your composure the whole way home, especially with Sirius’s hand handing yours the entire time. On the train, as you sit, your head on his shoulder, he rubs his thumb across your knuckles. It’s a gesture that makes you glad you aren’t standing because your legs feel like jelly. And on the walk up to your apartment, he lets go of your hand and instead places it on the small of your back. You almost fall down the stairs at the contact.

Once you’re inside you immediately take off your boots, leaving them somewhere by the front door. Your jacket follows, only it’s hung on one of your kitchen chairs. When you turn to look at Sirius you find his eyes wandering all over your apartment, examining the details you assume. His sneakers are off, his hands are in his pockets.

“You must have a special job, this place is wonderful,” he says.

“My mates help me with the money, it’s not all mine,” you reply. It’s true, they do help you earn money from performing. You step closer to him, your hands behind your back. “And it’s really not that big. One bedroom, one bathroom, and one very tiny living room combined with the kitchen. But it’s more than enough for me. Would you like the tour?”

“Of course, if the tour starts in your bedroom.”

You can’t help the blush that takes over your face. “Follow me.”

The walk is fast, with every step you feel your heart rate increase. You’ve done this a few times, but for some reason, this time feels different. Perhaps it’s because all the other guys can’t compare to Sirius’s beauty in the slightest. Or perhaps it’s because you already like him a bit more than you should for a one-nighter. You don’t know. And you don’t care to know because you’re about to reach your door.

You open the door fast, letting him in first, and closing it behind you. It’s dark, the only lights coming from outside your small window. You don’t reach for the lights though. Instead, you step closer to the boy, the sound of your breathing suddenly far too loud for your liking. His silhouette moves closer to you as well. It’s almost like there’s an invisible force pushing the two of you together, and you find yourself liking it.

He touches you first. One of his hands finds your waist, he guides you to him faster. Soon enough, you’re practically pressed against him. You can barely breathe from the proximity. You’ve never felt something this intense. You look up at him, your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Still want me to not be gentle?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I want you to ruin me,” you say, pressing one of your hands to his chest. You’re happy to find his heart is racing just like yours. “Don’t hold back.”

“Alright.”

Before you can even think of another thought, his lips are on yours. You kiss back instantaneously, your hand moving up into his hair. It’s soft, like you expected. He’s far from gentle with his kissing, and you’re glad. His lips move fast on yours, his teeth scraping your tongue. He bites down on your lip so hard you whimper, and the metallic taste of your blood clouds your senses.

Still, despite the pain, when he pulls back you almost whine from the loss of contact. But his hands move fast to pull your shirt up. You help him get it off, then move to his. Through the darkness, you can see the few tattoos he has on his chest and shoulder. They’re dark, they’re beautiful. You run your fingertips over them as he leans back down and connects your lips once again. You begin to guide the two of you towards your bed.

When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you allow yourself to fall back onto it. Sirius doesn’t follow you though. Instead, he stands between your legs at the foot of the bed and begins to undo the buttons of your jeans. You watch in awe, lifting your hips to help him drag them down your legs, leaving you only in your bra and panties. You sit up, your eyes on him, as you start undoing his belt.

After his jeans are on the floor he pushes you back down on the mattress, climbing over you this time. You kiss him deeply, dragging one of your hands down his warm back, and weaving the other through his hair. That warmth deep inside you has grown, consuming you entirely. You can feel the wetness between your legs, surely staining your panties. You’ve never been so turned on by a guy in your life.

He suddenly parts your kiss, his lips beginning to move down your jaw and neck. You moan, throwing your head back to give him more access. When he bites down on you, so hard you can feel a stinging from it breaking skin, you pull at his hair, sounds of pleasure escaping your swollen lips.

Eventually, after leaving many hickeys and bite marks on your neck, he pulls back entirely and flips you over onto your stomach. You smirk against the mattress as you feel him unclip your bra. To help get it off, you lift yourself on your hands, and the straps quickly fall. You throw it off without even thinking about it. You’re about to turn back but Sirius presses a hand between your shoulder blades, silently telling you to stay as you are. You don’t hesitate to comply.

You feel him move and instinctively you lift your hips in the air. He places a kiss on your back, it almost makes you shiver. Then his hands are on your hips, pulling your last piece of clothing off. You normally would feel some sense of vulnerability at this point. Completely naked with your ass in the air. But the alcohol mixed with the utter need you have for Sirius takes control. You feel him shift.

“Do you have a rubber?” The sound of his voice makes you squeeze your legs together.

“Unless you have a disease, you don’t need one. I’m on birth control,” you answer, looking over your shoulder at him.

“No diseases I swear,” he says.

“Then proceed.”

You get up properly on all fours, the anticipation killing you. When he positions his tip at your entrance, you inhale sharply. He rubs his cock through your wet folds for a few seconds, brushing against your clit ever so slightly, before thrusting inside you in one quick, hard motion. You can’t help the moan that leaves you. He’s big, stretching you in a way that’s on the brink of being painful. It’s perfect.

He fucks you hard, very hard. Each thrust hits that spot inside you that makes your legs shake. At one point, your arms give out and your face presses against the mattress. Your hands twist in the sheets, your moans muffled by the bed. Sirius doesn’t like this. He twists one of his hands in your hair and pulls you up, the pain only adding to the building of your orgasm.

“Sirius,” you gasp. “Fuck Sirius.”

He’s relentless. He fucks you through your first orgasm, not faltering for even a second. He only stops when you can’t hold yourself up anymore, pulling out and flipping you onto your back. You scratch your nails down his back as he begins to fuck you in missionary, your lips on his.

You don’t know how long passes by the time he tells you he’s close. What you do know is that your second orgasm is not far either. With tears in your eyes, you let him switch positions once again, this time you’re on top of him. Your muscles are weak and sore, but that doesn’t stop you from riding him as well as you can. Sweat covers your body, and incoherent words drip off your lips. You can barely take it anymore.

“I-I’m almost there,” you mumble.

“Me too love,” Sirius replies, his breath ragged. “Finish us both off.”

You struggle to hold yourself up, a tear rolling down your cheek. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can, just a few more minutes,” he assures you, running one of his hands through your hair.

Much to his word, in a few minutes, he finishes. Hard. He moans your name in an indescribable tone, and his cock pulses inside you so intently, it causes your second orgasm to occur. As this happens, you lie on his chest, both of your breathing very uneven. He holds you tight against him.

Eventually, you roll off him and stare at your ceiling. You try to comprehend what just happened. Never in your life have you experienced something so intense. Most of the time when you told guys to be rough with you, they’d be turned off. But Sirius... You turn to your side to face him.

“Want a smoke?”

“Certainly.”

~~~

It’s safe to say, you don’t let him go all summer. You spend every second you can with him. Most of the time in your sheets, but a good amount doing other things. You paint his nails black, teach him how to wear eyeliner, and how to dress more like yourself. You enjoy every second you get with him.

He never does discover your fame, at least he never says so. You think he would know. Each time you go out you try your hardest to be unnoticeable and you always hide away magazines and switch the channel whenever something about your band is shown. But he never does say anything. Sometimes at night, you sing to him softly and you always laugh when he tells you that you should take it professionally.

You learn how much he hates his family, except for his little brother. You learn he loves Queen and David Bowie. You learn his favorite color is ironically black. You learn as much about him as you can and with each fact you do learn, you only fall more for him. But you never speak of it. You know the inevitable ending.

On the night before he goes back to school, the two of you lay in your bed, a thick silence between you. As usual, you pass a cigarette back and forth. Only this time, there are no words accompanying. Until he speaks.

“For once, I’m not looking forward to going back.”

You turn to your stomach and look at him. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Me either,” he agrees. He holds the cigarette to you; you take it fast. “I can phone you if you want. You know, while I’m there. Or send letters.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” You question.

“I think I really fancy you, and I don’t want to leave on a bad note.”

You give him a weak smile and press a kiss on his bare shoulder. “Oh, Sirius.”

~~~

A few months later...

“Five minutes till show time,” an assistant tells you.

You’re sitting in your dressing room backstage. Joan, Sandy, and Lita all have their own space now. You find it funny how much The Runaways have blown up since the summer. Now, everywhere you turn you see yourself in a magazine or a news article. You can’t go anywhere without being recognized, or without the paparazzi showing up.

As you look in the mirror your mind travels back to Sirius. This happens a lot. Right before a concert, you think of him. Sometimes you wonder if maybe he’s out there listening. You haven’t heard from him since he went to school. You aren’t angry, only a bit sad. You’re mostly grateful though. He inspired most of the songs in your number-one album that got the band all the new attention.

You stand from the vanity and sigh. Tonight, your performance is being televised worldwide. Beside the door is your guitar, you pick it up as you begin your journey out to the stage. You’ve got a good lineup, even a small intermission for a happy birthday song. You hope wherever he is he hears it.

After all, it is November 3rd.

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suzukiblu · 7 months

Text

Day fourteen of fic NaNoWriMo; obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Kon comes back before Tim has finished having his internal crisis and immediately makes it worse, because as it turns out the clothes fit and he looks extremely good in cashmere.

And extremely good in skinny jeans.

Oh no, Tim thinks with no small amount of dread. A flash of self-consciousness slips across Kon's face, and then he puts on a confident smirk and strikes one of those stupid teen-magazine poses, which he unfortunately makes look very good despite, again, how stupid it is.

Tim is so far gone, isn’t he.

“What do you think, man? Is it my color?” Kon asks, smoothing a broad flat palm down over the chest of his sweater. Tim, very desperately, wants to be the person doing that.

Jesus Christ, no one should be allowed to look like this in cold blood. Especially not in an outfit thrown together in four minutes and fifty-nine seconds. But of course Kon would, the asshole.

“We should style your hair differently too,” Tim says, trying not to choke and die on how hot this stupid fucking bastard looks in stupid fucking cashmere.

“Why?” Kon asks, looking puzzled.

“You'd be amazed how different changing your hair up can make you look,” Tim says. And also he desperately wants Kon to let him change his hair for weird, weird reasons that he doesn't want to examine very closely right now.

Later. He'll examine them later.

Privately.

“Uh, okay,” Kon says, and does in fact let Tim dig out his hair gel and a comb and re-style his hair. Tim tries not to obsess over having Kon’s hair in his hands and just slicks it back off his face with a little of the gel because that’s the most efficient option, although then he’s reminded of the Kool-Aid incident and Kon standing in front of him in the base in his soaking wet skin-tight suit and raking his rainbow-dripping hair back out of his bright, bright eyes and–

Later.

Tim is in so much trouble here, he thinks in resignation, and then wonders both why he decided to re-style Kon’s hair himself and why Kon just let him. Why the hell did either of them let that happen?

He steps back, trying not to think weird things like how Kon probably would’ve tasted like black cherry Kool-Aid and wondering what he might taste like now, and then a much, much worse thing happens to him, because then he meets Kon’s eyes again and realizes Kon just let him dress and style him. Just–everything but his boots, Tim picked out. Gave to him or did for him. That pettable sweater and the tight, fitted jeans and the slicked-back hair all out of the way of those bright, bright eyes and–

Fuck, Tim thinks with far, far too much feeling.

“There we go,” he says, then reaches out for the shopping bag in Kon’s hand. “Jacket and glasses in here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kon says, blinking at him as he lets him take the bag in apparent bewilderment. It occurs to Tim that Kon has probably literally never had someone else carry something for him unless it was something exceptionally fragile or difficult to operate, but he’s committed now and also it’s not like it’s heavy anyway, so . . . yeah, he’s committed now.

Anyway, having super-strength doesn’t mean Kon has to carry everything. Especially when the bag barely weighs a thing anyway. Tim can swing around Gotham one-armed while carrying a panicking civilian; a shopping bag with a leather jacket and a couple of accessories in it is not exactly an imposition.

And, well . . . this is a date, technically. So why wouldn't he carry Kon's bag?

Aside from the doomed effort that is mapping heteronormativity onto a non-heteronormative situation and possibly making Kon feel emasculated or awkward or potentially coming on too strong and–

Kon reddens, just a little, then grins brightly at him. Tim forgets literally every single thought in his head, which is actually a very impressive feat because Tim is usually thinking several layers of thoughts and they're always annoyingly complicated. This situation is more “head empty, stomach doing quadruple-backflips”, though.

Kon grinning is bad enough when he's not doing it at him, though.

Tim should've better prepared himself for this, but in his defense, in what possible world would he have been able to predict this situation? Really? What possible one?

“Smoothie time?” Kon asks.

“Smoothie time,” Tim agrees, because anything else would require the capacity to actually think straight and that's going to take a few minutes.

They head across the courtyard towards the smoothie shop. Tim does not succeed in regaining the capacity to think straight because Kon continues to be wearing clothes he bought for him. Clothes he bought and picked out for him, specifically.

That is . . . a whole thing, apparently. Apparently that's a thing. Suddenly Tim has to reexamine the way he felt every time he gave Steph a Bat-gadget and wish he'd thought to examine those feelings sooner.

Like much, much sooner.

Tim orders a basic blackberry smoothie that has maybe four ingredients in it, counting the yogurt and almond milk base. Kon orders some ridiculous flavor monstrosity with basically every tropical fruit on the menu, which is the least Gothamite option he could've gone for but therefore not particularly surprising. There's guava in it. Tim doesn't even know what guava tastes like. He's not even sure he'd know what one looked like, if Poison Ivy wasn't a thing. Like–why would he, after all?

Tim pays, obviously. Kon gets a little bit of an odd look on his face again, but doesn’t say anything about it. Well–he thanks him, but nothing else. Tim considers that a good sign, or at least a good start.

The smoothies come in clear plastic cups, and Tim's is a uniform purple with darker flecks here and there in it. Kon's, on the other hand, looks like a sunrise with a swirly straw stuck in it, because of course it does. Tim doesn’t know what else he should’ve expected, really.

“Do you think they could’ve fit a few more islands in there?” he asks wryly. “Maybe a peninsula or two?”

“I mean, it could use some päpipi, probably,” Kon says before taking a sip. Tim has no idea what that is, but is distracted pretending not to pay attention to his mouth. It probably doesn’t work, but Kon’s not always the most observant guy, so it’s . . . fine, probably? Hopefully? “Wanna try it?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Tim says, because he cannot possibly handle even the implication of putting his mouth on something Kon has put his mouth on. Like, ever.

Ever.

“You sure?” Kon asks, grinning slyly around his straw at him. “It’s pretty tasty.”

Tim is a very, very weak man.

“Maybe just a sip,” he says.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #young just us #young justice #rinfic #wip: obligatory sugar baby kon #long post

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simpxxstan · 8 months

Text

perfect complements (ch. 2)

pairing: professor!seungcheol x professor!f.reader

genre: fluff, enemies to lovers, angst, smut

series summary: four and a half years of working together breeds familiarity, resentment, and everything in between. it's almost like living together.

chapter word count: 2.4k

warnings: bickering.

a/n: i have never been to a therapist/counsellor, so i apologise if there are factual inaccuracies in how the process of counselling goes. the italicized portion is an excerpt from the past, and that's how it'll be indicated in the rest of the story!

thank you so much for reading! your reblogs, likes and comments make my day!

series masterlist

GIF by coupsnim

The walls of the counsellor’s office are painted blue and green- quite contrary to what you had thought would be clinically white and even more depressing. There’s no sign of Seungcheol though, as you sit in the small waiting space outside the office, reading a magazine off the coffee table, your legs shaking nervously.

The man you’re waiting for storms in through the door, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, and his slightly longer hair all fluffy and messy. “Sorry I’m late,” he says to no one, especially not you since he’s averted his glance from you as soon as he entered, and there’s no one else in the space. “Dr. Lee is waiting for us.” You speak softly, trying to level your tone. He takes a minute to brace himself before looking at you, fixing his hair, fixing his crumpled shirt, and breathing in.

In the past sixteen hours, you’ve thought about this moment a million times at least. It’s been a long time coming, and you know Seungcheol knows it as well as you. Wonwoo has spoken to the two of you multiple times, and yet- things never seem to improve.

It’s not like you purposely piss him off, well, most of the time. He is a dickhead, but it’s not like you have a lot of free time just to educate him on being a better human in the world. It’s mostly a slip here and there, and the spark blasts.

It started on a rainy day, in the middle of August. You really didn’t like the rain, to make it worse you’d got your period that morning. You wanted to go home as soon as possible, but all public transport had suddenly disappeared, leaving you stranded in the monsoon on a busy street where no one cared about you, no matter how desperately you called for a taxi. It was just not your day-

But all that had a hope of reversing when you noticed a familiar smile and a wave through a car window, which was right next to you now. “Seungcheol-ssi?” you asked. “Can I give you a ride, Prof Y/L/N?” You started refusing him, hands moving animatedly, but then he gave you a look- oh- and you couldn’t refuse him anymore. “Please. You’ve been standing here for the past twenty minutes,” he said, as you shuffled into his car, trying to not wet the seats but in vain. “You’ve been watching me?” “Uh-” he was nervous now, “no I was just…” “Hey, I really appreciate your offer. I was really having a difficult time. Thank you so much, Seungcheol-ssi.” Three months into his new job, and you both had developed a good relationship, being of nearly the same age. The three other professors in your department were all above fifty, two even due to retire that year, leaving you two as the youngest of the department, and it was a good partnership. You enjoyed talking about the subjects that you had chosen as the first loves of your lives over a cup of coffee, sometimes you would smile at him for a second too long when he would speak of his pet dog Kkuma, sometimes he would return the smile when you spoke fondly about your favourite students.

The car ride was also just as smooth as the rest of Choi Seungcheol. As much as he was an eye candy, you had decided you were certainly not interested in him, having noticed how well he got along with every female (and most male) faculty members of the university, and his smiles were just not reserved for you. Within weeks, he had students fawning over him, and soon he was becoming the most popular professor in the university, not just among students but also among your colleagues. While you had no fancies for these titles, it felt a little weird losing the good rapport you had worked hard in building, being the only female professor in the department. Or maybe it was just you being too competitive.

Anyhow, when Seungcheol played the music of your favourite idol group, you couldn’t complain. The depressive mood from the rains had already mellowed out. You raised your eyebrows at him in query, he replied, “What? I’ve seen their photocard behind your phone.” He smiled again, and you smiled back. So attentive.

Just then, there was a crazy sound from his car. Alarmed, he instantly got out of the car to check- soon there was smoke coming up from the front of the car. You felt guilty sitting in the dry shade of the rain while he lifted the front hood of the car, drenched in the rain, trying to figure out the issue, so you stepped out. “I’m sorry- I really-” “No, hey, why are you apologising to me?” “I don’t know what’s wrong. I think I’ll have to call a mechanic.” You looked around, it was a shockingly deserted area, maybe the rain had washed away all people into their homes. As evening began to descend, your cramps got worse, not improving as the wetness of the rain began settling into your bones.

“Should we wait inside the car? I’ve called for the mechanic, but they’ll definitely take some time.”

“Sure. I mean, we don’t have an option, do we?” You chuckled, trying to reduce the tension. “I’m sorry I got you stuck in this.” “Nah, it’s okay.” “You can try looking for a cab-” “Do you see a cab out there, Choi Seungcheol?” you snapped out a bit too harshly, recoiling instantly. He was taken aback too, wincing. “Sorry, I just…” Then he grew quiet, and so did you.

Seconds became minutes.

Minutes to hours.

Precisely, two and a quarter hours, before the mechanic arrived.

Your water bottle was empty, your lunch long finished, the cramps growing worse in the confined space and the anxiety, and Seungcheol wasn’t a close friend who you could become casual around. So you kept your legs down, your heels on, even if your ankles hurt. You kept your hair tied, even if the hair tie began to hurt your scalp, because your hair was too unruly to let down. You couldn’t even take off your jacket, because your body was too cold to let go of even one piece of clothing.

This was really not your day.

There was no conversation, mainly because you were afraid of snapping again. He stepped out to help the mechanic, and you closed your eyes tight in the car, trying to hold back the pain. Wordlessly, the mechanic left after the issue was fixed, the rain still pouring relentlessly, and Seungcheol came back into the car.

Thankfully, this time when he tried to start the car, it roared to life. After travelling slowly for fifteen minutes, Seungcheol spoke up, “It’s almost seven- do you want to get some ramyeon before heading home?” You weren’t even looking at him, but you could sense the expectation in his voice. “My treat, to make up for the-”

“I want to go home, Seungcheol.” Your voice was bitterer than you had thought. Seungcheol extended his hand to your arm, and you flinched. “Can you please drive me to my neighbourhood? I don’t want to stay here a minute more.” He took back his hand in a second, and amped up the speed of the car. In less than twenty minutes you were in the front of your home, the address you had input into the Google Maps of the car dashboard earlier.

Without a word, you stepped out of the car, into the rain that had fizzled down to a drizzle now. Seungcheol was looking at you, and you had no way to avoid his eyes now. “I’m sorry for making your day so bad. Really, if I could make it-” “Bye, Choi Seungcheol-ssi. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And you had turned your back on the man who had drove you home that evening, the hopeful glint in his eyes burning in your head but other feelings like exhaustion, pain and desperation overwhelming you.

“Has anger always been an issue for you?”

Ouch, that was harsh. You had thought counsellors were soft with their words- but then, you’d never been to one’s office before. Seungcheol seemed calmer than before now, honestly that irked you more. Was he actually okay with sitting here? Being reprimanded for how you couldn’t help but behave around each other, at the age of thirty-three?

“I don’t know… I guess I’ve always had a slightly sharp tongue. Quick to lose my temper.”

Seungcheol sighed next to you. You can feel his eyes poring into your face, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

“And you, Prof. Choi?”

“I don’t think so. I think Prof. Y/L/N brings out the worst in me.”

Now you’re looking straight at him, and you know he’s facing you while saying the words. “Excuse me?”

“Prof. Y/L/N-”

“I’ve never faced issues with my temper before, you know. Yes, some may call me an alpha but-”

A laugh escaped from your lips before you could help it.

“Prof. Y/L/N, please refrain from scoffing here. Remember the common goal.” Dr. Lee reminded you.

“I can’t help it, Dr. Lee. It’s blatantly obnoxious for Prof. Choi to think of himself as an alpha. Why, the man’s scared of ghosts! As if ghosts even exist.”

“Prof. Y/L/N-”

“Might I inform you, Dr. Lee, than Prof. Y/L/N has a phobia of thunderstorms. She can’t stand seeing lightning, absoltely shivers like-”

“Professors!”

Again the dreadful feeling of being reprimanded.

“Laughing at each other’s phobias are petty and not acceptable. This is a safe space. We are all respectful of each other’s fears, irrespective of how they appear to us. We have a common goal of resolution, please be mindful.” Your eyes were cast downward, fingers fiddling with the hem of your dress. “I’m sorry, Dr. Lee.”

There was a sharp intake of air from Choi Seungcheol.

“But I don’t think this can ever reach resolution,” you complete, nearly standing up from your chair. Seungcheol openly scoffs at you now, laughing at your surrender. Exactly what he was pushing you for.

“There, there! No need to rush, Professor. How about, we move on to the first activity I’ve planned for you both?”

You pause, sitting back in your chair.

“Activity?” Seungcheol asks, running fingers through his hair.

“Yes! It’s part of my toolkit for couples’ therapy-”

“This isn’t couple’s therapy,” you both chime together. It’s getting annoying how often people think of you as a couple.

Dr. Lee only chuckles, as if they had laid the bait out for you to hold on to, and you both had caught on to it like fishes. You gasp, realising this session may be more complicated than you thought.

“Of course! Now, have either of you done colouring before? Ever heard of art therapy?”

Seungcheol shakes his head, while you nod. “I colour on my phone sometimes- numbered colouring. Stress relieving, it is for me.” Dr. Lee smiles. “Yes! Except, we’ll not be doing numbered colouring.” They pull out a sheet of paper from underneath their desk, and lay it right in front of you both.

It’s a beautiful picture of a scene from nature- trees, foliage, flowers, even a river through the grass. But in black and white outline, and more spaces marked in between indicating where to fill in colours.

Then Dr. Lee brings out a pack of colour pencils, and keeps it beside the sheet of paper.

“Can I trust you both to fill this in?”

Seungcheol’s jaw actually drops. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him more surprised.

“You want us to fill this with colours? Colour pencils?”

“Yes! It’s really quite simple, and really would be great for healing you through all the stress of work during the day.” Dr. Lee’s smile is genial, but you don’t feel it catching on to you. The thought of colouring this- with Seungcheol- does nothing but add up to your stress.

“Alright.” Seungcheol is doing it again- pushing you to surrender. He even picks up the sheet and colour pencils and stands up, looking at you expectantly.

But you’re not going to give up so easily.

It’s a matter of your pride after all.

“We’ll bring this to you, all complete and pretty, at our next session!” You’re staring into Seungcheol’s soul, seeing the panic flash momentarily before he dons his standard pretty smile, gums threatening to show.

“Yes, Dr. Lee!” And for a second, you wonder if this was how he used to suck up to his teachers in school, all cute and excited- but, you forget the thought quickly, as Dr. Lee stands up, a very knowing smile in their eyes, waiting to bid you goodbye. As you both shuffle out of the room, you face Seungcheol outside the office. “Our next session is day after tomorrow. What were you thinking when you promised to complete this, like a little good girl, so eager to please?” he snaps, standing inches away from you.

“Seungcheol, spare me your nonsense. I’ll take it home today and complete the top half, and you can take it home tomorrow and complete the bottom half.”

“Impossible. I have at least two dozens of projects to go through. I’ll not be coming to work tomorrow. No time for this” he points at the sheet in his hand.

“Then I’ll just come over tomorrow evening, after your project corrections are done. We can complete it together. Makes the process quicker.” You know you’re stepping into extremely risky territory, but hell, even you didn’t want to go home and colour on a lovely day like this. Wine and jazz sounded much better.

He seems to ponder over the offer for a second. Then he takes out his right hand from his pocket, and holds it out to you. “Deal,” he says, and you almost scoff at his childish behaviour. Then you shake your right hand with his, and take a step back.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, my place, at 8?”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll text you the address-”

“I have it already, Prof. Choi.” you say quietly, before turning your back on him and walking away slowly, ignoring his eyes on your back.

#choi seungcheol #s.coups #s.coups x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fluff #seventeen series #s.coups series #s.coups fluff #s.coups fanfiction #seungcheol fanfiction #seungcheol x y/n #seungcheol series #seungcheol fanfic #seungcheol x reader #seventeen fanfic #perfect complements series #simpxxstan

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thisapplepielife · 9 months

Text

Written for the @steddiemicrofic September challenge.

A Charming Mess

September Prompt: Charm | Word Count: 548 | Rating: T | CW: None | Tags: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship

Eddie is standing in front of him, giving him the eyes. The ones Eddie damn well knows he has, and insists on using every goddamn day to get his way. It’s a disadvantage that Steve’s just had to learn to live with by now.

“You can bat those eyes all you want, but they won’t work on me. I’m immune,” Steve says, legs crossed, reading a magazine.

“C’mon, my charm is undeniable, a force to be reckoned with, you heard the nice, old woma-”

“Nope. No, no, no,” Steve says, not letting Eddie continue his train of thought. If he gives him an inch, Eddie will take a mile.

“But I’m charming, Harrington. She said so.”

“A charming mess, maybe,” Steve banters, flipping through the pages, not really reading anything. Just teasing Eddie, because he can. Eddie is full of charm, and bullshit. Lots of bullshit. Steve loves it. All of it. All of him.

“Ugh,” Eddie groans, flopping down next to him on their broken-down couch. It fits in well with the rest of their hodgepodge decor in this shitty apartment. It’s shitty, for sure, but it’s also their own, too. That’s the trade-off, and it’s a damn good one that Steve would make, over and over again. They might have to work four jobs between them to pay for it, but it’s theirs.

Steve works day shifts at the Brass Buckle, while Eddie works at a car wash. At night though, that’s when they have their second part-time jobs as waiters at Chi-Chi’s. That means, every so often, their shifts overlap. That’s when the real fun happens. When they’re there together, they compete to see who can get more tips, slinging pitchers of margaritas and chimichangas to the hungry masses.

Then, late at night, they’ll sit at their wobbly kitchen table, and count their hauls, just for fun. Tonight, there was a little old lady in Eddie’s section that loved him. Called him charming, and slipped him a ten dollar bill, which is actually insane. Steve gets tipped well, and often, but not fifty percent well.

She clearly had one too many margaritas. Eddie overserved her, that must be it.

Of course, Eddie’s been crowing about it ever since.

Eddie is charming, there’s no doubt about that, and anything that puts a few extra dollars in their pockets is a-okay with Steve. Because that means they are really doing it. All on their own. The two of them, together.

Eddie turns and gets comfortable, putting his head in Steve’s lap, looking up at him.

Steve puts the magazine over his face, and Eddie laughs. Steve loves that sound.

He pulls the magazine away, and leans down to kiss him, Eddie leaning up to meet him in the middle. When they finally separate, Eddie grins.

“See? Charm. I charmed you into kissing me, didn’t I?”

“I don’t know about that…” Steve trails off, winding him up further. “I think that little old lady must have forgotten her glasses and hearing aids at home, to call you charming. I mean, with me there? Unlikely. I’m the charming one.”

Eddie scoffs.

Steve smiles.

“Do you think I can charm the pants off you?” Eddie asks, trying to use those eyes in his favor.

“You can certainly try,” Steve answers.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiemicrofic and follow along with the fun! ❤️

#steddiemicrofic #steddiemicroficseptember #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #domestic fluff #my fic #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddiemicrofic

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sweaterkittensahoy · 2 months

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i would love to hear more about jack being bribed. this is the most undisciplined bomb group after all, they have to clean up their record somehow (read: lying and bribery)

The only way to do this justice is to explain the crimes that led to the bribes. And the best way to do that is to call out each man by name.

Bubbles Payne:

The Crime: Being chipper every goddamn morning no matter what.

The Bribe: Jack hasn't sewn his own buttons in two years. Bubbles can sew a button in about two minutes.

Harry Crosby:

The Crime: Doing navigation equations out loud. Including all math symbols needed to complete them.

The Bribe: Two books for every one equation Jack has to hear out loud. Westerns are worth 1.5 other books, as they're Jack's favorite genre.

Curtis Biddick:

The Crime: Thrice-weekly bar fights (average).

The Bribe: A subscription to Jack's favorite muscle magazine. He totally reads the articles. Totally.

Robert Rosenthal:

The Crime: Trying to sing.

The Bribe: Being the best fucking pilot Jack's ever seen and fucking humble about it. Seriously. No bribes necessary, just keep doing what you do, Rosie. Except singing. Which you cannot actually do.

Douglass:

The Crime: Loving puns.

The Bribe: Helps Jack write letters that don't feel stilted or dull.

Blakely:

The Crime: Camp champion for number of penicillin shots needed for VD.

The Bribe: Cold hard cash. Fifty cents a shot.

Brady:

The Crime: Reminding Jack entirely too much of his kid brother.

The Bribe: Accepting Jack's hugs but pretending like he's never been hugged by Jack ever.

Hambone:

The Crime: Wise ass.

The Bribe: His mother's chicken soup. Which reminds Jack of his own mom's chicken soup.

Bucky:

The Crime: Existing.

The Bribe: Existing (Jack admits this one only makes sense if you really get how he and Bucky work.)

Buck:

The Crime: Being secretly feral and convincing everyone except Jack he's not.

The Bribe: Stopping Bucky from singing sometimes.

Demarco:

The Crime: Being a Chicago Italian (Jack's got Irish family in Chicago; it's not a Mob thing, just a neighborhood thing).

The Bribe: Knows how to properly cook cabbage.

Ken Lemmons:

The Crime: Using his hick accent and big blue eyes to convince RAF pilots he's never seen a real British pound and pocketing several dollars a week.

The Bribe: 1 out of 5 pounds ends up in Jack's pocket.

Harding:

The Crime: Not going to the goddamn doctor for his fucking gallstones and nearly dropping dead*.

The Bribe: Visiting Jack every chance he gets and apologizing for, oh, six months.

Helen:

The Crime: Letting people think she's the Colonel's daughter because they have the same name and everyone just assumed**.

The Bribe: Telling Jack the truth (Harding DOES have a daughter named Helen, but she's four) because she can see he has a crush and likes him enough to give him a nudge.

Meatball

The Crime: Being a fucking Husky.

The Bribe: Being a fucking Husky.

(*Actual reason Harding had to leave the 100th. Having had gall bladder surgery, I literally do not know how he ignored it long enough to nearly fucking die.)

(**In actual fact, Actual!Harding had a daughter named Helen who is meant to be the Helen in the show. But for fandom purposes, no she's not, and yes, she is totally playing people about it. It keeps the worst of the flyboys away from her.)

#masters of the air #jack kidd #prompt #feel free to ask for anyone else #this was very fun #air exec daddy is tired #but bribable #papa air exec is fucking tired y'all

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sebstan2020 · 1 year

Text

Territory

Summary: Bucky is the rival of your father’s gang but behind closed doors, you are his sex slave.

Warnings: BDSM, Smut, Dom/Sub, Whipping, Sex, Name calling, Praise kink, Begging, Foot worship, Humiliation, Dom Bucky Barnes

The restaurant was busy for a Wednesday night. Guests filled most of the tables, lit by candles and decorated with a single rose in the middle, placed in a red vase. It was a particularly warm New York evening, so guests were dressed in strappy dresses and shirts without the jacket, a button open at the top to allow some air. The restaurant was one of the highest and most prestige places to fine dine. The three-month waiting list said it all and the crazy high prices of champagne and lobster added to it. the staff were dressed smartly in their suits and black dresses. The light jazz music played softly in the background amongst the chatter of the guests, adding that touch of richness.

Of course, the guests had no idea what was happening behind the red velvet curtain leading to the private area in the back. A table that cost more than the wine list to book and only available to a select group of people. Four men sat at the table, waiting. Rocking their feet, finger tapping on the table making a small thudding noise, smoking filling the room from the cigarette hanging off one of the man’s lips. Glasses of whiskey were dotted on the table, some nearly gone, others barely touched. The air was tense, and the front man grumbled.

“He’s not coming” he murmured.

“He’ll come boss, don’t worry” a younger one reassured.

It wasn’t any old ordinary dinner they were sitting down for.

Suddenly, the curtain was draped to the side, revealing the hustle and bustle behind it when a tall man stepped inside. He was dressed impeccably. A full black suit, tie tightly around his neck, perfectly straight trousers and shiny black dress shoes that cost more than five hundred dollars. He dripped of cologne and shower gel, ocean scents and richness oozing off him. He was followed by three other men, also dressed impeccably but he stood out the most.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming Barnes” the men from the table stood and greeted the four others. They had equal teams. The older man shook his hand, before proceeding to sit and take their places at the table, opposite. The table had dark chairs with leather seats, the table a dark mahogany covered in a dark tablecloth.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world Pierce” Barnes smiled.

Alexander Pierce, one of New York’s infamous mafia kings. Taking over the gang when he was only twenty years old, he built an empire and business in this busy city. He had power, money, wealth, everything a guy could want. He had businesses working for him, businesses he invested in, family businesses to keep going. He had everyone under the sun working for him in some way. Some called him the friendly godfather. He was a man not of cruelty and sadistic methods, but he had his violent ways. The restaurant was one of his many investments and longest businesses he had in his empire. He was older now, nearly entering his fifty’s. A wife and two beautiful children. But this was his life and always would be. Having taken over the gang from a young age, it was all he knew. His father taught him everything. He often felt like an old man compared to his gang members. They looked like they hadn’t aged a bit. He was always open to giving opportunities to youngsters.

He ruled the Manhattan side of this country with the Bronx just next to him. He ruled the drug world, the gun world, the sex world. You could say he was a millionaire, but he wasn’t in those people’s magazines flaunty his style and wealth. He was a bad man; he couldn’t be giving himself away. Pierce was a smart man and a dangerous one at that.

And sat opposite him was his rival, James Bucky Barnes. He was a younger man, early thirties, tall, dark, handsome, seductive. He was a dominant man, intimidating. He knew what he wanted, and he would get what he wanted. Like John he had businesses he invested him, businesses he had working for him. He had money, in fact you could say he had more money than John. He had guns, drugs, woman, cars, clubs, hotels, you name it he had it. His gang weren’t afraid to get what they wanted and use violence to do so. He was a smart man, a convincing man. He wasn’t afraid to overstep boundaries and territories. He wasn’t afraid to rattle a few cages. In fact, he liked it.

James ruled the Brooklyn side of New York. He had his own empire he built. He wasn’t a married man; in fact, you could say he went from one girl to another in the space of a day. He loved power and he wanted more of it. He was protective of what he owned and the people he knew but anyone that got in his way wouldn’t last long.

Their rivalry prompted this meeting. John was a friendly guy and got on with most people but one person he couldn’t stand was James Barnes. They’ve been arguing over territory for years now and a recent drug shipment set them off. The two mafia kings were very protective of their shipments and their territory. Which meant a meeting was in order to settle this dispute.

“You want a drink?” Pierce offered.

“Whiskey” James replied. John gave a short nod to one of his men who grabbed the whiskey bottle and four glasses, dumping them on their side and filling the glasses up with the brown liquor. James took a gulp, licking his lips of the brown liquid and took a short breath.

“So, you wanted to meet?’ he started.

“I think you know why; Manhattan is my territory Barnes, I don’t care if you’ve got every person in Brooklyn working for you, you aint getting my city” James laughed, his eyes squinting and his nose scrunching.

“You think I want that piece of shit city” he said, and Pierce grunted.

“Then why did that shipment come in on my side, clearly you want something to do with Manhattan”.

“Maybe they made a mistake, mistake are easily made” James shrugged casually, and John narrowed his eyes.

“Or perhaps you’re trying to get in without us knowing” Pierce retorted.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your boys coming into my clubs trying to score with my girls John, they tell me everything” it was true. A couple of John’s men had gone into one of James’s clubs and tried to sleep with the girls but not before security kicked them out. James wasn’t all too happy about it and if he had the chance, he would have killed every one of them.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that prick over there touching my wife” Pierce glared at the man on James’s right. Steve. He was a bit of a handful, a wild one. Couldn’t help himself when it came to woman and of course when it came to John’s wife. A grab on her ass earned him a slap across his face.

“If I remember correctly, he did apologise” James said sternly.

“I thought perhaps we could settle this once and for all, then we can get out of each other’s hair and get on with our day to day lives, doesn’t that sound good” Pierce smiled, leaning in his chair.

“Depends what your offering” James tapped his fingers on the table, the light shining off his silver thumb ring wrapped snugly around his right thumb.

“You can have Queens; I have nothing I want from there. But I get Staten island”.

“And why would I let you have that?”.

“Staten Island isn’t really your style; besides, Queens has some of the biggest clubs and weapons trade. I’ll have my docks, you’ll have yours, things will settle” Pierce explained, and James curled his lips up, thinking hard.

“And how do I know I won’t find your guys in my area again”.

“I can only promise they won’t. But if I see a drug shipment of yours in my docks then it’s ours” Pierce said with a serious tone.

“And if he comes near my wife again, I won’t hesitate to slit his throat” he threatened.

“You have a very beautiful family John, I can assure you it won’t happen again” James agreed, a little smile on the corner of his lips turning up as he mentioned his family.

The men stood up, a clatter of chairs and glasses. The meeting was short, not that the men wanted to stay any longer. James curved around the table, joining John into a handshake.

“Nice doing business with you John, I hope we don’t run into each other again” James smiled.

“So do I” James nodded to his men, leading the way out of the backroom to leave the restaurant. Pierce took a deep sigh and downed the rest of his whiskey, glaring as Barnes and his gang left.

“Thank god that’s over” he murmured.

……….

James wandered his bedroom, a hand shoved into one of the pockets of his tight trousers, a hand pressing his phone to his ear as he talked to Steve on the other end.

“Call John and tell him to bring the shipment to Queens, we’ll pick it up there. Have Sam go check on Trio” he turned back around and wandered back the way he came, staring at the ground. The plush white carpet underneath looked brand new despite it being there for years and not an inch of dirt was to be seen. It was soft and padded under his immaculate dress shoes.

“What about that guy we loaned to, has he paid us yet” Steve replied on the other end.

“No, go check on him, see if he has the money, take Sam with you encase anything happens”.

“Alright Buck, anything else”.

“No that’s it, call me when it’s done” he ordered and hung up the phone, throwing it on the check of long draws opposite the bed. The expensive iPhone clattered onto the smooth wood, landing just beside the black leather flogger lazily thrown on top. James picked it up by the handle, wrapping his long fingers around it and a smirk appeared on James’s face as he turned around, eyes darkening.

“Now, where were we”.

You moaned softly under the gag wrapped tightly around your head, spit dribbling down your chin and falling onto your hands in front of you. You were on all fours, in the middle of his enormous bedroom. Rope was tied around your wrists securely, keeping them snugly tied and the rope led up to your elbows, wrapping around them so your arms were straight. A small spreader bar was placed between your ankles, keeping them separated at. Desired length so you could neither open nor close them. Rope wound its way up your legs, intricately tied around your waist and thighs. It led down your back to your chest, pushed through the centre of your breasts and underneath to cup them. The ends of the ropes were tied to a ring hanging from the ceiling, keeping your in place.

Your hair was long and brushed back away from your face. Long lashes covered your eyes and your complexion glowed under the warm lights of the bedroom. The rope made it hard for you to move and your knees were starting to turn numb from being knelt for so long. Not to mention your pussy was dripping between your folds, juices running down to your thighs and soaking the rope as it rubbed near your pussy, turning you on.

James slowly walked towards you, flogger dangling beside him, the strands teasing you as they flicked back and forth until he was in front of you. ‘I’ve had a very long day and all I want to do now is have some fun with my little slut”. He knelt slowly, still towering over you, arms resting on his bent knees as he stared down at you with that smirk still on his lips. You looked up under your lashes with big eyes, mouth pressing over the gag wedged between your teeth. You were aching for it to be removed, the spit piling up in the bottom of your mouth.

He reached up with a single finger, brushing a piece of fallen hair away from your eyes, gently stroking your face as he did. His touch was soft and teasing. You moaned softly, staring up into those bright blue eyes of his.

“You want this out” he tapped the front of the gag, and you nodded fast, never taking your eyes off him. You murmured out a response, but it wasn’t very audible. James smirked harder and reached behind your head, pulling the strap free from the buckle, and ripping the gag from your mouth, freeing it from the ache on your jaw. He threw the gag behind him, hearing it clatter on the floor and you took a deep breath.

“Thank you, Sir,” you replied softly, and he chuckled, the sound vibrating in his chest.

“You’re welcome” his hand crept under your chin, raising your head further, his thumb stroking your bottom lip, swiping away the thick spit and running it over your lips. Your tongue darted out to meet the pad of his thumb, moaning as he stuck it inside your mouth allowing you to suck. He tasted so good. He smelt amazing, his cologne dripping off him and filling your senses, clouding your mind almost like a drug. Suddenly he whipped his thumb out and stood up again, a little groan escaping you as he left you wanting more.

“You know what I want” he said, staring down at you and you knew exactly what he wanted.

“Yes Sir” you answered, and you leaned your head down to his shoe that was place in front of you. Your tongue darted out, licking the end of his shoe, wetting it with what little saliva you had left, worshipping him. You kissed up the leather, the taste lingering on your tongue, something you were now used to having this be a regular order. You could just about reach with the ropes pulling tightly above you.

“You know I saw your father today” he said softly above you and you stopped, looking up at him with surprise.

“You did?” you said and suddenly the flogger came down, smacking you on your back and a wince following.

“I didn’t say stop” he reprimanded, and you leant back down to continue licking.

“Sorry Sir” you said between licks and kisses.

“I had a meeting with him about our territories” you decided not to answer, knowing you would be punished for it.

“He made it very clear we shouldn’t go near his wife after last time” oh yes, the whole ass grabbing from Steve. You heard all about it when it happened from your mom.

“But he didn’t say anything about you” James smirked and switched his feet over for the other one. You licked and kissed his other foot, worshipping him as you had before, bowing down to him on the floor. James felt his cock strain against his pants just from watching you. a mix of humiliation and erotica swam through your body and your pussy dripped even more.

“How do you think your father would feel if he knew I was fucking his daughter?” James asked. you weren’t sure if you should reply so you carried on kissing the end of his shoe.

“How do you think he would feel if he found out his precious daughter was a little slut for his rival, mmm?”.

“Um, I don’t know Sir” you squeaked, bringing yourself up from his shoe and he turned to slowly trail around you, dragging the ends of the flogger across your naked body.

“Or how about the fact that his daughter calls me Daddy as well’ you shivered as the flogger trailed over your shoulder and dangled by your face.

“Or that I have her tied up, worshipping my shoe with her tongue?” he teased.

“He wouldn’t like it” you whispered, and James chuckled, bringing back the flogger and smacking it across your body.

“No, I don’t think he would” he agreed and hit you again, the flogger strands leaving small stings on your ass. You pulled at the ropes, but you had no room to move. you were securely fastened in your position. The flogger was harsh on your skin and red patches began to show up. But the more he hit you, the more it made your boy tingle and your pussy twitch. With every hit of the leather strands, your chest tightened against the rope and short groans and moans escaped as the pain turned you on. The stinging of the flogger made you drip even more, your pussy soaking with your juices.

Your skin was turning red and blotchy and was warm to the touch. Little beads of sweat trickled down your skin and hair strands fell beside you. James grinned as he saw your pussy pulsing with every hit and he dragged the end of the flogger against your aching mound, sending a tingle through your body. You moaned at the top of your lungs, fingers digging into the carpet as you tried to hold back the pleasure. You really were a slut. Your dad’s biggest rival had you tied up and flogging you and you weren’t even begging him to let you go. You liked all this, and it humiliated and turned you on at the same time.

“Look at you getting all wet down there, I can see that pussy dripping from here” he tapped your pussy with the flogger, the sensation wild and you flinched forwards.

“Yes Sir” you breathed, toes curling and teeth biting into your lower lip.

“You like all this don’t you, being treated like a whore” he teased, and you nodded but that only earned you a hard smack of the flogger.

“I can’t hear you?” he scolded.

“Yes Sir, I do like it” you answered loud and clear, and James smirked, padding back in front of you.

“Good girl” he praised which sent another tingle down your body. He knelt in front of you, his hands cupping your face and pressing a sloppy kiss to your lips. His lips were soft and the slight bit of stubble he had scraped against your cheeks, the pain adding to all the sensations you were feeling. His lips overtook yours, taking control and you leaned in closer for more. You wanted more, you needed more, like your life depended on it. He tasted so good that you couldn’t resist him.

He pulled away and a whine escaped you, eyes low and begging for more. But James had other things planned for you. standing back up, he padded over to the walk-in wardrobe he had and soon came out with another implement. A wooden paddle. Much harsher than the flogger and it left marks.

James liked the feeling of leaving his mark on you. You were his property, something he owned no matter whose daughter you were. He didn’t care about Pierce. In fact, knowing that he did these dirty things to you only boosted his ego and turned him on because you were Pierce’s daughter.

“Now, tell me what I want to hear?” he smirked, walking past you to stand behind you. the coldness of the paddle stroked your ass, and you knew what was coming.

“Please Sir hit me” you begged softly and a hard smack from the paddle followed. You yelled and jolted forwards from the intense paid but took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The pain soon turned to pleasure as the sting turned you on. You knew you would be covered in bruises by the end.

Another smack of the paddle echoed in the room, and you gritted your teeth, hissing through them, toes curling tightly, knuckles turning white into the carpet and blending in.

“Please Sir, hit me again” you begged, and another hard hit came. Your ass was turning bright red with dark bruises forming. You certainly wouldn’t be sitting for the next week or two.

“Please Sir, again” each time you begged and each time you received. James’s cock was so hard now watching you take his beating, and he groaned softly through the pleasure.

“Good girl, look at you all marked up for me” he rubbed his palm over your ass, earning a harsh yelp and you pulled forwards into the ropes to get away from the pain. James’s grinned. He was a little sadistic inside.

“You know this turns me on so much, seeing you all bruised like this” he tickled his fingers over the bruises, and you couldn’t help blush.

“Thank you, Sir,” the sound of his zipper undoing only meant one thing and your pussy twitched.

“I think you deserve my cock now; you’d like that wouldn’t you, my cock deep inside your pussy, fucking you like there’s no tomorrow” James stroked his cock, turning it harder.

“Yes Sir, I would please. Please fuck me” you begged. The tip of his cock entered your pussy, teasing you as it pushed you open. Juices had made you slick enough for him to just slide right inside but he was taking care not to. He was taking his time to tease you; make you earn his cock.

“Go on, don’t stop begging me” he ordered.

“Please Sir, I want you cock inside me, I’ll do anything for you Sir, I’m all yours” you said with a little smirk on your face. It was so wrong to like all this. you were going against your father, going against his empire he had built and yet all you wanted now was James fucking you hard like he has done for the past couple of months. You allowed him to do these unspeakable things to you, to fuck you, own you, slap you, tie you up, treat you like nothing, but a sex slave and you enjoyed every minute of it.

If you father ever found out he’d never forgive you. But that’s the beauty of all this. James would never tell and as long as he got to keep on fucking and using you, he’d stay out of your father’s business. That’s the deal.

James finally entered your pussy, pushing all the way deep inside, balls deep in your slicked pussy, juices pouring out and running down your pressed thighs. He thrusted back and forth, balls slapping into your pussy as he buried himself deep each time. Tingles ran through your body, to your toes and your nipples perked up. Hot moans escaped you, your head falling forwards as pleasure took over you. James grunted as he started to fuck you, his cock stretching you open.

“Fuck, that’s it, you feel so good around my cock, so tight” his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin and his crotch slapping into your ass, pressing on the bruises. Pain and pleasure mixed together was like a cocktail sending you on a high. Skin slapping echoed in the room. his fingers dipped down and rubbed your clit, making small circles and sending pleasure tingles all throughout your body. Your orgasm was on the horizon, and the more he rubbed your clit with his thrusts, the quicker you were ready to come. But you knew the rules. No coming without his permission. Sometimes he wouldn’t let you come at all. It made him feel more in control knowing he could decide if you could orgasm or not.

“Oh fuck” you moaned; your body completely being taken by him.

“What is it baby, you want to come?” he smirked, and you nodded.

“Yes, please Sir, I want to come, please may I come” you begged, hoping to would be enough. Your orgasm was distracting you from begging and you didn’t know if you could hold back any longer. It was right there, just waiting to jump over the edge.

“I’ll do anything for you Sir” you said. you pressed your folds around him tightly, trying to hold back on the orgasm and James grunted, feeling you clench.

“Oh fuck” it sounded like he was going to come as well.

A few more thrusts and you felt him coming inside you, a warmth building up deep in your pussy, his thrusts slowing down and his fingers still rubbing hard and fast on your clit. You were almost about to come but held back until he granted you permission.

“You can come, come for me baby” he breathed. You released your orgasm, juices running down your thighs, soaking his cock and walls clenching around him. it was heaven, it was beautiful, it was erotic. You knelt there whilst you came, just letting your body release. Your face was sweaty, and pieces of hair clung to it, James the same. His pulled himself out, covered in slick and juices and his cock was hard and sensitive. His hand was covered in your juice as well which he rubbed on your ass, covering you in your own juices. With a cruel smirk, he smacked his hands on your ass cheeks, hitting the bruises once more and you yelped but were too tired to even react more.

James stood, shoving himself back in his pants and padded over to you, kneeling in front of you once again, taking your chin in his hand and kissing you softly. You moaned in the kiss, eyes half open and tired and when he pulled back with a smack of his lips, you softly smiled.

“Thank you, Sir,” you whispered, and he grinned.

“Mmm, good girl” a peck to your forehead sent another tingle through your body and you could easily collapse if you weren’t tied up. James brushed the stuck pieces of hair away before standing and beginning to untie you whilst you closed your eyes and fought off the sleep taking over you.

Hey so I hope you like this, let me know if you want me to continue this or turn it into a story, let me know what you think in the comments

@sebastiansluts @pattiemac1

#Bucky Barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #Sebastian Stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan smut #bucky barnes fanfiction

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coldresolve · 7 months

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Moneymakers, pt.xxxviii // All Saints Are Sinners

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A note is played as a sensor detects that the front door has been pushed open. Low tiks, faint against the loudspeaker muzak, as the soles of his shoes dislodge from sticky stains on the white tiled floor. The ambient hum of fluorescent lights, of the air conditioning, of the coolers scattered all around. Gas stations all have that hum.

He makes for the drink aisle with a laziness to his step, loose straps from his backpack tapping at his chest and arms, eyes unenthusiastically scanning through foggy glass doors. Most of the options strike him as entirely unappealing, while some – chocolate milk, protein shakes, yoghurt – make him nauseous to even consider.

Renee hasn’t been high for a full day. He noticed it on waking up, and it’s only getting worse. That lethargy, the grey filter that slides down across his vision. Drowsiness that expresses itself clearly in the way he moves, as if his body will only operate in slow-motion. Boredom exacerbated, but juxtaposed with revolt at the mere thought of actually doing something about it. The hollowness of all the things which normally feel so vivid. His mood, seeping down through the concrete and the dirt.

When Lazarus dropped him off by his car this morning, Renee talked him into a quick deal before they parted, just fifty grams. The look of concern on Lazarus’ face, the begrudging acceptance, sparked a shame in Renee that’s hard to just brush off. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t cracked open that bag yet - because punishing himself with cocaine withdrawals seems more appropriate. Is that irrational? Probably. But what isn’t?

Goosebumps break out across his arms when he opens the cooler and is rushed with a front of cold air. He picks out a couple different energy drinks. As he makes his way back through the store, he grabs a small container of nuts, as well as a handful of protein bars, haphazardly discarding his pile of items on the counter. He’s pretty sure he’s forgetting something, but his mind is hazy, and he can’t really bring himself to care.

The cashier, a girl who doesn’t look much older than twenty, gives him a nod in place of a proper greeting, and starts scanning his items. Renee watches her progress, rubbing his eyes, and then his gaze thoughtlessly drifts to the magazine rack next to the counter. Among celebrity gossip and headlines that fill half the front pages, he catches an image of Conrad – that vacation photo the media always uses, taken on some pedestrian road with palm trees in the background. A black person’s arm – Howard’s, presumably - is draped over his shoulders, but their face is cropped out of frame. Conrad looks at ease in that photo, at least more at ease than Renee has ever seen him in person. There’s still an awkwardness to his posture, he clearly doesn’t like having his picture taken; but his smile looks genuine. Next to the picture of Conrad is a stock photo of a man’s silhouette illuminated from above, face obscured in the shadows cast by a hoodie.

Renee swallows, looking away before he can read the actual headline. Behind him, the door chime goes again, and he hears someone walk up behind him. A deep breath, then he clears his throat at the cashier. “Uh. Give me four packs of Marlboro reds as well.”

The girl looks up. “Do you have an ID I could see for that?”

Renee blinks. Gives the cashier a look.

“We check everybody, sir.”

Renee lets out a dejected sort of breath, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, and fishes around in his pocket for his wallet. “Driver’s license alright?”

The girl gives him a patient smile. “Just something with your face on it.”

He holds the card out between two fingers, and can’t help but curse himself at the way his hand is shaking slightly. The girl doesn’t comment on it, though, eyes quickly scanning the card before she nods and turns to the shelves behind her.

As he pays credit and shovels his items into his backpack, Renee feels watched, in a way that’s more than a little intrusive, by the cashier, by the customer behind him, by the camera above the counter, by Conrad, grinning from a tabloid shelf. He shrugs the backpack on, pushing past the customer behind him and heads for the door before the cashier is even halfway through wishing him a good day.

Grey clouds swirl like a layer of cotton above the landscape, too light to threaten rain, but none the less suffocating. The wind blows across the concrete field surrounding the gas station, biting at his skin through the seams of his clothes. Would’ve ruffled his hair a week ago – now the lack makes him shudder more easily. He climbs into the Clio, discarding his backpack on the passenger seat, pulls a cigarette and lights it. He takes the first few drags in silence, listening to how the wind swirls around the car, feeling its miniscule tugs on the carrosserie.

It’s such a cliché, framing the bad guy as a menacing figure cloaked in shadows. Something about that image alone feels like a caricature that serves only the purpose of dehumanizing, othering. People always strip away the understandable parts of evil to avoid having to face it in themselves. They shut their eyes to swallow that pill.

A turn of the keys, and the Clio rustles itself awake. The sound of the old motor is starting to become more reminiscent of a tractor than a car. Cigarette burning between his fingers, Renee pulls out to the gas station’s exit ramp, back onto the highway. He loses himself in driving. Everything else becomes secondary to following his own flow, the mindless weaving in and out of lanes.

But he hasn’t been on the highway for more than five minutes before a loud beep from the dashboard makes him look down. The little light next to the gas indicator has turned on. The needle is deep in the red.

Renee lets out a groan, gritting his teeth tight, clutching the wheel a little harder. “Shit.” He fiddles with the different settings on the turn signal lever, barely keeping the car in the center of his lane as he tries to find the setting that lets him see how many miles he has left. How do you go to a gas station and then forget to get gas?

A couple minutes of fiddling with the lever pass, until he finally gives up. There are no gas stations until he reaches the summer home neighborhood, and the highway is separated by a fenced off median strip, so no U-turns, either. He’s just gonna have to cross his fingers and hope.

His teeth are gritted until he finally reaches his exit, somewhat relieved that if he does get stranded, at least it won’t be on the side of the highway. There’s a red light at the end of the exit ramp, and he cringes at having to rev up the car in first gear to avoid stalling on the incline.

The country road he turns onto is deserted, fields on either side all rows of plowed mud, interspersed with patches of skeletonized trees. Isolated homesteads placed a respectable distance from the road, and the occasional faded colors of a billboard advertising private insurance or heavy farming equipment.

He's a mile in when the dashboard beeps again, and soon after, the car starts to slow down. Renee curses, changing to a lower gear, which seems to work for all of ten seconds, but then it slows again, even as the pedal is pushed to its limit. The tractor-esque likeness of the sound seems to amplify as the engine struggles to keep up. Eventually, it coughs, lets out a spluttery death rattle, and then stalls completely.

Still rolling with the momentum, Renee stomps down the clutch and switches the ignition off and tries to restart it. Uncertain whirring, in a rhythm that makes the whole cabin vibrate, but it never takes. The car creeps to a halt on the side of the road. Renee tries again. And again. On his fourth try, the engine doesn’t even try to stir – nothing happens at all.

Renee pulls the handbrake and sits back, rubbing his face with both hands, pressing his fingers hard over the thin skin of his closed eyelids. Feels like letting out a scream, but all that comes out is a low groan. He sits like that for a full minute, breathing through his nose. Then he lets his hands dump into his lap, staring bleakly out the windshield.

In the distance, a row of trees parting two fields are being pushed sideways by a rough wind, the last stubborn leaves breaking off, dancing across the horizon.

Renee looks at his backpack, jaw working. Grabs it, finds leverage with both thumbs in a small hole by the zipper and forces it apart by pulling on the fabric. From one of the smaller rooms, he pulls out the bag of cocaine, from another, his wallet. Discards the backpack on the passenger side floor with a little more force than necessary. He fishes his phone out of his wallet and balances it flat on his thigh. Nudges a few clumps of powder onto the screen. It’s all automatic at this point, he doesn’t even have to think about what he’s doing. The clumps are broken with a credit card, and two lines are arranged side by side along the length of the phone screen. His hands are shaking as he rolls a five dollar bill into a straw.

He pauses. Feels like throwing up. Feels like strangling himself with the seatbelt. Feels like bashing someone’s skull in. Feels like...

Closing one nostril with his index finger, holding the bill carefully between thumb and middle finger, Renee lifts the phone up, leans down. It’s a familiar feeling, however gross it felt the first time he tried. Like sucking powdered sugar straight into your brain. It appears at the back of the throat, and then you have to swallow it, despite the bitter taste, like you swallow the clots of a heavy nosebleed. Renee leans back, sniffing hard as he rubs his nose, letting out each breath through his mouth. Leans down for the second line, which goes up just as easily, sniffs some more. His throat is already starting to tingle. He licks the remaining powder off the phone, drying the saliva in his jeans.

Slightly breathless, he slumps back against the seat, hand clutched around his phone. Hits the back of his head against the headrest a couple times, scowling at nothing. Stalling won’t do him any good. He grits his teeth as he unlocks the screen, filtering through contacts until he finds Davin’s number. Rests his elbow on the ledge under the side window, leaning his temple against the root of his hand, lifts the phone to his ear.

The low dial tone, dragging across the ground once, twice, before there’s a click, a muted shuffling. Renee bounces his heel against the floormat.

There’s a faint thud, like a door closing, before Davin speaks. “Yeah?”

“My car broke down,” Renee says. Winces, but keeps his voice even. “I ran out of gas, I mean. I just need a hand.”

There’s a brief silence, and then Davin lets out a sharp sort of sigh. “How do you expect me to…?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Renee bites, “Figure something out. I mean it, man, I’m stuck in the middle of… piss-all nowhere.”

Davin lets out an exasperated breath. “I don’t have a car, Renee.”

“Then find one. I’m not walking four fuckin’ hours.”

Another silence, longer this time. A deep breath. “Alright. Send me your coordinates, then.”

Renee sniffs. “Shall do.”

A split second after he has ended the call, Renee tosses the phone onto the dashboard, leaning forward, running his hands over his head. Why’s it taking so long to kick in, anyway? Two lines usually get his heart beating in no time. He’s not that tolerant, is he?

Seeping through the dirt, like the roots of a tree clawing to get a proper hold of the earth, or the fluid that leaks out of a decomposing coffin. It strikes Renee as a natural law of sorts. Gravity, but not in the physical sense.

They see him like an alien, a stereotype. They attribute his actions to something inhuman and foreign, something unrecognizable. A nightmare, a monster. A hooded figure in the dark. Evil as something extraordinary.

It’s actually pissing him off, how delusional people choose to be. The mental gymnastics they have to employ to stay blind. While Conrad sees the good in all people, Renee sees the spiteful, the malicious, the selfishness everybody tries so damn hard to deny. He sees the egocentric note that carries every act of altruism, the spite and jealousy that accompanies every form of love. Ambition is a euphemism for greed, justice always stems from a sense of superiority. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is holy. Once you start digging past the surface, the only direction you can go is down.

Despite the lightness of the clouds, a few small specs of rain have scattered on the windshield. Renee lights another smoke, watching it slowly collect and bleed down the glass. Something inside him is returning, he can feel it. It’s been hell for a while, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe Conrad got his claws into him after all. That naïveté played tricks, in its own subtle, insidious ways. Renee forgot himself in a moment of weakness, and he ended up sharing the delusion. But evil is universal to the point of banality. Despite Conrad’s insistence, there’s nothing extraordinary about what Renee has done, or about his drives. Renee only stands out for honesty.

Davin’s greed is blatant. As is Lazarus’ willful negligence, entirely unjustified despite his efforts to deal conscientiously. Even Conrad himself, so keen to keep up a façade of innocence, gets that hateful look in his eyes, and his attempts to humanize himself occasionally get marred by a vengeful, sadistic desire.

A gun or a knife, hm? Or something else…?

Gun.

Where? …Where would you shoot me?

Head.

That’s the thing: You have to own it, don’t you?

Renee chuckles lightly to himself. Leans back against the headrest, eyes closed. Maybe it’s the coke creeping in, but it feels like a veil has been lifted.

The man he was six months ago, before all of this, before he even met Davin, is still in there. Renee can feel him. That carefree, fuck-all attitude, the easy way he carried himself, the deep sense of independence, remorseless freedom. His head got clouded by the fog of uncertainty, but he can lift himself out of it easily enough. It’s all so straightforward.

You just have to own it.

💵

Thirty minutes pass. The peak of the high, Renee spends pacing for a hundred yards up and down the country road, wind chill biting at his face, but muted under the familiar sense of euphoria. Once it starts to dip, around the forty-five minute mark, he climbs back into his car and chases with another line, smaller this time, nothing crazy. Sits with his knee bumping against the steering wheel, hands kept warm in his pockets, just enjoying the sensations of being, for a while. The way his heart beats, the way the air feels in his lungs, the numbness of his throat, the back of his tongue. He feels as easy and light as he does resilient, self-assured. Exquisitely fucked up and powerful. He feels like himself.

He sees the car coming from a mile away. A small, dark dot on the horizon that slowly rides the waves of the landscape. A sedan. Renee recognizes the typical design of a Mercedes long before he can make out the logo on the front grill – something about pareidolia, the expressions that cars make. Mercedes always look vaguely pissed off. As it pulls up on the opposite side of the road, Renee can’t help but marvel a bit. No scratches or dents in the warm gray lacquer, shiny wheel rims, tinted windows in the back. The kind of car you can tell has leather seats before you even take a look inside.

Bracing his door against the impact of the wind, Renee steps out on the road in the same moment Davin does. The few strands of hair that aren’t caught in the bun on the back of Davin’s head are instead whipped about his face. The collar of his coat is turned up.

Renee lights a smoke, then points to the Mercedes with the cigarette. “I didn’t think you could hotwire cars that new.”

As Davin shuts the door, he looks at the car briefly. “You can’t,” he concedes. And he holds up his hand, wiggling a key between his fingers.

Renee frowns. “It’s yours?”

“It’s a rental. For now, at least. You reminded me why it might be a good idea to have a second car available.”

He walks toward the back of the car and pops the trunk open, pulls out a red gas canister and a funnel. Hands both to Renee, who, much to his own quiet dismay, has to throw the fresh cigarette away before he takes them.

As he fumbles with the gas cap on the Clio and sets up the funnel, Davin stands a few paces away, watching. Renee can’t help his stomach from churning at that feeling, as if every movement he makes is being noted, jotted down. The stench of gasoline fumes soon serve as a distraction, as he pours the clear, yellowish liquid down the funnel. “Listen, I, ah…” He clears his throat. “I had a bit of a mental breakdown yesterday. After I left, I mean.”

He glances up at Davin, who has only raised a brow in response.

“I don’t really know what happened, it’s just… been a crazy couple weeks, you know? I think it’s been building. But it’s all good, I’m fine now.”

Davin snorts, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat. Looks into the distance for a moment, lips pursed. When he looks back at Renee, his expression is solemn. “I couldn’t have done this alone. So as much as I hate having to rely on other people, I have to rely on you. I have to be able to trust you.”

Renee grimaces. “You can,” he says. “You can, dude. I just freaked out a bit, but I’m back in business, I’m feeling it. I’ll do whatever.”

Davin nods slowly. Markedly doesn’t say anything.

For once, the ominous silence doesn’t really bother Renee, at least not to any greater extent. Although brief, he said his piece, so now it’s no longer on him.

The last few drops of gasoline are shaken off the canister, then the funnel. Renee screws the cap back in place, handing canister and funnel to Davin before he ducks into the passenger seat of the Clio, without shutting the door.

On the first turn of the key, the engine rustles awake.

Renee shoots a wide grin up at Davin. “We’re so back, baby.”

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#writing #moneymakers #renee #davin #clio

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thedawningofthehour · 8 months

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Related to the above, I think Draxum is a horrible cook and what we have seen of his performance as a lunch lady doesn't help, he is capable of making medicine and potions, but he wouldn't be able to make a salad without it coming to life. If he and Splinter had raised the turtles together, it would have only taken two days at most before Splinter would have vetoed him from his own kitchen.

He's actually a pretty decent cook in doth-he's no Mikey, but the man's been alive for a long time he's learned how to use spices. Huginn and Muninn do most of the cooking because he's busy being a warring warrior scientist, but it is something he enjoys. If he allowed more sweets in the house he'd greatly enjoy baking together with Gale.

The thing is, he's just fucking weird. He'll try some weird-ass sauce he read about in a magazine fifty years ago and barely remembers the ingredients, or pair foods that are absolutely not supposed to go together. Because he's just insane like that. Less so right now because he's too busy for meal planning and he's super anal about what his kids eat, but Bella definitely has stories.

If Draxum actually had to raise four kids he'd drop his granola dad crunchiness like that. Still be a little crunchy, but he'd absolutely buy them McDonalds so he doesn't have to cook dinner and give them popsicles just so he gets ten minutes of relative quiet.

#in grade school my mom always got us fast food for dinner on fridays #and we got to watch tv while we ate #we thought it was a “hooray the weekend!” treat #in reality my mom was exhausted by then and just didn't want to make dinner #doth asks #baron draxum

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omegaremix · 27 days

Text

Rioux, 1999.

Post-Brentwood was a turning point in my life. The minute I heard Sick Of It All played at Drew’s (♀) graduation party was the very minute my music tastes would change forever. As an Eighties’ kid, I grew up on Duran Duran, Run DMC, Alisha, Lisa Lisa & The Cult Jam, Poison, and other chart-toppers. Anything could be ‘pop’ if it becomes popular enough. That’s how it got its name. Pop set me up to be diverse person I am now with stations like New York City’s Z100 where there’s a new market trend manufactured and released every five years to be fed on by the majority.

“Maladjusted” blasted through her backyard boombox for all of fifty of her closest friends and classmates to hear; the same friends and classmates who laughed at me or ignored me for being a poser. They weren’t laughing or shit-talking behind my back now that they saw me at Drew’s get-together. “How did he get in?” they wondered. That didn’t matter. They didn’t say shit to me. I never saw most of them again after that, nor did I keep tabs, either. I asked Drew who they were and she told me. Boy, did it go down angry and aggressive. I didn’t hear anything like it. So I went to the South Shore Mall’s record store and copped Scratched The Surface on cassette to quickly become my go-to record during senior-year summer. That was my introduction to hardcore and the start of something more personal and relatable than what I listened to before.

Shortly thereafter, Wipeout XL came out for Playstation and my trajectory in taste had changed for a second time. It was one of the first games released that had a major soundtrack thanks to disc capacity. A line-up of Underworld, Fluke, Photek, Future Sound Of London, The Prodigy, and Chemical Brothers gave me a three-month head start before - you guessed it - pop and alternative rock stations jumped on that wagon as the next great profit maker. Even stations changed their formats for a night or two to keep up with the hottest trend of the year, such as when Atari Teenage Riot slipped through the airwaves and literally changed my attitude of music. Another hand would be dealt, and one which was the most fascinating: industrial. Mortal Kombat motion picture soundtracks were the gateway to it after establishing Nine Inch Nails, Filter, and Ministry as my Big Three. I snatched up on three Meat Beat Manifesto tapes, four Skinny Puppy discs, The Wax Trax box set and label mail order, and some Cleopatra label compilations. (Yeah, I know. No need to tell me.) It all goes to show how a lot can happen in one year before heading to community college.

Whether or not I had employment, I still managed to purchase tons of music. It became a beast I constantly had to feed. I had record store visits, radio, magazines, and now the internet (‘world wide web’ they once called it) to keep me updated. Every week I found something new to check out. Oh, look. Alec Empire is on the cover of another magazine! The December 1997 issue of Wire, #166. Have to buy it as his stock was riding high with (once again) Atari Teenage Riot and his DHR label. On the way to Empire’s glow-up were two other artists I came across in their pages: Autechre (who they proclaimed as noise gods) and Merzbow.

When you keep hearing the same names over and over, eventually they’ll get you to check them out. That’s what happened with those two and with expectations - what you shouldn’t have when diving into an artist or album. Autechre’s Tri Repetae++ caught me off guard. They said it was an electronic record and I foolishly thought it was techno instead. I hear the album opener “Dael” expecting a build-up leading to an explosion of sound. Wrong. The minimal structure and complex melodic rhythms of a cold, mechanical, emotionless being started as-is and moved its way to the end. This wasn’t anything to a traditional dance record I was accustomed to. No. These were experiments that Sean Booth and Rob Brown created which were so innovative that they’ve gotten endless praise for them since. A few listens later and I had Tri Repetae++ on constant repeat.

Merzbow? That’s another story. Like Tri Repetae++, I bought Pulse Demon at the Port Jefferson Music Den, once a bastion of everything obscure which hasn’t existed in 20 years. That was my introduction to noise. Fucking Lady Godiva riding on a Sybian did I not know what was in store for me that day. It was the shiniest and sharpest-sounding thing I now had in my collection. I load the disc in, pressed play and - what?! It was one giant maelstrom of harsh white noise, produced and output louder than usual, complete with Bridget Riley-esque op-art and its silvery prismatic sheen. Pulse Demon was devoid of any rhythm, melody, beats, measurements, sound structure, tonality, vocals, or even a sense of time whatsoever. It was a giant endurance test that felt like there was no end in sight. Again, expectations are a foolish thing to ask for.

I didn’t know what to think. I immediately dismissed it and never played it again. I couldn’t say I was actively disappointed or put-off but rather dissuaded. It was nothing what I experienced. Back then, I was a feature writer for the student paperduring my disastrous time at community college’s middle campus. The campus majority consisted mostly of shallow club-goers and superficial people who stood in their safe comfort zone of basic dance music, fashion, and friends who judged and dismissed anyone who were weird or different from them. I always went against the grain and reached for something different and challenging; things that loudmouth belligerent chauvinist Opie & Anthony fans were too stupid to learn from. I had no other albums to review on the backburner, so Pulse Demon was it for the following issue. I was honest about my take on it: it was an unlistenable mess of a joke. I handed in my 1,000 words to our features editor, a long-haired burnout held over from the hippie generation, and it finally saw print in one of our Spring issues.

The day after my review came out, I was called in to the office by my editor-in-chief Phil. Somehow we got word from a professor who read my article and took issue with it. “Really?” I said. But it didn’t stop there. Phil also told me that Professor Rioux wanted me to visit his office to discuss the article with him.

I failed an article for a professor I didn’t even know I had?

Phil had him for English. But not to fear. The overall consensus was that he was friendly, calm, and reasonable with his students. And here was an odd moment he shared with me: Pfr. Rioux played some of his favorite weird music during an end-of-the-semester holiday party for his students to hear. Seriously, not to fear. He sounded like someone I would connect with. Phil assured me that all would be fine and ended up arranging a time and day to meet up with him. That would be next week Wednesday after the publisher’s meeting.

I arrive at Prf. Rioux’ office where he welcomed me in and introduced himself, dressed up in the usual teacher’s attire of blazer and dress pants. So far, so good. I sat down in his office and looked around to notice two rows of tapes sitting on a desk next to his bookshelf. There was a Temple Ov Psychick Youth cross hung up on the wall and also noticed the black shirt he was hearing under his blazer which featured Aube’s Quadrotation on it.

We sat down for a good 45 minutes discussing my article. Not once was Prf. Rioux mean, belittling, or off-handed - unlike others who called themselves ‘professors’. Rather, he gave me constructive criticism. Judging by my article, he told me that I missed the mark on Merzbow and didn’t come into the album open-minded. Clearly I didn’t understand noise music enough for me to write what I did and there was way more to it than I thought. The most important takeaway was that I shouldn’t have compared noise to anything else in a traditional sense. Sure, it was an entirely different animal that can still have value, substance, a structure, a methodology, and a meaning to it all like everything else.

So he kindly offered to make me three cassettes of whatever rang familiar and whom I was curious about to widen my horizons and get a better understanding. All early industrial and / or noise. Wonderful. I obliged. One week later, I returned to his office where he had them all ready for me. I thanked him for the tapes and said goodbye to him.

What was on those tapes? First, Merzbow. Not surprisingly. Three unknown tracks from the Lord of Harsh Noise. On the other side was Masonna, another Japanese noise artist whose Inner Mind Mystique finished up tape #1. Tape #2 was more varied. I heard very little of Coil other than “The Snow” off the Wax Trax compilation. Right after that was Jim G. Thirwell / Foetus whom followed up with three tracks. (Coincidentally, both aforementioned artists remixed Nine Inch Nails). Rioux threw on three tracks from Einsturzende Neubauten’s Kollaps with a small sampling of Clock DVA tracks from Black Souls In White Suits. Our final tape had a good ten tracks of Death In June whom I never heard of, and several versions of Throbbing Gristle’s “Discipline” rounded out all that Prf. Rioux gave me. Never had I received anything like it from any professor.

I was forever grateful. I played those tapes to good use, enough to go back into my usual grind of music and artist reviews with a better understanding and reasoning. I didn’t review any of the artists after that Merzbow debacle, but my stance of him changed for the better and went back to Pulse Demon several more times. I happened to purchase several more of his albums where I could, dove back into Inner Mind Mystique and picked up on Nic Endo’s White Heat when that was released. I pushed more heavily into Einsturzende Neubauten’s chaotic phase, Clock DVA’s experimental era, and the world of Throbbing Gristle. I would be only toes deep with the other artists; checking in from time to time.

What were the chances that anyone (who appreciated the genesis of industrial and a knowledgeable noise fan) would notice a specific artist printed in a campus newspaper no less? It was bad enough that I dealt with one disappointment after another interacting with people and trying to find my place on campus; which I eventually did with neutral results. Where reaching out to people with similar tastes in music were few and far between (only one or two people on campus wore Dead Voices On Air, Ant-Zen, and Ras DVA shirts), someone reached out to me instead. Of all the professors I ever had, no one and I mean no one had that kind of knowledge that Prf. Rioux did, with mixtapes to boot, too.

As his tapes played in my Walkman while trekking around campus, everything else around me was happening as usual. Cover bands and boring flavorless local bar acts peppered the Long Island music scene. WBLI continued to pump out more puerile paint-by-number club mixes as usual with Fatboy Slim and Robbie Williams up next. Ska fans hopped out of the woodwork to defend their precious circus music and became overnight know-it-all elitists ready to play the scene-politics card. And free pink PVC cowboy hats came included with Pamela Anderson, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Spice Girls, and Limp Bizkit worship. Forget it. The late Nineties was clearly a bad era in music and pop culture - and it still had time to get even worse. The only places of solace I had were the few record stores I frequented. Commack’s Cheapo’s, West Babylon’s Looney Tunes, Central Islip’s Mother’s Music, Port Jefferson’s Music Den, and Centereach’s None Of The Above. At least they catered everything to my choosing.

But I never forgot where I came from or lost track of where I headed. By the time I attended Stony Brook, I fell victim to the Mothers Of Noise ‘scandal’ and discovered Prurient from it. I’d be one of the few on campus familiar with Whitehouse, Boyd Rice / NON, and even Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music on top of everything else.Each and every one of these artists were mentioned in my new wave of reviews and I even featured on my radio show. I also never forgot those tapes. I still have them, and they became one of the few shining reminders of an era that was mostly ill to me.

Cassette #1, side A:

Merzbow: “???”, “???”, “???”

Cassette #1, side B:

Masonna: Inner Mind Mystique

Cassette #2, side A:

Coil: ”Panic”, “Tenderness Of Wolves”, “Clay”, The Anal Staircase”

Foetus: “What Have You Been Doing?”, “Today I Started Slogging Again”, “Gums Bleed”

Cassette #2, side B:

Einsturzende Neubauten: “Tanz Debil”, “Steh Auf Berlin”, “Kollaps”

Clock DVA: “Consent”, “Anti-Chance”, “Uncertain”

Cassette #3, side A:

Death In June: “Hello Angel”, “Heaven Street”, “She Said Destroy”, “Fall Apart”, “Leper Lord”, “C’est Un Reve”, “Touch Defiles”, “The Torture Garden”, “Come Before Christ…”

Cassette #3, side B:

Throbbing Gristle: three live “Discipline” performances.

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steddietism · 8 months

Text

« much more than i bargained for »

little warning uh im a minor !! nsfw blogs dni please ^_^

summary — steve goes in for snacks, and comes out with a FAT crush.

promt — ‘ candy ‘

this will have multiple chapters that i will post whenever i have the energy to write more ^_^ im often busy with school+homework ++ so dont expect weekly updates or whatever LOL

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve sighs as he enters the shop, the little one at the top of his street, right at the corner. There’s music playing through the speakers, but not the usual kind he hears at the shops. Steve wants to say it’s— cooler? Yeah, cooler.

He bobs his head to the beat a little as he wanders inside, a high-pitched bell ringing as he does. The guy working the till’s head shoots up at the sound, like he’s scared or something. He makes eye contact with Steve, before smiling softly and looking back down.

Steve lets his eyes trail down his body, following his arms, down to his hands, where they’re holding a magazine between his slender legs, which are hanging off an old wooden stool.

He’s got tattooed wrists, and forearms, and hands. His fingers are decorated with delicate little designs, which are mostly covered with his many rings. Steve notices one in particular, a silver band with two little bat wings. It matches the tattoo just under his elbow, the one of a swarm of bats. His eyes begin to travel back up, spotting a bunch of, what look like, homemade bracelets on one of his wrists. They have words, but it’s not like Steve can read them, not from this far away.

It’s a few minutes before Steve realises he literally hasn’t peeled his eyes off the cashier, or even moved at all. He snaps back into reality when another customer enters, ringing the bell behind him.

Fuck, what was he in here for again? Oh— yeah, snacks. Candy. Robin and Nance are probably bored of waiting for him. Or not, Steve doesn't think they could get bored even if they tried, not when they have a house to themselves.

Steve finally moves, and he swears to God, every single one of his bones have been replaced with jelly.

As he wonders around the shop, crossing the different foods Robin requested off his list, he makes a mental note of how much money he’s gonna need.

A dollar fifty, three dollars, four dollars and ninety-nine cents.

He ends up with candy, and drinks, which all amounts to ten dollars and fifty cents.

Steve sort of doesn’t notice that he’s at the counter ‘til the guy behind it asks if he wants a bag. They’re so close now, Steve can see what he looks like up close. He has these gorgeous eyes, that sort of droop down at the ends. Thick, dark, eyelashes that cast a shadow on his cheeks. And, most notably, long, curled hair. A rich, dark brown colour. Strands of it lay on his shoulders, almost blocking the view of the badge on his shirt, his name tag, that says ‘Eddie’, in little, blue letters.

“Do you? Want a bag, I mean,” Eddie repeats, seemingly now a little annoyed. Steve watches his lips when he speaks, and, fuck, he’s pierced. Angel fangs, Steve recalls in his head. That’s what they’re called, the ones that look like sharp, shiny teeth. He wonders what they’d feel like if he kissed Eddie, how they contrast of his plush, warm lips with cold, hard metal would feel. The thoughts send a wave of heat rushing through Steve’s belly.

“No, I— I’m okay, I’ve got my own,” he says, pulling his rucksack off his shoulders and unzipping it.

Eddie just smiles that same, soft smile, tells Steve how much money he needs to give him.

And Steve gives him the money, wordlessly. He puts his shopping in his bag, wordlessly. And he looks back up at Eddie, again, wordlessly. Like he’s expecting him to do something else. Or maybe he’s waiting on himself to do something.

Eddie swears he can hear the cogs turning in Steve’s brain.

“Well— okay, uh, bye, thank you!” Steve smiles, and practically sprints out of the shop.

He rushes home with a million thoughts in his head, the main one being something along the lines of ‘why, in the absolute fuck, didn’t you ask for his number? Or at least try to make small talk?’

Steve can’t answer that. He doesn't know why.

Well, there’s always next time.

#steddie ficlet #steddie fanfiction #steddie #steddie fanfic #steve and eddie #steve x eddie #hinted at ronance #ronance #ronance mention #steve harrington #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #eddie munson #cashier eddie munson #*smashing their faces together like dolls* “haha look theyre kissing”#stranger things #please ignore any grammatical errors .its late.

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httpknjoon · 2 years

Text

instagram official | ksj

plot | Your fans cheered as you two finally posted photos of each other on your personal accounts, possibly confirming the relationship. But it all changed quickly when you accidentally started an Instagram live.

words | 1.1k+

genres | humor/crack, barely fluff, actors!au

pairing | actor!jin x famous!reader

disclaimer | usernames used in the fic are all fictional.

note | first drabble entry for this new series! probably an introduction on how this whole series will go for the next entries. anyway, let me know your thoughts.

main masterlist | drabble series

Y/N & Kim Seokjin finally made it Instagram official

At last!

Y/N-JIN fans, make some noise! Earlier this day, Y/N and Jin finally made it Instagram official. The longtime rumored couple posted photos of each other on their separate accounts, seemingly confirming the dating rumors.

In JIn’s account, he posted a photo of Y/N covering half of her face with a script while winking at the camera. It appears that it was taken on one of the sets of their latest movie together, Maybe Yes, Maybe No. Y/N wore the iconic baby blue dress from the said film.

“No more maybes.” Jin captioned, referring to his character’s line from the movie. He added a single red heart.

On the other hand, Y/N posted a photo of Jin holding a magazine cover of himself next to his face. It appears to be taken during their stay in France during the promotions of their 2020 movie, Lonely People. She simply captioned the image with a butterfly emoji.

This was the first time the couple posted about each other on their Instagram account after four years of being linked together. Back in 2017, when they worked on their first movie together and chemistry immediately became noticeable to the audience. A source told us that the romance started during the movie production.

“They began taking interest in each other right after their first screen test for Cornelia Street.” the source shared. “They began going on each other’s trailers during their free time and breaks, having their alone time. Jin even visited Y/N in London when she was shooting her own scenes there for almost two weeks .”

At last, after years of jokes and speculations, fans received confirmation from Y/N and Jin. To Hollywood’s newest couple, we wish you well with your relationship!

Both posts were two of the fastest photos to ever reach a million likes on the social media site. Fans immediately shared their thoughts and excitement with it, trending Y/N and Jin on Twitter. Short video clip edits of you two resurfaced again. It instantly became a hot topic since you two have the most active stans all over the internet. Even making locals updated about everything.

@seokjinniesy/n : i can finally leave this planet, knowing that y/n and jin are officially together [insert that Spongebob levitating reaction pic]

@GabbyWong : OMG Did #Y/NJin just confirm their relationship? I've been shipping them since I was twelve!

@starringy/n : please welcome the hollywood's power couple finally made it official [insert screenshots of your Instagram posts]

replying to @starringy/n

@y/nfavouriteco0kies: i hope jin posts more pictures of y/n bc that girl posts nothing but pictures of her cat 😩😩

urfavecatlady started a live video. Watch it before it ends!

The video was all pitch black. Almost fifty thousand viewers wait for something to happen. Both yours and Jin’s fans comment their thoughts. Some are asking what’s going on. While others just reply with random affirmations and support for your so-called romantic relationship.

But they only heard voices in the background. Yours was the first one to be audible and recognizable, “We already posted the photos eleven hours ago.”

“Yeah, now give us our money!” Jin’s followed protest was heard.

A male voice laughed, “I said that it has to be on Instagram for a day. I’ll give you twenty dollars each if the photo lasts until tomorrow.”

You crossed your arms over your chest as your eyes threw daggers towards Donny, Jin’s best friend. Jin sat beside you on your hotel room’s couch, doing the same thing too. On the other hand, Donny laughed at you two.

“Who knows things might still happen?”

“Things are already happening. I had to uninstall my Twitter with all the mentions I’m getting,” you spoke out.

When you posted Jin’s candid photo on your Instagram account, you immediately got notifications from Twitter popping up just seconds after. You ignored it at first, going on with your busy day. But it kept on vibrating for a straight thirty minutes like a freaking vibrator. You decided to uninstall the app. After your first shoot for the day, your manager told you the aftermath of your and Jin’s Instagram postings. There was chaos on both media outlets and social media sites.

But you just posted photos because of Donny. Earlier today, You, Jin, and Donny just finished having a room serviced breakfast in Jin’s hotel room when a dare was made.

“You two have the strictest managers. You cannot do shit every time.” he scoffed, taking a sip of the remaining coffee from his cup.

“Strictest manager.” Jin scoffed. “Namjoon still lets me have my phone even though I already drunk posted shit for like four times now. Maybe this one right here has that manager”

Your eyebrows raised, “Nope. Hayley is literally my best friend.”

It's true. Your manager for years is like an older sister to you. Except she also acts as your strict guardian sometimes. Donny remained unconvinced, wearing a smug smile on his face. Both you and Jin shared a look with each other. Yours and Jin's high level of competitiveness are both showing off.

“I will bet you forty dollars if you guys post anything right now that can possibly make your managers go crazy.”

So you did post something. Both you and Jin know your cards and how to play with them. Not less than two minutes, you two let go of your phones from your hands. Hailey later came in, asking you to get ready for your shoot.

“Well, that’s–” Donny paused from his sentence when he checked his phone. “Y/N, you are live on Instagram?”

“What?” you asked, eyebrows scrunched together, before reaching for your phone next to you. But it wasn't there. You looked around the couch. Then, you stood up, quickly spotting your phone.

"No, it's– Oh, shit!"

Jin and Donny watched as you curse constantly while tapping on your phone. After that, you moved your head from your screen to both of them with your eyes wide.

"Hailey's going to kill me–"

"Y/N!"

Your manager's voice can be heard outside your room as she knocks repeatedly on your door. You instantly ran next to Jin, using him as a human shield for your manager's incoming bullets.

"Donny... Can you open the door?" Jin told his friend, who chuckled before doing what he was told. Jin whispered to you, "Why is she so mad today?"

"I promised I won't post anything for today after the whole posting thing." you giggled. "Also, I promised I won't do shit while she's out on a date."

After you hurriedly ended the accidental Instagram live, everyone once again jumped to Twitter.

@sniperfory/n: These two dorks are literally earning millions with their movies and brand deals and they created this whole thing just to win forty bucks 💀💀💀

@seokjinniesm0on: wait a damn minute [insert a clip of that Instagram live]

@Y/NJINFAN: i am just a bet. for forty dollars. 💔💔💔💔💔💔

A day later, after the live chaos, when everyone already cooled down, Y/N simply addressed the whole thing with one tweet. Saying:

@YNOFFICIAL : Unfortunately, we didn’t get the forty dollars.

THE A-LISTERS TAGLIST

@seolaquotes @fatimaaaaa129 @bangtannieshope @jub-jub @yoontaethings @kissme-ornot @dayyy-siii @sleepy-daydreams @veronawrites @cuteipat @stoop18 @ratherbefangirling @babystarcandy-gcf @akirawhore @alpacaparkaseok

PERMANENT TAGLIST @dunixxd @cixrosie @victoryscreech61 @moonchild1 @jksjx @embrace-themagic @buttvi @starbtslove @missseoulite

#actor!jin #bts jin #jin fluff #jin x reader #jin fic #jin au #seokjin x reader #seokjin fanfiction #seokjin fluff #bts fluff #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts crack #bts series #bts au #bts fanfic #bts drabble #the a listers ksj

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