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ebodebo · 3 months

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Chasing The Mask

—red hood is on the hunt for the director and his accomplice, blueprint, gotham's most notourious art theives.

—red hood x art thief "blueprint!" reader

—2.5k+

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A heavy dew settles over the city, along with a light fall of freezing rain. It would almost be calming if you didn't know it was Gotham. One of the most crime-ridden cities in the world. Full of crooks and villains alike.

Among the haze of rain and sleet, a vigilante sits perched on the top of one of the city's most renowned museums, The Metropolitan. The Red Hood, so he calls himself. While most nights he goes out into the night by himself, to his dismay, tonight he is accompanied by his heroine brother, Nightwing.

The Metropolitan is filled with some of the most exquisite pieces of art made by some highly famed artists, from Van Gogh to Basquiet. It is home to a most priceless collection, indeed.

Of course, with such valuable pieces, the museum has been the target of numerous theft attempts, and tonight is no exception.

"You didn't have to come," Red Hood snarkily says as he leans against the red brick encasing the rooftop exit door.

"Just trynna' help out." The honesty in his voice makes Red Hood roll his eyes. He doesn't necessarily hate Nightwing but he thinks he's too smug for his own good. An entitled, know-it-all. But they are brothers, after all. So, there is a sense of undeniable care there.

"I've got it taken care of." Red Hood counters, crossing his arms. His tone is almost defensive. Does Nightwing believe he can't catch a simple art thief? Like he's some kind of amateur?

"Is that right?" Nightwing questions, crossing his arms, too.

"Yes." Defensive, again.

"Because, last time I checked, The Director and Blueprint are still running around Gotham." Nightwing accused.

"Way to state the obvious, Dick." Red Hood enunciated his name. Dick was used to Hood using his name as a homonym, often.

"I'm waiting." Hood finally answered his question after the insult. Nightwing let out a light laugh. "For what exactly?" He pushes, uncrossing his arms and walking over to the brick wall Hood was leaning on.

"An opportunity," Hood stated as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "Jesus Christ, Jason." Nightwing pulled his hand up to wipe across his face, which was covered by a simple black domino mask.

"This is exactly why I didn't want you to come, Dick." Hood sighed deeply. "Talk too much." He finished, uncrossing his arms.

"Sorry, I have-" Nightwing started, but Hood quickly interrupted.

"Wait, shut up," Hood stated, putting his pointer finger in the air.

"You're really starting to piss me off." Nightwing exhales, anger simmering off his body.

"Dick, I'm serious," Hood says, turning his head to look around the roof. "You hear that?" He questions.

"Hear wha-?"

"Boys." Hood and Nightwing quickly turn to see Blueprint emerging behind the bricked rooftop door they were leaning on.

"Blueprint," they simultaneously say. "What are you two doing here?" you ask, tilting your head. Nightwing is quick to respond. "We could ask you the same thing."

"A woman never reveals her secrets." You chirp, pointing your finger at both of them. You walk closer to them, smiling. "It's actually good to see you both."

"Wish we could say the same." Hood finally speaks. His words are gruff and gray. You rapidly turn your head towards him. It felt weird seeing him like this. Not even thirty minutes ago, you were lying in the sanctity of his warm, cozy bed in a post-orgasmic haze. It wasn't like you and him were dating, but you shared a specific intimacy that wasn't common to either of you.

Normally, you wouldn’t give boys like him the time of day. But, what can you say? He’s a great lay.

You did like him, sure, but this was strictly business. There should be no feelings involved in business.

"Blue?" Hood questioned, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

You shake your head, absolving you of your thoughts. "Would love to stay and chat, boys, but I have some paintings to tend to." Thanks to The Director, you swivel on your heel to head toward the rooftop exit door that's been propped open.

"That won't be happening today," Nightwing spoke, pulling out his slick-black Escrima Sticks.

You let out a smug laugh. "And I suppose you two are going to stop me?" You crossed your arms over your chest, tilting your head.

"That's the plan," Hood said, pulling out his weaponry, which was tucked nicely in his jacket.

You gave a nice, wide smile before pressing the button on the small metal capsule of a lead-lined smoke grenade that had been concealed in your hand, throwing it in front of them, unleashing a cloud of smoke that covered your being as you made your getaway.

"Bye-bye, batboys." You yelled to them as you sprinted to the ajar exit door and entered the museum's stairwell.

"Fuck." Hood says through coughs as the smoke forces its way deep into his lungs. Even with smoke filling his lungs, he's still quick to spring into action, following you inside the museum, with Nightwing following hot on his trail, coughing as well.

You flew down the steps. Skipping three, even four, steps at of time. When you turned around after you got inside, they weren't even behind you, still coughing and heaving on the smoke. It was a damn shame Jason was so tall because once you scaled the second staircase, you turned to see Jason beginning the second one. Your eyes widened under your mask at how swift he was. You turned and continued sprinting as fast as your legs could go.

You could faintly hear Hood and Nightwing yell at you to stop, but you pursued down the flights downstairs, reaching the last set of stairs.

You scrambled up as Hood came unexpectedly close and almost grabbed your arm, but you managed to escape his grasp, holding the handle of the main door and slipping inside, slamming it in his face. You breathed a sigh of relief as your legs carried you over to where The Director AKA your dad was standing, holding an authentic Da Vinci portrait.

"Nice job, Blue." Your dad remarked, referring to the diversion you created with the bats so he could slyly take the precious art without them interfering. Though slamming the door did make an excellent barrier, you had forgotten to arm the system back, so Hood and Nightwing forcefully pushed the door open.

"You didn't arm the door system back?" Your dad hissed, looking down at you.

"I-shit." You cursed, turning to see Hood and Nightwing standing only a few feet from where you and your dad stood.

"You really think you're going to get away with this?" Nightwing cockily questions, stretching his arms down with his sticks in each hand.

The Director let out a deep, guttural laugh, causing you to spin your head to face him. "Don't you see? I already have," he declared, showing the painting in his hand.

"We could still take you out." Hood points out, his eyes on The Director, as his hand slides to reach for a gadget on his signature utility belt. Though, he couldn't feel anything. Did he seriously forget to bring it?

"How are you going to do that, Hood?" The Director challenged. "Don't have that shiny belt on, do you?" He questioned, gesturing to his waist.

Hood glanced at Nightwing. "You forgot your belt?" Nightwing questioned, disbelief coating his voice.

"I could have sworn-" Hood says before shaking the rest of the sentence off. "Whatever. I don't need it." He assures, assuming a fighting position.

It was honestly true. Hood was an incredible fighter. Watching him fight was astonishing. He could move his body in ways you didn't even know were humanly possible. But, you did not want to fight him. You just wanted to appease your father by helping obtain the painting, so you could all get the hell out of there.

"Get them." Your father demanded, looking down at you. You hesitated, looking up at your father. "Did you hear me? Get them." His words came out harsher than the first, showing his agitation.

"Come on, Blue, we won't go that hard on you." Hood snarkily remarked, and you reached for his belt wrapped around your waist. You felt a weird sense of guilt as you covertly pulled out a Batarang.

"You just gonna stand there or-" Hood starts but is interrupted by the Batarang swinging right near the side of his head.

"I actually think I'd like to play, Red." You mischievously say, running towards Nightwing, catching him a little off guard, and extending your leg to kick him in the stomach, pushing him back, as he holds his stomach.

"Come on, Red. I won't bite." You say, making your way over to him while Nightwing is still down. You let out a powerful punch, but he's quick to move his head to the side, dodging it.

"Actually, I think you might." He says, grabbing your extended arm and twisting it so your body turns in the other direction.

Nightwing makes his way up. "Well, that was easier than expected." He said, wiping his hands together.

"Because I did all of the work." Hood chimed, still with your arm twisted behind your back. Their banter made for a good distraction so that you could reach into the utility belt Jason mistakenly left at your house and grabbed a stun gun.

You turned quickly, letting go of contact with him, as Hood talked, and pressed the tazer to his forearm. Although clothed, the powerful current still hit his skin, making him drop to the floor, convulsing.

"Wanna have some fun, Grayson?" You sarcastically ask as you step closer to him. He swings his sticks in front of him in a criss-crossed pattern.

You take his silence as an answer. "I knew you were always the boring one." You sigh, holding up the stun gun.

"That's a bat-belt." Nightwing states casually, looking over at Hood, whose body is hunched over on the ground, still convulsing.

"Aren't you just a genius? You sneered, carefully watching him.

"How the hell did you get bat-belt?" Nightwing gruffly questions, eyeing your hand with the stun gun. You narrow your eyes at him. "Like I said before, a woman never reveals her secrets." You quickly move towards him, though he's not so off guard. Not like Hood was.

However, unlike a taser, a stun gun does not shoot any projectiles, and it has to be held against a body or skin to do any damage. Nightwing was standing a few feet from you so the stun gun would do you no good.

But, you don't even get a chance to use it because he's quick to knock the stun gun out of your hand and uses his stick to hit across the museum, a ways from any of you.

"Ah, I get it," Nightwing says, letting his sticks rest on his side. You tilt your head to the side. "Get what?" You shouldn't be indulging him. You should be kicking his ass, but with Hood down, Nightwing wasn't going to be so much work. Plus, in between fighting them, your dad had slipped away, leaving you to do the damage control.

"You got it from Jason, right? Well, stole." He dragged out the last word.

"It's not really stealing if he leaves it in my apartment. Is it?" You retort smugly.

"Of course he did." As he finishes his sentence, you realize you two have been talking for a while. Well, in hindsight, in normal conversation, no, but this is supposed to be a fight, not a catch-up. Wait, I haven't heard Hood? Upon this epiphany, you turn to see an empty spot where Hood laid.

"Where-where did he go?" You stutter, deciphering when he could have left and how you didn't hear him.

"Oh, Jason?" Nightwing starts. "He left a while ago—once you turned around, actually." He coolly says this, sliding his sticks back on through the straps on the back of his suit.

This was a diversion, and you were stupid enough to fall for it. Shit, your dad is going to be so pis-

"Got em'," You hear Hood's voice echo off the walls as he walks in with your father, ropes tied around his hands and ankles, painting in hand. He handed him off to Nightwing as he placed the art back in its place.

You and Hood watched as Nightwing dragged him through the exit door you all came in through.

"So, heard you stole from me?" Hood tuts, shifting closer to you.

"Like I said to your brother, it's not stealing if you leave it in my apartment." You retaliate, your throat drying as he moves closer.

"It's still mine." He's now standing right in front of you. You feel flustered at the proximity but cannot let it show. He would never let you live it down.

"And I want it back," he casually says, his hands ghosting over your waist, housing the belt in question.

You look straight up at him. "Take it then." You swear you could hear him inhale deeply at your suggestive words, but you don't ask.

His hands wander to the belt, hanging a little low on you. You swear he holds his fingers on the front part just to tease you, and if that was the goal, fuck, did he succeed. But you wouldn't tell him that. His ego is already huge. His fingers leave the front portion of the belt and continue dragging slowly along the sides until he reaches the back to unclasp it, and pull it off of you.

Once he steps back, you release a breath you didn't even know you were holding. "I would leave now." He suggests, wrapping the belt around his own waist. "You know, before the police get here."

"Okay." You felt like he had just put you under a spell. You are willingly agreeing with him. He can sense this, too, and smirks under his mask at your cooperation.

"Night, Blue." He says as he turns to the rooftop top exit door, pushing it slightly.

"Goodnight, Red." You say, releasing a sigh of relief once he steps outside the door.

"Oh my God." You say to yourself. "That was-" You pause, taking a deep breath. "Do I like Red Hood?" You question, thinking. "No. Definitely not. It was nothing." You lie to yourself. You had only ever slept with the guy, so it just had to be the undeniable sexual tension between you two. That’s all. Right?

You thank God when you push open the rooftop door that Hood isn't hovering behind the door, listening to you essentially try to deny, and fail, expressing your feelings for him.

It is so nice for Hood that stairwells offer a safe place during storms, but they also offer space for a secret spot, just like the one Hood implemented into the walls of The Metropoliton some years ago.

He used to hide from criminals chasing him through the museum, which happened quite frequently, but now he was using it to simply make sure you left okay. But who knew it would double as a way to hear about your secret love confession? Certainly not him.

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

143 notes · View notes

vintagehellfire · 1 year

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Hi friend! Could you write fluff (or fluffy smut, if you desire where Reader hears best friend!Eddie telling Steve that he thinks Reader is the most beautiful girl in the world, but he doesn’t wanna ruin the friendship by asking her out? Maybe she decides to take the lead and just go for it hehe

xoxoxo @munson-blurbs 💚

Hi friend! Of course I can. I kind of uh let Jesus or the devil take the wheel on this to be honest so it is what it is.

505 |E.M x Reader

best friend!Eddiex fem!reader

Warnings: fem reader, smut, oral (m receiving), two idiots in love, fluff to smut but like fluffy smut 18+ mdni

Word count: 4.7k

Eddie Munson, best friend, metalhead, and absolute sweetheart found himself stuck with you since that one evening in the frigid winter where he took an elbow to the nose at a show. He wouldn’t have ever guessed that getting his nose broken by protecting you would lead to the best and most heart wrenching friendship known to his existence. That’s not to say he didn’t absolutely adore every second of it. You were the best partner in crime and yet the worst influence, always at the ready to suggest the wildest and most impulsive ideas. Everyone would agree the two of you were two peas in a pod, absolutely inseparable, but that never stopped your worries from pooling in the darkest recesses of your stomach. They would dig a deep pit and lodge themselves there so comfortably that you didn’t dare venture past the territory of friendship.

That’s where Steve Harrington came in - he was your confidant on all matters Munson. He had been trying to tell you to come clean about your feelings since the day you took a road trip with Eddie and convinced him to steal persimmons off of some poor farmer’s land. It was truly then that it clicked for Steve that the metalhead was smitten with you - Eddie was never a thief and as much as his jagged personality might make it seem like he’d get caught up with the law, it wouldn’t ever be for theft yet somehow all his perturbation slipped away when it came to you. Eddie could have sworn those were the sweetest persimmons he’s ever tasted and if everyone were being honest it was mainly because he was sharing them with you.

That brings you to today, relaxing on the couch with the frizzy haired man, your heels digging into his thigh as a movie plays in the background. Neither of you were particularly paying attention to it, it was mostly used to fill the silence if anything else. Eddie was scribbling away in his campaign notebook, busy trying to add some finishing touches before tomorrow night’s game and you were crocheting what you were hoping would turn out to be a mothman plush toy. When Eddie pried the information out of you, with you sheepishly admitting it was a mothman you were trying to create, he couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle. It could have been taken as an insulting laugh at how ridiculous you were but the reality of the situation was that Eddie was falling helplessly for you.

“Does this look right?” You broke the silence and held up what looked like some sort of skinned carnage of what used to be a stuffed animal. It was a genuine question and your nerves began to eat away at you over the answer Eddie would give. He slowly turned his head, curls cascading into his face and tickling his nose. With his left hand he pushed the hair out of the way to reveal the beautiful mahogany of his eyes. He briefly flicked over your expression before settling on the tangle of yarn, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips in an amused manner.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the man cooed out, “maybe if you add the fluff to it? I can’t really tell like this.” The crows feet in the corners of his eyes crinkled as a teasing smile split across his features. Suddenly the mothman wasn’t as important as you’d thought because you managed to get a smile from the man who held your heart in his hands, his dimples pronouncing themselves even more when you returned a lopsided tug of your own lips.

“Wow, you wound me, Munson.” You barked out in a laugh signaling to him that you didn’t feel insulted in the least - how could you when he was looking at you like that? As if you hung the stars in the sky for him. His gaze was burning into you, an impromptu staring contest taking place. It was something that was happening more and more lately and it had both of your insides swarm with bats though neither of you would admit it to each other. The moment you managed to peel your eyes away from his was almost like a resignation of sorts yet the tension remained. “So uh, when is Steve swinging by?” You try to change the topic, hoping that it might give an ounce of relief to the thick atmosphere. The metalhead across from you leans back into the couch, stretching out his back with a satisfied groan, one that leaves you salivating - what you’d do to be the one getting him to make such noises.

There was no hiding that with the noise that escaped the man prompted your eyes to trail downwards - denying that you’d set your eyes on the way the hem of his t-shirt rode up to reveal the trail of hair that led to below the belt would cast you as a liar, and lying was a sin- but honestly you’d be written off as a bigger sinner for the things you’d wanted to do to your best friend.

“He’s supposed to be here in,” he checks his little black wrist watch, his movement forcing you to readjust your feet, which in turn had his hand shooting to your ankle, steadying your movements, “I don’t know, now in theory. Harrington’s already late.” He sighs out. He couldn’t let you have that effect on him while you were here, he won’t allow it, and besides, he’s certain that you wouldn't want to entertain such notions in the first place,

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Just as you huff out your sentence there’s a knock at the door. “Well speak of the devil.” You smirk before trying to swing your legs off of Eddie’s denim clad thighs, his firm grip on your ankle stopping you. A deep blush coats his cheeks before he releases his hold, allowing you to get up and welcome Steve into the trailer. As soon as you do, there is no doubt that Steve shoots Eddie a knowing smirk that both of you chose to ignore. Neither one of you believed that feelings of the romantic sort were involved, and if they were, why ruin the perfectly forged friendship you both had? What good was it to complicate things if neither party reciprocated?

“Hey, lovebird. Still in denial?” Steve tutted while making his way towards the Munson kitchen a case of beer in hand with a few bags of microwave popcorn. Steve was the designated carrier of snacks and booze, especially since the incident after his breakup with college woman Maggie Thompson - he quickly started pining over her and they ended up dating for a good six month stretch, that was until she brutally broke his heart and he was left no choice, allegedly, but to force everyone to watch Dirty Dancing on repeat through the night.

“Fuck off Steve.” You shouted back, a smile still stuck on your face.

“You wound me, peach.” He calls back to you, opening the fridge and keeping the door propped open with his hip. His search for space to store the beer doesn’t last painfully long, but long enough that you have the chance to put away your eldritch horror and that Eddie gently tucks his notebook and pen into his room. It was a comfortable movie night routine after all - now it was just a matter of waiting for your second favourite chatterbox.

“Hey Eds?” Your head rounds the doorway of his room as you poke your head in, a low hum coming from the corner of the room that harboured his desk. “I’m going to run to the washroom, okay? Can you make sure King Steeb doesn’t burn the popcorn?” You ask him meekly. As his eyes fall onto you his facial expression softens and he takes a few steps, crossing the room in order to plant himself in front of you. Seldom you found comfort in what he does next - in fact your best friend was the only one who had permission to do so. His rough hand gently meets your elbow, his skin setting yours ablaze.

“Of course sweetheart.” He murmurs before you timidly stalk off to the washroom.

Eddie takes this opportunity to pad over to Steve, greeting him with a firm slap on the back and his signature dimples engraving themselves into his features. His smile softened his otherwise hard features and set jaw.

“Hey man, thanks for grabbing the drinks for tonight.” His voice rumbled out as he rounded the former king of Hawkins High, propping his hip against the kitchen counter.

“Don’t worry about it, man, I’m happy to bring something along since you won’t let me choose the movies anymore.” The younger teased, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “But uh, Eddie, while we have a minute… the two of you aren’t seriously in denial, are you?” He poses the question that everyone of your mutual friends has been wondering about, the one that’s been burning in everyone’s mind including your own.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Eddie hissed, hands coming to rub his face before dropping at his sides. “Between you and me, Steve,” a small hesitation finds itself wedged in just before the big confession, in part to make sure you were nowhere near, in part because Eddie needed a minute to collect himself. He’d never been so smitten before and god the pain he feels in his chest over it rivals even the pain of a broken heart yet, he’d rather feel that hurt than lose you forever, “I’m not denying anything. I think that our peach is the most beautiful fucking person on this goddamn planet, I forget how to breathe when they’re around. I can’t remember the last time someone took the air from my lungs like that, the last time I felt comfortable just existing.” Eddie rambled, his hands gesticulating wildly as he divulged his feelings. He was so wrapped up in his confession that he completely missed hearing your footsteps hurriedly walking over as to not miss anything, he missed the way they came to an abrupt stop as he called you beautiful, he missed the sound of your heartbeat that felt like it was in your ears at this point…

“So why don’t you go for it, man?” Steve inquired, prodding further into something that was simultaneously none of his business at all and absolutely his business. He couldn’t stand seeing two of his best friends miserable without each other.

“Because,” Was the pathetic answer that slipped past the plush lips of the older man, “Ruining our friendship would ruin me. No more feeling like I belong somewhere with someone just as strange as I am. Nobody that- man this is going to sound pathetic but fuck, Peach is just a breath of fresh air, they’re the highly anticipated crisp fall air that the end of summer brings, and they’re the beautiful turn of the season, bringing something different and new but so welcome. They’re - fuck Steve - they’re my heart, my soul, the very breath in my lungs, and christ even having the chance to share a space with ‘em is more than I could ever ask for, more than I deserve.” He sighs out. It’s then when you decide to make yourself known by clearing your throat gently.

“Uh, hey uh, I think Robin is here.” And with that, Eddie wishes the world would swallow him whole.

Throughout the movie you’re sat next to the metal head, squished onto the worn brown couch, Steve and Robin smushed together on the other end of it. This would have been a comfortable arrangement had it not been for what you’d overheard, though the issue wasn’t that it was uncomfortable, no, it was too comfortable. He smelled earthy with hints of smoke, his cologne overtook your senses and sent shivers down your spine, each vertebrae resonating at a seemingly different frequency, and soon the warmth spread to your chest. You shifted in your seat, thighs rubbing against Eddie’s strong ones as you tried to adjust your position. Giving up, you slung your legs across the metalhead’s thighs, training your eyes to his face as you did so. It didn’t escape you that his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed his nerves down. On his end, it was like swallowing nails, he couldn’t think and it was borderline painful what you were doing to him - how you could be so unaware was beyond him, and yet he tried to play into it, to be as normal as possible. His hand found your knee and he started drawing lazy little circles, something that he would often do to calm his anxieties - it was a reprieve of sorts to get lost in swirls and patterns - sometimes if he ended up lazily drawing them out in class he’d use them as dungeon layouts.

Whatever god Eddie had angered was not a forgiving one for as soon as he did that, you scooted yourself further up, leaning your body into his, gently resting your hand on his chest. You could feel his heart rate quicken with your delicate touch and it only got worse as you started tracing little patterns in turn. A heat crept up his chest and crawled its way up his neck, resting itself on the apples of his cheeks. The perfect shade for him, he should wear that colour more, you thought to yourself. Even in the dark glow of the TV screen, it was quite the discernable difference to his usual pale complexion and it looked good.

The more Eddie shifted under your touch, the worse his fate became and eventually it came to a point where the rebellious Dungeon Master genuinely thought that maybe it was the devil doing his bidding and in place of God because what god would allow you to shift your legs enough to press into his tented jeans. The man hissed and firmly gripped your knee, pushing your legs slightly further down his thigh. He prayed to Satan, God, Beelzebub, anyone who would listen really, that you didn’t notice the effect you had on him, but you had. In fact you had been intentionally teasing the man all night long, hoping to get enough of a rise from him to completely break him, to have him snap and make a move — what you hadn’t accounted for was how resilient he was.

As the night went on, you pushed the boundaries further until you managed to tangle a hand in his hair, your legs draped across his lap - you were practically buried in his side as if it were a little nest made perfectly for you. Eventually you shifted, tucking your legs under you but you remained pressed into the curly haired man, head finding a resting place on his shoulder, and your hand on his upper thigh. Occasionally you would shoot a glance towards Steve and Robin, the two were deeply engrossed in whatever was going on on the screen - the movie meant little to nothing to you given the positions you were putting yourself in. As you turned your head slightly to watch what their eyes were trained on, the scene shifted to something akin to a physically intimate moment between the actors - the scene sparking something in you.

With a slight tilt of your chin your lips brushed Eddie’s jugular and this time you felt the shivers run down his spine causing him to shift in his seat, which in turn made the fact that your hand was on his thigh so much worse. All in all, there was no winning for Eddie Munson, not in this regard at least but he would end up winning something, he just doesn’t know it yet. His eyes screwed themselves shut tightly and his breathing quickened yet he made no attempt to move.

About half an hour after the end of the movie, Steve and Robin left, citing off having work in the morning as their excuses, they left with little waves goodbye and bickering about which actress was hottest, making no comments about the position you and Eddie wound up in, and if they did notice, they had only given each other a small but knowing look, choosing to continue on instead of commenting on the obvious. It was not really anybody’s business but your own and soon you were going to have to address it. A beat of silence passed, the brown haired boy closing his eyes and tilting his head back so it hit the back of the couch. A jagged breath escaped past his lips and you caught on his in time, breaking the stagnant silence between the two of you.

“Hey Eds?” You cooed out, slithering off of his lap, trying to be discreet about what you were doing. You couldn’t have him tipped off and finding out about the plan you concocted. You watched his features intently, the way he swallowed the lump in his throat, the constricted hum that his vocal chords produced - the only sound he trusted himself with at the moment. Your hands found the insides of his thighs and you felt him stiffen under you as you slotted yourself between his legs, knees surely getting a carpet burn.

“I think you’re also the most beautiful person, I think you’re the fiery orange sunset that lights up the sky so brightly that you can’t help but watch, stare, and take it all in. If I’m the crisp autumn air, you’re the falling leaves, beautiful and underappreciated. You’re fleeting to most people’s lives in the same sense but I’d stay there if I could, if I’m so lucky as to be offered a place there. You’re my heart, my soul, the passion that lights a fire from under me.” This time his eyes snap open and he looks at you, lips parted, bitten and bloody from holding himself back all night. “And Eddie, I know you’re afraid of ruining our friendship, but how about I ruin it instead?” You breathe over his hips. “Let me take your breath away, for real this time, yeah?” You boldly decided to kiss the inside of his thigh, eyes trained on his face. If you weren’t just the prettiest thing, looking at him up through your eyelashes. His brain short circuit, acting like an overheated motherboard and his mouth ran dry as if he’d swallowed a kilo of sand all at once.

“I- y-yeah? Yeah…” He breathed out, licking his lips as he tried to answer you. He couldn’t believe you were reciting what he’d admit to Steve right back to him, maybe there was a god, maybe it was in fact the devil himself sent to tempt him in sin, maybe it was just everything he’s ever wished for and he was not about to let it slip away from him. A shaking hand raked itself through his hair, his other one reaching for your hand. This wasn’t real, was it?

You took his approval as a signal to keep kissing up his thigh, only confirming to him that this was in fact very real. You smooth your hands over the expanse of his thighs, kissing closer and closer to the tent in his jeans. Low whines releasing themselves from the back of his throat, and out into the open air for you to take pleasure in. You walked your fingers up to his bulge and carefully, delicately even, splayed your hand across it, gentle squeezing.

“All this for me?” You acted surprised, eyes trained on the denim.

“Y-yeah, sweetheart, all for you.” His rattled breath made its way to your ears, a hum of admiration releasing itself from the back of your throat. “Let me help you.” He cooed out, an ounce of confidence making its way back to the man. With that he elected to lift his hips as he undid the fly of his jeans, being careful to unbutton them first, and then drag them down his thighs. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen Eddie in boxers, but it was certainly the first time you'd seen him in such loose and thin black material, cock straining against the cage of fabric, begging to be taken care of with careful hands — and lips. You couldn’t help but salivate at his size, it wasn’t what you’d imagined with your hands between your thighs in the middle of the night, no, it exceeded that expectation.

“Oh, fuck.” You groan,bringing your mouth to hover over him, hot breath fanning his clothed member.

“Please don’t tease, sweetheart, you’re killing me here.” He lets out. It’s all you need to press your lips to him, mouthing at him. Your nose was slotted perfectly against his belly, open mouth trailing up to suck his tip through his boxers, saliva leaving a wet spot on his boxers. He hissed in satisfaction, his hands coming to tangle themselves in your hair, tugging gently. His choice of movement brought out a moan you didn’t even realise you were holding in but you were more than happy to let it escape, especially when Eddie’s reaction was to tug your hair a little harder, forcing you closer to his aching cock. You take advantage of the sudden movement and lick a stripe through the fabric before pulling back, hand trailing up, giving his balls a gentle squeeze before slithering your hand into his underwear. The skin to skin contact had the Dungeon Master hissing from pleasure, and the low sound of breath filtering through his teeth turned into a groan, much like the one you’d heard him make earlier. It was sweeter pulling them out of him yourself, a sense of accomplishment flooding you.

“You’re going to be good for me, yeah Eds?” You purred before doing the filthiest thing he could have possibly imagined you doing, As you pulled his aching cock from his boxers, you spit on him, using your hand to spread your spit.

“Oh fuck.” He choked out upon seeing that. He’d be a liar to say he didn’t imagine this before, to say that he didn’t think of your lips wrapped around his swollen head while you used your spit covered hand to jerk him off, but somehow this was so much filthier. “I’ll be so good for you, sweetheart.” His head hit the back of the couch once again, breathing getting heavier, deeper, his whole body becoming unbearably hot. You were in no better of a position. Sweat started to build on your forehead and you had barely touched the man before you, and if you were to bet on anything it would be that the heat you were feeling in between your thighs was a good indicator to how wet you were getting just from this sight alone.

Before long you decided to quit your slow teasing, licking your lips before sinking your warm mouth onto his length. You started by swirling your tongue along the mushroom head of his cock before flicking it over his frenulum, eliciting the most pornographic moan you have ever heard.

“Oh fuck, right there, sweetheart.” He cried out and so you repeated the calculated flick of your tongue before you circled it over his head, paying extra attention to his slit. He was leaking salty precum at this point, seeing stars that you had in fact hung in his vision. Without warning you hollow your cheeks before sinking your mouth completely onto his cock, taking it as deep as your throat would allow - his tip hitting the very back of your palette and yet you managed not to gag. You were convinced that the moans Eddie was releasing were enough to make angels sin - it was unlike anything you’d heard before and god you wished you could keep them bottled up. “God fuck, please don’t stop.” His encouragement egged you on, kept you wanting, no, needing to show him how good you could be to him.

You took him down your throat once again, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed your head up and down his length, employing your tongue to flick across his head every time you came up. After a minute or so, you added your right hand, saliva dripping down it and onto his balls while your left hand decided to shoot down between your legs. You rocked yourself against it trying to chase your own high, your own impending orgasm, but you knew you wouldn’t get there off of just this.

Your train of thought got cut off by the buck of Eddie’s hips, apologies tumbling from his lips between pained swears of pleasure yet you keep going, taking it like a champ. His cock was reactive to what you were doing, getting harder and angrily leaking and every time you’d feel any ounce of precum drip from him, you lapped it up like it was your last meal on death row - so eager to taste him, so have him, to swallow every last bit of what he had to offer and for all Eddie knew you were eagerly sucking his soul out of his cock. He was on cloud nine with the way your warm mouth felt around his thick member.

You let your mouth pop off of him with a POP, a lust-drunk smile painted onto your lips as you sped up your hand movements, jerking the metal head’s cock faster and faster, pace picking up to get him as close to the end of the finish line as possible.

“Fucking - Jesus- Christ!” He cried out.

“You’re doing so good for me, babe, come on, please, I wanna taste you. Would you let me taste you, Eds?” You practically begged him, nearly sending him over the edge. You watched his muscles twitch before you sank your warm lips over his head,taking him only halfway into your mouth while your hand worked a steady pace on the other half of his cock.

“Jesus, can’t say shit like that, sweetheart. I’m- I can’t- I’m so close.” He babbled out. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t…” Before either of you could process what was happening, he shot down your throat which you happily swallowed down. You waited to make sure that he was completely spent before you pulled off of him, licking the remaining cum off your lips before daring to look up at him through your love drunk haze. Much like you, his chest was heaving and his eyes were glazed over in both lust and love, his lips swollen and pink as if he were biting them in order to hold himself back.

“You okay?” He uttered out quietly, tucking himself back in before sinking to the floor in order to be eye level with you. Being this close allowed you both to see how blown your pupils were, his irises nearly completely disappeared in his cloudy haze.

“Yeah, Eds, I am.” A lazy smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “Are you?”

“Never better, Peach.” He returned your smile, dimples pronouncing themselves infinitely more than they had been earlier.

“I love your smile, Eddie. And your silly dimples. I never want them to go away.” You admit drunkenly.

“They won’t so long as you’re by my side.” His eyes shifted away from you for a second, tongue darting out to lick his lips in careful consideration of what he was about to say to you. “I think maybe we should ruin our friendship.” He concludes. “Maybe we’d make better lovers.” His eyes flick up to read your expression carefully.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that.” You respond in a timid tone, soft, full of love. It’s an almost bashful sounding confirmation, something you’d been waiting to hear for a long time, and yet it felt new, it made you feel giddy, and it certainly didn’t help that you had only riled yourself up without being able to chase any relief.

“Mmm,” Eddie hummed before cupping your cheek. “Then how about we take this to the bedroom and we Christen this relationship in the most devilish way I know?” His touch is tender and as he leans into you, his lips brush against yours, gentle as a butterfly's wings. You can barely get a nod out before he’s helping you up and dragging you to his bedroom in order to find himself in his most dedicated place of worship for the night; slotted between your thighs.

—

a/n: Hopefully this is somewhat what you were looking for, Bug! It was so much fun to write and I got way too engrossed in it. I also realise I haven’t written smut in like 700 years so hopefully this is a good warmup.

Thank you, angel @munson-blurbs for requesting this little guy 🖤

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #reader insert #requests #smut #best friend!eddie

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ironspiderfics · 1 year

Text

someone else living in his skin

by @iron--spider for @shoyzz-art

Peter slides up alongside Rhodey, and Rhodey startles.

There’s a cacophony of twinkling glasses and chairs being pulled out and whatever weird jazz music playlist Tony’s got playing, and all of it seems loud, in Peter’s ears. Shaking his nerves.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhodey says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing? I thought you were putting out table numbers—”

“Do you think he’s acting shifty?” Peter asks, calmly as he can.

He’s calm. Why wouldn’t he be calm?

His eyes are locked on Tony.

They’re in the middle of setting up this mini gala event, the opening for Stark’s new research facility in the Lower East Side. It’s gonna create hundreds of jobs and scholarships and internships and it’s gonna be a really good thing, partnering with the museums and businesses in the area. Peter’s actually really excited because he’s got the title of ‘Lead Researcher’ for the intern pool, whatever that winds up meaning from day to day, and he thought Tony would be really excited too. He loves celebrations, he loves new opportunities and helping people, but—

But for the last two days he’s been…different.

He’s been…off.

But Peter’s calm. He’s calm about it. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be calm.

His eye is just twitching a little bit.

Rhodey looks at Tony, and then he looks at Peter, and then he looks at Tony again. He narrows his eyes, like he’s trying to assess the situation.

“He’s just—I don’t know,” Peter says, blowing out a breath. He wrings his hands together and cracks his jaw.

“Is this a spidey sense thing?” Rhodey asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Peter shrugs, still watching him. Tony is sort of looming around—straightening a table cloth here, pushing in a chair there, glancing over his shoulder like he thinks someone is watching him. He’s sweating more than normal.

“A little bit of that, a little bit of—just—he’s acting weird,” Peter says. “Not acting like himself, I guess ever since the other night when that guy tried to break in—”

“But we dealt with that,” Rhodey says, looking at him. “It was in and out—cops came, got the guy—”

“Right, I know, but it’s been since then he’s just been like—I don’t know,” Peter says, blowing out a breath. “Like he—the other night, he forgot that I already graduated, he was asking me when I was gonna graduate—”

“We all forget that,” Rhodey says, raising his eyebrow at him. “You’re perpetually twelve—”

“You didn’t even know me when I was twelve—”

“You’re twelve now—”

Peter sighs. “Well, he normally remembers, and he was the one at my graduation screaming and yelling and making a big scene so, that’s not really—easily forgotten, and he was being weird about Spider-Man the other day—”

“Weird how?” Rhodey asks, turning towards him completely, now. “Because he’s always weird about Spider-Man. Every other day he’s messaging me like how do we convince Peter to retire?”

Peter clicks his tongue. “Asking me things he knows. Like how I make my webs and which suit is my favorite and—I don’t know, stuff like that. Weird stuff.”

“You’ve been staying at the compound since that guy tried to break in?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Me and May both, the apartment has that infestation, everybody’s out for at least a week.”

He clears his throat. The guy trying to break in was weird—he seemed normal, no powers, no real intentions, he got pretty far but was taken down fast, and he didn’t seem at all—fazed, by any of it. He was even polite.

Maybe it got under Tony’s skin? A lot of stuff like that does. They’ve been through enough, with the dying, coming back again two years later, him nearly dying trying to fix it all—a petty thief trying to get into an Avengers compound is just the kind of irritation that might set him off. Last straw kinda deal.

Rhodey stares over at Tony again, and Peter looks too. Tony is being twitchy. He’s talking to waiters and he’s got his hands behind his back and his fingers are twitching.

“Has Pepper said anything to you?” Rhodey asks.

“Has Pepper said anything to you?” Peter asks, raising his eyebrows. “Because she’s more likely—I mean, with me, we talk about MIT, when I start, how my summer’s going, we talk about, um, TikTok recipes, we talk about MJ, and Tony in the capacity of like, Iron Man, and Spider-Man, or his birthday, or Christmas, but not like—I’m just saying, she’s more likely to—have said something to you, or Happy, than me.”

“No, she hasn’t, but now that you mention—and he is acting weird right now—and yesterday he did get off the phone fast, different from how he normally…” Rhodey trails off, shaking his head.

“Maybe he’s sick?” Peter asks, worrying a little bit more now. He thought maybe he was overreacting, he thought Rhodey would brush him off and he’d feel better and then Tony would magically start acting normal again after the conversation. “Nervous? He doesn’t usually—”

“No,” Rhodey says, shaking his head. “Not nervous, these things are—easy, like the back of his hand—sick, maybe, but I thought he was well beyond hiding sick from us, so I hope not—” He looks resolute, all of a sudden, and he claps Peter on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go talk to him. We’ve got an hour or so still, of set-up, so let’s just—just keep on putting out the numbers, doing everything on your list—”

“Okay,” Peter says, nodding, and Rhodey pats him on the shoulder again, moving past him. Peter watches, nonchalantly, as Rhodey walks up to Tony, taking his arm and sort of moving him across the room.

And it’s probably fine.

Rhodey’s gonna talk to him, figure it out, and it’s gonna be okay.

Peter keeps repeating that to himself, as he does his little jobs, and he marks them off his list in his notepad—table numbers, check, badges at the door, check, banners, check, taste test the hors d'oeuvres, mostly check, and he totally had that spelled wrong in his notes and it’s fine—

And when people start to arrive, he realizes that he hasn’t seen Tony or Rhodey since—Rhodey left to go talk to him.

And he gets a little nervous and he looks around, trying to scan the room—not completely full yet, and nothing’s started, but Pepper is here and he sees Happy—

—and May makes him jump when she shows up behind him.

“What’s wrong, honey?” she says, giving him that look, that look that’s gotten sharper and even more severe with every one of his near death experiences.

So he decides not to tell her what’s going on in his head. Which is usually the opposite of what she wants, but this probably isn’t anything, so. “Nothing,” he says, clearing his throat, still trying to scan around. But Tony and Rhodey aren’t here, not anywhere he can see.

“That’s not your nothing face,” she says, rubbing his arm. “Do you have a job you’re supposed to be doing? Is your brain tingling?”

He narrows his eyes at her. “No, it’s—no, it’s not—I gotta, uh, one second—can you make sure you get me one of those little wonton things? Or like three of them? I keep seeing them on the trays and I haven’t gotten to try one yet—”

“You’re concerned about that?” she asks, her eyes still worried and distrustful.

“Yes,” he says, grinning at her quickly before he starts to go looking.

Part of him feels like he should say something to Pepper, but he doesn’t want to stress her out—and like, it’s probably nothing, everything is probably fine, and he makes a beeline for the door that leads to the little backstage area.

“Tony?” he says, and the crowd noise goes muffled when he lets the door swing closed behind him. It’s so quiet back here—he doesn’t even see any of the employees or the guys that do the lights or any of Tony’s security—there wasn’t even anybody at the door when he scanned in.

He hears what sounds like something—brushing against the ground—

“Tony?” Peter asks again, glancing around. “Rhodey? Are you guys, uh—I feel like we’re getting ready to—”

Peter turns another corner and stops dead.

Rhodey is on the ground, knocked out, and Tony is dragging him by the arms. He looks up, and sees Peter there, and the look on his face—he doesn’t—Peter’s brain is going a mile a minute and he’s already surging forward to help but the look on Tony’s face—it registers somewhere in the back of Peter’s mind…

“Oh my God, what—what happened?” Peter asks, rushing over and kneeling down next to Rhodey. “What happened, what did—”

“Uh, he fell,” Tony says, and he kneels down next to him. He nods, and widens his eyes and shakes his head, and he doesn’t seem nearly as concerned as he usually would be. Tony normally loses his mind when Rhodey so much as gets a paper cut, so this is…this is…

“How?” Peter asks, looking at Tony and back at Rhodey again. “He was just—”

“I don’t think he ate enough,” Tony says.

Every alarm bell is going off in Peter’s head. They’ve been going off tonight, and for a couple days, honestly, if he really thinks about it, but it’s loud now. He feels like time is slowing down, like his vision is getting narrow, like all of his senses are on high and zeroing in.

And it feels wrong. The shift in the air and his own suspicion, it feels wrong. What would be wrong with Tony?

But that’s where this is going.

It’s focusing on him.

Peter looks at Rhodey, and there’s a bruise on his cheek—

And Tony is clenching and unclenching his fist—

“Tony?” Peter asks, slowly, glancing up at him. His brain isn’t working. It isn’t working and it’s working too fast and he feels like he’s trudging through sludge. Every move is the wrong move.

And Peter looks at him in a certain way. With suspicion. And he hates it, and he feels sick, but he can’t shake it—

And Tony doesn’t answer him. He just looks at him, and the light that’s usually behind his eyes is gone, and his expression is one Peter doesn’t recognize.

Like someone else is living in his skin.

And just as that thought takes hold and sends chills down Peter’s spine, setting off a whole new line of panicked questions in his head, Tony clicks his tongue. And he sighs.

“Shit,” he breathes. And it’s his voice, of course it’s his voice, but it sounds twisted, and different, and before Peter can even react, before he can pounce on the alarm bells and the way his senses are narrowing and signaling, Tony surges forward with a stiff arm to Peter’s throat, and knocking him to the ground.

Tony punches him, with his full strength behind it, and Peter is so shocked that he doesn’t even block, and he tastes blood immediately. He winces, gasping, and he blocks the next one, and then Tony is grabbing his forearms and tossing him across the room.

Peter hits a thing of shelving, and a bunch of buckets fall down on top of him, and through the pandemonium, he sees Tony running away from him.

“What the fuck,” Peter breathes, and he scrambles to his feet—

And Tony would never hit him, ever, not ever, and Peter’s head pounds, with the force of the punches, with the alarms going off, with fear and worry, and is this a clone, is it mind control—either way he has to get him, there’s a reason, but what is it, what is it—

And if he’s a clone it’d be different, but if it’s mind control, Peter might be able to get through to him, he might be able to break it—

And Peter scrambles to his feet, wiping the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand, and he starts taking off in the same direction Tony did—

And he can’t even call his name before he’s taking the full force of a repulsor blast.

He’s knocked backwards again, slamming into the wall, and he can feel it cave in against his back with the strength of the hit. He coughs, gasping, and his jacket is smoldering and his skin underneath it is too, and he sees Tony standing there with the repulsor aimed at him—he’s only wearing one, and Peter rolls out of the way, narrowly avoiding getting hit again and trying to catch his breath.

He’s not thinking, because nothing makes sense, and Peter just rushes at him and tackles him to the floor—

And Tony punches him again, with the iron hand this time, and Peter’s neck twists hard with the hit—his jaw cracks, blood in his teeth—

And everything in him is screaming to fight back, fight back, but it’s Tony, he—he can’t—he can’t hurt him he fucking can’t hurt him—

And he grimaces, metal in his mouth, and grabs both of Tony’s wrists, mid-flail, and pins him to the ground—

“Doesn’t fucking matter, it’s set,” Tony hisses, and he doesn’t even sound like himself, and the way his face is contorting, he doesn’t look like himself either. Peter’s heart is in his throat, and he dodges another repulsor blast that Tony manages to get off, and Peter covers the repulsor with his hand and twists Tony’s fist and focuses—

“What is? What is?” Peter knows it’s not him, not right now, not really, but he can’t help— “Tony, Tony, are you in there? Are you in there, can you hear—”

“It’ll still do damage where it is—they’d never scan Tony Stark himself at one of his own events,” Tony says, and he grins, manic. “Good way to get it done, huh? One big blast, kill him, ruin his reputation at the same time—”

And Peter’s mind drifts again, like a lifeboat at sea, and he remembers Tony saying earlier that he wouldn’t need his webshooters here, but he packed them anyway. He remembers him with a gym bag, a duffel, he remembers oh nothing, just a few extra lights, and May is here and Rhodey and Happy and people are starting to arrive and Tony himself—Tony himself, and he’s not a clone, he’s not, they’re—they’re trying to kill him, it’s—it’s mind control, it has to be, they used him to smuggle a device in, and they’re trying to kill him—

Peter’s mind drifts, and guides him, and every time it feels like a pull, like a bunch of arrows, but this is more powerful than he’s felt in a while—

And Tony knees him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him again—Tony grabs him by his shoulders and Peter wrenches away, and they both stumble to their feet again and for a minute they’re in a boxing match, except Peter keeps getting hit, because he’s pulling his punches, because it’s Tony, it’s Tony—

“Stop, stop, stop, you’re—”

Another blow across his cheek, breaking the skin, and he hears a high pitch in his ear, and Tony grabs him by the throat and shoves him against the wall—

And Peter gasps, and pushes him, hard, and Tony trips back and nearly falls and even the way he’s moving right now doesn’t seem like him—

And Peter rushes away and tries to run, his head drifting, pulling him, alert, alert—

Webshooters, backpack, the duffel—they were together, he left it—left it with their stuff, back here, when they—when they got here—

And there are arrows in his head and they’re pulsing and buzzing like neon signs, and he knows he’s going the right way—

But he’s being pulled back to the ground by his ankle, and his head cracks on the tile, and it’s stars and metal and arrows and buzz buzz, how much time is on the clock, we don’t know, we don’t even know it’s a bomb, we don’t even know if it’s counting down, but it sure as shit feels like it—

And he tries to scramble up again and his spidey sense can usually help him from all angles, but it feels off, here, and he knows it is when Tony hits him in the face again, when he grabs him and throws him—and punches him again, rattling his brain in his skull—

And it’s because it’s Tony, because he’s not—he’s not a threat, but he is, he is, right now he is—

“Tony!” Peter yells, because maybe he can get through, maybe he can— “Please—”

And he dodges out of the way of another hit, and stumbles up against the far wall in the narrow backstage hallway—

“Tony, this isn’t—it’s me, it’s Peter, Tony, you have to fight this!” he yells, and he starts running again—again—

“He’s not home!” Tony sing-songs, laughing. “Should have known you’d be fucking trouble, a stupid fucking kid is Spider-Man—”

And Peter runs from him, and sees the fire alarm on the wall, and he grabs it and pulls it as he passes it by—

And the alarm goes off in the real world now, in tune with the one in his head, flashing red and white. He hears Tony curse and yell behind him, and Peter has to—he has to—

Doesn’t fucking matter, it’s set—it’ll still do damage where it is—

It has to be a bomb, it has to be—

And he grits his teeth—Tony is still on his heels, and tears sting in Peter’s eyes along with the heartbeat thump of the pulp his face is turning into, and he sucks in a breath and dodges another repulsor blast—

He has to get him to stop, stop, stop trying to stop him—

And he turns around, and tries to hold back and focus at the same time—

“I’m sorry, I’m—I’m so so sorry—”

And he punches him once, and then again, directly in the face, and Peter knows how strong he is and he tries not to hurt him too badly, and Tony crumples and Peter catches him, guiding him to the ground—

And even though the arrows and the alarms are buzzing and jolting in Peter’s entire body now, he sniffles through the blood and makes sure Tony is still breathing, makes sure he still has a pulse, and he is, he does, and Peter squeezes his shoulder and he can’t think about after, not til they get there—

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, squeezing his shoulder again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

And he gets up and he doesn’t let himself look back and he starts running again—

And he’s limping now, and he doesn’t know where that came from, and he finds the place where they stored their bags—

And alarms in his head, and the fire alarm in the building, and lights flashing on and off and he can hear the insanity in the main ballroom, and he finds the duffel and rips it open and—

It is a bomb.

And it’s got a five minute counter.

Peter scrambles, his head pounding pulsing sick, and he gets his webshooters out and puts them on and grabs the entire duffel bag and slings it over his shoulder.

And he makes a break through the nearest emergency door.

And he gets a running start and leaps into a swing, and his whole face hurts and the emergency in his head is steeping him in a bubble now, because the source is with him, and the danger is still back there, because he doesn’t know if knocking Tony out broke the mind control or if he’s gonna wake up still trapped as an angry Terminator—

And Peter swings, trying to launch himself higher and higher, and he can hear the timer clicking and he keeps track of the count and he can’t be a second off or this is gonna go south—

And it might not work anyway—

And this is dire straits, but Peter finds himself thinking of normal things, and they rise above the noise in his head and the oncoming sirens and he doesn’t feel calm, exactly—his face is pulsing with the pain of the hits he took and he feels like he lost a couple teeth, and his shoulder feels like it’s not in the socket properly every time he swings higher, and his leg is in fire and his spidey sense is an orb of panic, encasing him in a snow globe, but—

He thinks of watching that African Grey Parrot with MJ and Ned the other day, for two hours straight, wiping out the entire YouTube catalog of all his antics. He thinks about the yoga class with May at Bryant Park they got with that Groupon and the seven chai lattes she had lined up beside her mat like bowling pins. He thinks about touring the MIT campus with Tony and the way he introduced him to everybody and said this kid is gonna be the best student you ever have. Sharing french fries at Sebastian’s Cafe. I’m so proud of you.

And he hears the beeping speed up, and he’s thinking of all of that and everything else and why did I wear these shoes why not the brown ones as he tosses the duffel into the air at the arc of his highest swing, and it explodes above him in a mess of orange fireball and knocks him right out of the air—

Tony wakes up broken apart.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away. He’s not in the vice grip anymore, not locked into some subconscious pit in his own body while some asshole takes the reins, but he feels like—he feels like the asshole could take over again at any minute, like he’s still in his head somewhere. Dormant, waiting for a moment of weakness so he can shove Tony back down in his cage—

His hands are cuffed together, and he’s—he’s cuffed to something—

He groans, rattling his hands a little bit, and he wakes up and—

Rhodey and Pepper are there. He’s on the floor, and cuffed to a pipe in the wall, and they’re sitting in front of him, and they both look wary and he doesn’t fucking blame them, and his head is pounding and his memories are slapdash watercolor but—

“It’s me,” he breathes, his throat hurting. “It’s me, it’s me—”

“There’s something wrong with you,” Rhodey says, and he exchanges a look with Pepper. He’s got a butterfly bandage on his cheek and Tony thinks that’s me, my fault and what else did he, what else—

“No, I know,” Tony says, squeezing his eyes shut, and his head is pounding and it feels like someone shredded him from the inside out, and—

Tony, you have to fight this—

He remembers, barely—the NYPD taking that guy away, laughing at the idea that they had to ‘save Iron Man’, and he was alone that night and still skeeved off over the whole thing and then he felt the pinch on his arm and felt the thing burrowing and he panicked and he couldn’t even panic for long enough before he seized, before he fell inside himself—

“Thing in my arm,” he croaks, still squeezing his eyes shut tight, because light hurts because voices hurt because everything hurts, and he’s trying to put together the puzzle of his memories and he feels like he might throw up because—because he’s here now but the other guy—he’s here too, he’s still in there, he’s still—and any moment he could— “There’s a thing in my upper arm, left arm—you need to—dig it out, I think it’s right below—right under the skin, it’s like—it made me—made me susceptible, created a link, I don’t fucking know, get it out. You need to get it out.”

“Tony, what—”

Pepper’s voice.

“Pep, he’s—”

“It’s me right now, get it out of my arm or it might not be me in—” He opens his eyes too fast, and really feels like he’s gonna fucking throw up, and they’re both looking at him like he’s the biggest piece of trash they’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing, and that makes him sick too, and what did he—what did he do, what—puzzle pieces, shifting, falling off a glass table—

And he feels his hands breaking skin—

“Jesus Christ,” Rhodey says, and he shifts around and moves over to Tony’s left side, pushing up his sleeve. Tony isn’t even sure where the hell they are right now—he was deep inside, dark and dank and paralyzed in his own body—

“Jesus,” Rhodey says again, and Tony cranes his neck a bit and sees it, feels Rhodey running his finger over a little bump in his arm about the size of a nickel—

“Cut it out,” Tony says, closing his eyes again. “I’m serious, find a knife, cut it out, that’s—”

“Tony,” Pepper says, and she’s rubbing his knee—

“Pepper,” Rhodey says, in that warning tone he has, and the fact that he has to warn Tony’s wife not to touch him is just—

“Cut it out, Rhodey, I’m serious—”

“Alright, Jesus Christ, alright—” And he scrambles away—

“Sterilize it, Rhodey,” Pepper calls after him, looking at Tony again. Her face is streaked with worry, and she looks at him with wariness and pity and love all at the same time. “Tony, why didn’t you—you couldn’t say—”

“I was here but I wasn’t,” he breathes, and the cuffs are hurting his wrists, and everything is fucking hurting, and what did he do what did he do how the fuck long has it been. “Someone—someone got me, I let my guard down and someone—”

It was so easy. The guy used himself as a distraction, as bait, and then he—he did whatever the hell he did and then he was in Tony’s head—

“Okay, okay,” Rhodey says, rushing back around the corner again. “Close your eyes, Tony, if you are—Tony, goddamnit—”

Tony swallows hard, nodding and closing his eyes, and he winces, holding onto the pipe as Rhodey cuts into his skin. He does it fast, and Tony grits his teeth, and he feels Rhodey take the thing out and then he hears him stomping and stomping and stomping—

Feels like plates falling and crashing to the ground inside Tony’s skull.

He doesn’t get it all, but he gets flashes—the bomb under his hands, Rhodey confronting him, Peter—

Peter.

He remembers hitting him. Over and over, and is that the same hit or—how many times did he—

Peter hitting the wall, and Tony recoils, a tremor running through him, and what did he, what did—

“Where’s Peter?” he asks, looking back and forth at them. His arm is throbbing, everything hurts, he’s frail and sick and he’s probably gonna fucking puke but he doesn’t care. “Where’s Peter, where is he?”

They both just stare at him, and kind of look at each other, and Tony’s heart sinks.

“What, did I kill him?” he asks, his voice breaking. He grabs onto the bar he’s cuffed to, feeling like he needs to hold on. He’s terrified. “What, what? Where is he?”

“Tony, you were…” Rhodey starts, shaking his head. “You—the kid knew you were acting weird and I went to confront you and you knocked me out—and I guess—Jesus, I guess you were—are, I don’t goddamn know—being mind controlled, and you brought a bomb in here—we’re at the gala, for the new facility—and Peter sussed you out and you two got into it and he knocked you out and I guess—knocked this guy’s control on you loose enough—but he—he took the bomb and—he had webshooters and he—”

Tony closes his eyes, white noise eating into his vision, and he feels like he’s gonna pass out. “Is Peter dead?” he breathes, shaking.

“We’re trying to find him,” Pepper says, and she rubs Tony’s knee again. “Some people got footage, he tossed it into the air and he was blown back and now we can’t—Happy is out there looking, Sam and Natasha are looking, we’ve got emergency deployment teams looking—”

“Uncuff me, please,” Tony half-whispers, because his voice gets caught in his throat. “I need to help, I need to—I need to help look for him—”

“Tony, you’re—”

“He’s not in my head anymore,” Tony snaps, looking at Rhodey. He doesn’t know how the fuck he can prove that, but he can feel it now. It’s different, he’s—he feels ill, and weak, but he doesn’t feel trapped. He doesn’t feel like the ground is about to fall out from underneath him. “And you need to find someone to get that dipshit, he was supposed to be in jail, but right now, I’m—I’m in here alone, okay? I wanna help look for Peter, I want to—please let me, please. You can stay with me, but I need to—just—please. Please.”

Pepper and Rhodey exchange a look, and Tony keeps getting flashes—his fist connecting with Peter’s face, grabbing him and throwing him against the wall—and he shakes them off, swallowing hard. “Please,” he breathes.

Rhodey heaves a sigh. “Lemme get the key.”

Tony watches the footage from the quinjet while they scan over the city. He was ruthless, relentless, and he watches himself grab Peter by the throat, toss him every which way, hit him and hit him and hit him again. He made him bleed, over and over, he shot him and burned him up and dragged him to the ground, and Peter barely fought him. He actively avoided it, and got worse because of it. Tony keeps watching, and before long Clint is walking over and taking the phone from him.

“It wasn’t you,” he says, giving him a pointed look. “Alright? You know that. It wasn’t you.”

“Sure looked like me,” Tony says, getting up and walking back over to Friday’s main control panel. Peter wasn’t in a suit, so this is harder than normal.

“It wasn’t,” Clint says, sitting back in the pilot’s seat. And he doesn’t say much else about it, but Tony knows he knows firsthand what he’s going through, what this feels like. And it helps a little bit, but not much. The images are imprinted in his head.

He loves Peter. May trusts Tony with her nephew, her surrogate son, the person in her care, and it’s gotten to the point that it’s just a given that Peter is safe with Tony, that Tony’s always gonna help him and protect him. But now there’s this. Now there’s Tony punching him and hitting him and choking him and making him bleed, and he looks down at his hands and they shake.

Nobody else was hurt, he didn’t do anything else, but that’s because Peter took the bomb. He took that on himself, Tony’s mistake, Tony’s problem, and he put himself in danger to solve it and save everybody. And now they can’t find him.

Tony wavers back down into the closest seat.

“Stop beating yourself up,” Pepper says, walking out of the back compartment and sitting down next to him. “It wasn’t you. You’re a victim here too.”

“I hurt him, whether it was…me in charge or not,” Tony says, his eyes straining with tears as he looks at her. “These hands hurt him. And I almost…blew up the goddamn gala, if it wasn’t for him noticing—”

“I didn’t notice,” she says. “I should have—Rhodey should have—”

“You guys are busy,” Tony says, looking at the screen again. He’s got a social media tracker up too, and so many people are talking about what happened. Peter didn’t have a mask on, but thankfully, there’s no good footage of his face.

Everyone is calling him a hero. Because that’s exactly what he is, what he always has been.

“You need people to look out for you too,” Pepper says, running her hand through his hair. “We should have done better, but Peter’s got that little…alert system in his brain, and he’s intuitive, and he knows you. He loves you, he worries.”

Tony shakes his head, looking down at his hands again. He knows May is with Happy, searching, and he can’t even imagine how she feels right now. He feels fucking sick.

“You need someone to check you out too,” Pepper says, still touching him gently, and he doesn’t deserve that either. “Probably have a concussion.”

“Not til we find him,” Tony croaks. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Tony,” she says, but he shakes his head. He’s supposed to be better than this. They defeated a fucking Titan, they defied death and time and saved the goddamn world. And he lets a petty thief mind control him? Take away his agency? Hit Rhodey, threaten an event with innocent people, hurt Peter, badly, put him in harm’s way—

“Tony,” Clint says. “I think we got something.”

Peter needs to get up.

He’s been laying here for forty five years he’s an old man now—

He needs to get back he needs to fix Tony so nothing else happens he needs to protect him and get that guy that did this it must have been that guy that’s when it started and he doesn’t know how he did it but he mind controlled him somehow—

Peter coughs, twisting onto his side, and he spits out some blood, and a tooth, and he hopes it’s his wisdom tooth that’s been bothering him the top right one—

He got exploded, that’s right—

And his face hurts, and where the repulsor got him is burning and he feels like he’s wheezing and he falls back on his back again and he feels like he’s on fire a little bit and is his left eye closed or welded closed or gone forever and his leg—twisted—

And just a second just a second—

Black again, in a wonder wheel of spiraling stars—

“Hey, hey. Pete.”

He opens his eyes. Tony is there, cupping his face in his hands, and Peter smiles a little bit, dizzy.

“Is it you?” he asks, or thinks he asks. He can’t hear his own voice. Tony sounded muffled too, but he nods at him.

“It’s me,” he says. He looks so sad. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Peter closes his eyes again, because they’re so heavy. “It’s okay,” he says, and he feels like he’s being lifted up, and he doesn’t remember anything else after—

He opens his eyes. He feels like he’s moving, and he recognizes the tiny medical room in the quinjet. Tony is right next to him, and he stands up when he sees Peter’s awake, and is Peter awake? He feels…crazy, he feels…

“Tony,” he says, and he tries to sit up. “Is it you? Is it you? Are you—”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Tony says, stepping closer. He still sounds muffled, and faraway, and so does everything else. But he looks like himself. He’s not off anymore. “I’m not gonna hurt you again. Jesus, Pete, I’m so sorry—”

Peter shakes his head, blinking at him. “You didn’t, you—it wasn’t you, you didn’t—”

“I did, technically,” Tony says, and he just stands there and he’s got tears in his eyes and he isn’t really looking at him. He’s close, but he’s keeping his distance. “We’re on our way back, to the compound, May and everybody else is meeting us there—you, uh, you saved everybody, you’re burned in a couple places from the blast and my—goddamn repulsor, but Helen’s gonna—when we get back, she’s going to—”

He sighs, stops talking and rests his elbows on the bar of the bed, and hangs his head, like he’s ashamed. Peter hasn’t ever really seen him like this, and his brain still feels like it’s swiss cheese but he sits up a little bit more. He covers Tony’s hands with his own and squeezes them, and tries not to think about how much everything hurts.

“You wouldn’t be mad at me if this was opposite,” Peter says, staring at the top of his head. “You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t blame me at all and I don’t blame you either so. So. Just don’t even, I mean. Just don’t.”

“You can’t even talk straight,” Tony says, still not looking up.

“That’s most of the time,” Peter says, still holding onto his hands.

Tony sighs. “I put you in danger and I hurt you. I watched the footage, it was a fucking nightmare, and you let me keep hitting you because you know how strong you are and you didn’t want to hurt me so you just let me keep hurting you—”

“It wasn’t you,” Peter says, trying to be assertive, and he’s so tired, he’s so, so tired. He leans forward, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder, and he closes his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault. It isn’t. So stop. I know you won’t and you’re gonna live in this and punish yourself forever but like, don’t. Don’t do that.” He sighs, leaning into him. “Did you guys get the bad guy—”

“Sounded like it,” Tony says, and he’s still hanging his head, and Peter sighs. “I think so. I gotta check in with Rhodey again. Make sure nobody else got mind controlled.”

“So it all worked out,” Peter says.

“You nearly getting exploded is not it all working out.”

“I didn’t get exploded I only got slightly singed and nobody else got exploded and you are no longer mind controlled so. Win to me.”

Tony sighs again, and he gently, very gently, wraps his arms around Peter and hugs him. “I’m gonna jump off a fucking roof,” he says. “I never wanna hurt you. Never. I can barely remember it, I’ve got flashes—”

“Don’t try,” Peter says, reaching up and holding onto his arm.

“—but I saw the footage—”

“Forget it,” Peter says. “Erase it.”

Tony shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have ever—allowed it to happen in the first place, and I still don’t know how the hell it did, and I’ve just got—a lot of work to do, to make sure it doesn’t happen again. I can’t let myself get taken like that, used like a fucking goon against people I love. Jesus Christ. You’re hurt because of me.”

“Nope,” Peter says, because he doesn’t have the brain power to try and fight him harder, even though he knows it’s gonna be a guilt battle probably for the rest of their lives.

“Pete,” Tony says, still holding onto him.

“Nope,” Peter says again, and he drifts. Spidey sense is dormant. He’s a piece of raw meat but he’s—safe.

And Tony isn’t there when Peter wakes up again, back at the compound. May is there, and after she hugs him and kisses him about a hundred times, she breaks out the Tupperware, containing all the little appetizers from the gala that never was.

And Tony stays missing in action the next couple days, even though everyone else comes by to see how Peter is doing. Rhodey implies that Tony paid a special visit to the asshole that did this, but he doesn’t go into detail on what the encounter entailed. The guy did have hidden powers, clearly, and Doctor Strange even gets involved trying to figure out how he did it, what exactly that thing was that they pulled out of Tony’s arm.

But three days later and Peter still hasn’t seen him again.

“Maybe he’s busy,” Ned says, as he and Peter and MJ walk up and down the hallways. Peter broke his ankle, somewhere in all the insanity, and pulled a muscle in his calf. He’s been trying to walk around a lot during the day, even though he’s still on bed rest.

“He’s not busy,” Peter says. “He’s avoiding me.”

“Well, he beat the shit out of you, and he feels bad,” MJ says.

Peter sighs.

“I’d feel bad too,” MJ says, “even if I was mind controlled. It still sucks, I mean, when I saw him his knuckles were still all bruised. Just a constant reminder of what someone made him do.”

“You saw him?” Peter asks, looking at her.

She looks a little bit like she wants to take a back, but she nods. “Yeah, uh, earlier. When I got here, when I was talking to Pepper.”

“Did you talk to him?” Peter asks, as they turn around at the end of the hall. He’s trying to sound nonchalant and failing spectacularly.

“Not really,” MJ says, taking Peter’s hand. “He wouldn’t really even look at me, I can tell he—he’s just really guilty. He feels really bad.”

“Peter doesn’t want him to feel bad,” Ned says.

“Yeah, but once you feel bad, you feel bad,” MJ says, “it’s not like it magically goes away because someone says that it should.”

“Maybe we can magic him,” Ned says. “Doctor Strange, you know. He could do that.”

“Yeah, let’s just hack into his mind again,” MJ says, widening her eyes at him. “I’m sure that’s the right course of action.”

Peter sighs again. “I don’t know what to do,” he says. “He could do this forever. And ever and ever.”

“Well, definitely as long as you’re all bruised up,” MJ says, reaching over with her free hand and brushing her thumb over Peter’s cheek.

And two more days go by without seeing Tony, and it’s almost time for Peter and May to head back to their apartment, even though May said they could stay at the compound as long as he wanted to.

And Peter decides to do something.

“Friday is he still there?” Peter asks, making his way down to the workshop.

“Yes, Peter,” Friday says, in Peter’s ear.

“And you’re not lying to me?” Peter asks, rushing down the stairs, quick as he can with a bum leg.

“No, Peter,” Friday says. “I am not permitted to lie to you.”

Peter smiles to himself. He knows he still doesn’t look wonderful, but he looks a lot better than he did, and either way he can’t take this anymore. And he gets down to the workshop in what feels like record time and he scans in without trying to make a lot of noise, and when he opens the door he sees Tony at the back door as if he’s trying to escape.

“Stop!” Peter yells, his hands up. “Stop! Don’t leave!”

Tony whips around, his eyebrows furrowed. “Kid?” he says, already walking back over in his direction. “Are you okay?”

“No!” Peter says, a little more forcefully than he intended to.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks, gently, weaving around the work stations and reaching his side.

“You’re ignoring me!” Peter says, and he sounds like a small, stupid child, but he doesn’t do anything to change that. “And I don’t like it.”

Tony’s face falls, and he nods, glancing away from him. “I’m not…ignoring you, I just—I felt like—”

“I know you feel bad,” Peter says, sucking in a big breath. “And I know me telling you not to feel bad doesn’t change the fact that you feel bad, but I seriously don’t want you to feel bad, because now this whole like—keeping yourself separate and out of my sight thing feels like you’re punishing me.”

“I’m not,” Tony says, fast. “I was just—”

“You don’t need to punish yourself either—”

“I wasn’t really…exactly…c’mere, come sit down—”

“I’m okay,” Peter says.

“I know, I know, I wanna sit,” Tony says, taking Peter’s arm and tugging him over to the closest workstation with two rolling chairs. They sit down, and they both sigh, and Tony keeps talking. “I was just, uh—I sent out messages to everyone involved at the gala explaining things a little bit, and I got everything rescheduled on my own, and I, uh—met up with the asshole at Riker’s and attacked him and nearly got arrested myself—”

Peter leans on the workstation, running his hands over his face. He can imagine that, and he doesn’t like it.

“—and I’ve been building some new security protocols, and working on another nano suit for you that’s a lot like my watch gauntlet that can—stay on your person, read your heart rate, come to you if you need it—but I’m trying to make sure it only comes in the correct instance, and not if you like, see a cute dog—”

Peter laughs a little bit, shaking his head at him.

Tony smiles softly. “But I’ve been doing all that, along with maybe, slightly punishing myself by—staying out of your way—”

“You’re not in my way,” Peter says, feeling a little bit too emotional, maybe. “You’re not. You never have been. Never will be.”

“You don’t know that—”

“Tony—”

“What I mean is…old man, long shadow, you know, I’ve been there—”

“You’re not your dad,” Peter says, shaking his head at him. “You’re a good—you’re a good father figure, you’re a…good father.”

Tony brightens up a little bit, and his nod almost looks like a question. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “No matter what.”

Tony nods again, more solidly this time. “One more thing—”

“No more saying sorry,” Peter says, shaking his head. “You told me I can never say sorry again, well now, you can’t either so, how about—”

“Thank you,” Tony says, and Peter stops talking. “Thank you for—realizing that something was wrong, thank you for figuring it out, thank you for knocking me on my ass when I wasn’t me, thank you for—saving everybody and me too, in the process. Thank you, Pete, really. Thank you.”

Peter’s throat goes tight, and there are tears in his eyes, and he nods again. “You’re welcome,” he says, holding his chin high. “Any time.”

“And I’m sorry,” Tony says, fast, rolling forward and wrapping him up in a big hug. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Last time, I’m sorry. Okay I’m done. I’m so sorry. Okay I’m actually done.”

Peter snorts, hugging him too, burying his face in his shoulder. “No more mind control,” he says, letting the apologies drift into the air unanswered.

“Oh no, never again,” Tony says, rubbing Peter’s back. “And I figure, when you’re—when you’re tip top again, we can get into the ring, and I’ll feel better if you get a few good shots in, and I’ll forget about the whole thing if you break my nose—”

“No,” Peter says, shaking his head and still holding onto him. “I’m not doing that.”

“Too afraid to box an old man, huh?”

“My old man, maybe,” Peter says, feeling particularly sentimental.

And Tony laughs, in a rush of breath, and holds him reverently for a second. He pulls back, and pats Peter’s cheek. “We’ll see,” he says. “Might get Rhodey in there too, to make it fair—”

“He’ll probably take you up on that,” Peter says, getting to his feet. “Okay, lemme see the suit, remember I get last say in design decisions—”

“Oh, you aren’t going for bright yellow?” Tony asks, resting his hand on Peter’s shoulder as they head over to the main workstation. “You don’t like that?”

“Better than that time you tried to integrate green and made me look like a Christmas tree,” Peter says, grinning at him.

“Hey,” Tony says, typing in a few commands and bringing up the specs. “I thought that was very festive.”

And they start working, and Peter remembers feeling safe, before, when they were on the quinjet and his brain was still scrambled. But he feels like they’re on the other side of it now, for real.

Safe. Really, truly safe.

#irondad #iron dad #peter parker #tony stark #spider-man #iron man #works by iron spider #irondad fic #iron dad fic #marvel fic

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helluva-simper · 7 months

Text

Meeting up

It was late at night. Like always Aizawa was finally getting off his nightshift. He sluggishly walks through the door swiftly taking off his scarf, goggles, and shoes.

Feeling no need to turn on the light since his eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, he walked to the kitchen that wasn’t that far from the door. He opens one of the cabinets. Grabbing a jelly packet, he hears some rustling in his room. Then some glass breaking

“Jesus Christ, man!” He walks to the bedroom seeing the person’s silhouette. “Oh, it’s you again.” Aizawa said, continuing to drink his jelly packet while leaning on the bedroom door frame.

“Of course it’s me! I’ve been coming here for weeks now!” the person said, walking into the light. They take off the burglar mask revealing their face. Their hair was a little ruffled up but it was just as cute as their angered expression. They had an all black jumpsuit to blend into the darkness.

“It’s already enough work just to get to your window but now you're locking your window!” They yell putting their finger in his face. I simply push their finger away with a smirk. “If you can get into my house no problem then anyone can do it. “ He walks to the trash can to throw his empty packet away.

“You act as if I can walk in front of your apartment complex with the guard that stands outside and be like, “hey, I know I’m the most wanted thief on this side of Japan but do you mind if I pay a visit to Eraserhead? Don’t worry, we’re good buddies!”.” Aizawa laughs.

“One: I’m quite offended that I got lowered to ‘good buddy’.” Shota said, lifting their chin. “With that stunt you pulled, serves you right.” He chuckles, pulling you into a kiss. His lips were cold and dry showing how long he has been in the cold. Slowly, slides his hand up your shirt.

They quickly push his hands away. Worried that he did something wrong he asked, “Did… did I touch you wrong… hurt you?” Even though you and him have been ‘meeting up’ for sometime now this is all still kinda new. He was used to being the lone wolf, only doing what was necessary for him.

“Shota, your hands are as cold as ice.” They say putting their hands in his.

“Oh, well it can’t be that cold knowing how cold your heart is.” Aizawa teases as they roll their eyes. “Maybe they’ll warm up against you~.”

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soraviie · 1 year

Text

maniac.oneshot

━ type: yoongi x f! reader ━ masterlist ━ word count: 3k

━ about: He comes here to look for medicine. Here in this scornful embrace of yours.

━ c/w: violence, blood, patching someone up, stitches, needles , absolutely unhinged, obsessive Yoongi + (sort of) morally grey reader; she doesn't like him much

━ leave a comment and show this fic some love otherwise I'll steal your food. If you like my work and want to tip, here's my ko-fi. Thank you so much if you do!

There’s a quiet rapping at the window pane that doesn't come as a surprise. It’s well dark outside, some ungodly minute after three in the morning. You know who it is.

You hope he leaves.

You hope he just disappears and that once he does breathing will become a bit easier.

But since it is him, you should have known that such a simple, soft thing as silence wouldn’t be enough of a deterrent.

Hearing the unsubtle “shit!” and a loud, body like thud crashing against the blue glazed tiles of your god-awful kitchen, you flinch beneath the covers, weighing the option of just ignoring yet another visit of his. Two years of his indulged insanity, of his rotting hands infecting everything he brushed past.

Two years of him rotting you whole.

And who wouldn't be sick of that? Day and night going around and around, and around?

But if you knew Yoongi at all, you also knew the fact he’d make your night a living hell. He’d all but drag you out of this bed by your ankles if that's what it'd take to get your attention.

So who was this man — Min Yoongi?

With a sigh and eye roll, you push the twin duvets off, yearning for their warmth in the otherwise chilly air.

Min Yoongi was a thief, a killer, always choosing violence, face so pretty with heart so hard you'd think he was stone-carved, and, unfailingly, unflinchingly —

You pad towards the kitchen door finding him laughing deliriously on the tiled floor, blood spilling all over his beaten mouth.

— insane.

“Why did you fix your window?” he whines in a sort of tone of voice that should not be admissible to anyone within his line of…work. But Min Yoongi could get away with it because he could get away with anything. Murder. Mayhem. His vile, repulsive nature.

“I broke it so perfectly. Could slip in an’ out. Like butter.”

“Maybe that’s why I fixed it,” dryly, you respond, crossing your arms around the chest. Thankfully, the fluffy bathrobe is covering enough.

“And by the end of the night you’ll have two fucked up windows,” he says, throwing a thumb back at the damage. The hinges are completely broken, letting in torrents of frigid air. “Is that so much better?”

“What the fuck you want?”

“Jesus, can’t a man get some lovin’ anymore round these parts?” he rolls his eyes, gliding a tongue over his battered lips. “Need you to work your magic, darling.”

“Get your magic at the corner,” you throw your head in the general direction of the main street, staring derisively as he once again makes himself at home in your kitchen. Rifling through cupboards and your fridge like he owns it. In his mind he does. He owns this apartment, someday he’ll own the southside gang and, more importantly, he owns you. Not in some distant, probable future, no. Here. Now.

At least in the sick, fucked up world of his.

“Why don’t you ever have anythin’ good in?” he pokes his head into the fridge, flicking a finger at the aged milk bag only to let the doors fall shut with a dragged out sigh of discontent. As you continue to stand, hovering disinterestedly in the doorway, his eyes find yours, lighting up in childish, deeply unsettling amusement.

“You jealous?”

“If someone would shoot you in the fucking head right now, I’d go to a club.”

“You like clubs that much?”

“Fucking hate them.”

Had anyone in this entire side of the city that's dying like an infected roadkill would see you badmouthing Min Yoongi, The Min Yoongi who stabbed a guy with a pair of chopsticks and ate with them not an hour later, they’d revere you as some kind of insanely hardened criminal but you knew something they did not. Oh, how he enjoyed you being harsh towards him. It drove him buck wild. He got off to your contempt and as long as he did, you were safe. He comes here to look for medicine. Here in this scornful embrace of yours as paradoxical as it sounds. In these four, discrete walls, an act of reckless bravery was actually nothing but sheer cowardice. You knew it and Yoongi knew it, hence why every time he broke into your apartment, over and over, and over, and over again, it always felt like coming home.

Or so he said.

The soles of his shoes scuff against the floor as he comes to stand before you, your nose immediately itching with the acrid smell of a cigarette smoke. He always had some accursed cheap brand that got everywhere and soaked up into fabrics like liquid. Words didn't describe how much you hated it.

“Come on,” he goads you on, leaning down to your eye level with a wicked grin. “Isn’t it a doctor's duty to treat everyone in need? Your boy's very much in need,” smugly, he spreads his arms, spinning around so you can inspect the damage. Your tongue just burns to scorn that he can’t be fixed, he can’t be treated with anything else other than death but even you wouldn’t go that far.

Tonight’s damage, however, did go quite over the lines. His face is busted, there’s a faint limp in the already off way he moves and the back of his jacket has a long slash akin that of a carving knife. Even if it didn’t cut up his spine, there’s no way the flesh underneath it laid unharmed.

“Didn’t you give that hypocritic oath?”

“It’s hippocratic,” sharply, you correct but naturally it only broadens the curve of Yoongi's smile. “And veterinarians don’t give those, you dumb shit!"

Almost instinctively, his head tips backwards. Shuddering, he groans with a deep sigh of content underneath the pale blue lights of your home.

"Fuck, how I like that temper of yours."

"I should just kill you."

But the threat is measly and Yoongi only chuckles hearing it. Pulling a chair out, he comes to sit down upon it, feigning some kind of obedience as he gazes up at you, expectantly. He’s waiting for you to fix him, for you to “kiss it all better” as he put it. As if the skin on your hands didn’t burn just by grazing him.

“Oh, come on,” he tugs at the end of your bathrobe belt, nimble fingers working their way up to the knot. You slap them away. “You lick my wounds, I lick yours.”

“I don’t have any wounds,” you grumble but for some unknown reason you give in, making the move to retrieve your first aid kit. He used it so much, by now you had to replace it thrice.

You didn’t have to, a quiet voice at the far reaches of your skull interject. You could have just run out and let it be the end of that.

“Yeah, sure,” you hear him snort under the breath.

But since you hate that voice, you don’t listen to it and mindlessly push the whole of blame onto him. He wouldn’t just shove off if you told him you had no tools. He’d just bring his own. The man did systematically break down the security on your bedroom window for the sole reason of annoying you in the middle of the night. Yoongi doesn't just leave. He’s like a ghost that way, endlessly haunting you on.

By now the routine is somewhat rehearsed, he moves his head where he must, doesn’t so much as wince when the peroxide hits the mangled flesh. As he peels of his shirt, spouting some bullshit about you being excited that ends in a sharp hiss as you clean it, your suspicions are proven correct. There is a gash all over his back. Not so deep that you couldn’t mend it but enough to leave a crusted up trail behind. You clean it nicely and add a generous amount of medical tape. Normally you’d tell someone to take it easy and not strain the place of injury but it’s Yoongi and in less than fifteen hours, he’ll be either going on another raid with his cronies or dunking some poor soul underneath the waterline. Such was his nature.

You tip his head to face the ugly light of the overhead lamp, frowning as you do. Instead of the wide, even…innocent looking eyes Yoongi gives you, you focus on the wound on the side of his head.

“A bat?” you hum and he blinks, appearing to only now remember all about it.

“Oh, yeah, a lowlife piece of shit swung at me. Real nasty.”

He laughs.

You don’t see what’s funny about that.

“It’ll need stitches,” you draw a weary sigh. Stitches were gross. No matter how many times you applied them, human or animal, there was something inherently queasy about the way a skin had to be pierced and woven together like a fleshy fabric.

“I have some vodka...?”

Already half expecting some flippant, inane quip about you wanting to get him drunk and take advantage of his poor soul, because he would be the type to make a joke like that, you’re startled to feel both of his arms wrap around your waist, cheek coming to rub against your stomach.

“Nah, this will get me through plenty.”

If he’d be a cat, he’d be purring.

You mouth your “what the fuck”, largely for a peace of mind and just do what you must, swallowing down the rising bile as the wound begins bleeding the second the needle touches the raw flesh. His arms embrace you like a vice but for all intents and purposes, he’s even smiling as you hurt him.

What a broken man he was.

“There,” some forty minutes later you slam the aid kit onto the rickety table. “You’re all better. Leave.”

“Just tossing a guy out on the street,” he begins to complain loudly and frightfully, you shush him. If the neighbours hear his voice flowing unmistakably from the confines of your apartment, they’ll oust you.

But did it really matter that much anymore?

With a devious sparkle in the eye, he tosses a glimpse towards you and not a second later, you feel a wet tongue glide over your palm.

Hastily, you pull it away.

“That’s fucking disgusting!”

“You lick mine, I lick yours,” his grin spreads in an open mouthed expression. You’d seen it once before. Only, of course, he’d slammed some dude’s head against the table then. Blood and teeth had spilt that night and only by luck did the noodles that you’d been eating just seconds prior didn’t spill back from your guts. After finishing beating the guy halfway to death, he’d found you shrinking on the dirty ground of the local uncle’s open air bistro.

“Ey, why you kneeling in the dirt for?” he cooed with such a thoroughly pleasant tone as blood pooled underneath his feet that even to this day you couldn’t help but shiver. “You’re dirtying your dress, pretty!”

He yanked you roughly up by the shoulders, fingers digging so deep they left bruises though you hadn’t felt it at the time. Your gaze sat in horrified fixation upon the dying man who whimpered softly by the broken tables. With some muted curiosity, the psychopath followed your stare.

“Ah, that shithead?” he crooned. “Are you going to be a hero and call an ambulance to help him?”

You didn’t answer, both not being able to as your breath stuttered so hard you feared you’d pass out any second and also assuming the question was rhetorical.

“You deaf or something?” he shook you rudely. “Come on, lucky, speak! Roll over!”

“I-I will,” at last you struggled out and his eyebrows inched a place higher.

“He’s a drug dealer, you know,” Yoongi's voice barely reached your ears but even so you were taken aback by its smoothness. It was almost more sickening than if he just had one of the terribly stereotypical gangster. “Has killed dozens. And you don’t want to let him die?”

“It-it’s n-not about him,” you panted, nerves going into haywire the longer the man kept lying unconscious. He will die. And soon if nothing changed. “I just don’t want to feel guilty.”

For a second Yoongi’s eyes had widened. He genuinely had not expected such an answer from you.

A moral, upright person would answer that every life was precious. That you were not a judge of whether he should live or die but the truth was far more brutal — you didn’t care about him.

You cared about yourself.

And this facade of goodness.

He tipped his head back and roared into a peel of loud laughter that startled you so horridly, you threw yourself backwards against the red bistro desk, knocking it over in the process.

“You’re a funny one,” still gasping for breath, he reached into the pocket of his blue jacket and proceeded to put a bright tangerine in your hands. Once he forcefully pried them open, that is. “Let’s see each other around, a’ight?”

Well, anyways that man did in fact live. Disfiguredly but live he did. The tangerine sat bright and sweet, shone by the dual colours of the disinterested police. Naturally there was no investigations, the witnesses mysteriously never came forth and while the uncle was displeased with his business being splattered with blood, even he didn't protest much. In the end, when in Rome do what Romans do. Conceal the murder attempt. Don't be a hero.

The tangerine had sat on your bedside table for a week, mocking you in echoes of his roughened laughter. You threw it away after that.

And word by word, it all unfolded to this. To Min Yoongi you were made of the same bone he was and you needed but a scratch. Like a lottery ticket, he’d scratch at you and you’d stop pretending you didn’t fit in this carousel of violence and greed.

And maybe he was right. Maybe with the right scratch you would fold. But a woman has the same ability to forge her path ahead as anyone else and only you decide to choose who you are even if it was an utter lie.

You rouse from your thought and Yoongi’s expression is oddly still. In moments such as these you truly doubted he was genuinely, clinically insane. In moments like these you suspected there was calculation in the madness but even if there was, no point caring about it now.

Min Yoongi was about to be exorcised.

He fishes a tangerine out of the pocket and with a deep rumble in the voice offers it to you.

"Want one?"

"I'm good."

Abruptly, Yoongi stretches, most likely immediately ripping at the wound on his back and joyfully chirps. The tangerine he chucks behind the shoulder where it carelessly rolls towards the corner of the table.

“I’m beat and your bed is so nice. I’ll stay here for a night.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Oh, calm down,” he brushes off, pushing the chair back. You liked to keep your things neat as long as he was here, Yoongi made sure to respect that. You didn’t quite know how to feel about that.

“I’ll keep all the parts to my fine self. Even if I promise you’d see God if only you let me,” he winks, letting his tongue stick out. You don’t grace him with a response whilst a sheen of sweat builds at the back of your neck.

“No, really, you’re not staying here.”

As a desperate prevention measure, you place yourself firmly between Yoongi and the rest of the apartment. His eyebrows knit together while the mouth loops in a confused smirk.

“What? You can’t control yourself that hard?”

As you fail to reply, his amusement slips.

“Is there someone in your bed?” he sneers. “I’ll kill them. Don’t give a shit who they are.”

Yoongi pushes past you but there is no one either in your bed nor in your apartment. Nothing but piles upon piles of stained, brown boxes.

He comes to a sudden halt, literally stuck mid-step as his gaze flits over the impersonal appearance of your home, cheek growing increasingly terrifying.

“You’re moving,” at last, he mumbles in a numb, impersonal tone, slowly turning around. Pinned like a bug underneath a microscope, you begin to shuffle anxiously from one foot to another.

“I accepted a job offer. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

His eyes narrow dangerously.

“Tomorrow,” Yoongi echoes, voice falling terribly low. “And you didn’t think to inform me?”

You swallow and muster up the splatter of nerves still left in your body.

“Why should I?”

“Do you still have that dream of a proper clinic?” he suddenly spits. “Of all the fucking white coats and nice puppies?”

“So what if I do?” spitefully, you snap back. “Am I not allowed? Does the great Min Yoongi not allow me to dream?”

The palms previously resting by his thighs curl into fists and he gasps a deep, trembling inhale, clearly struggling to contain his explosive anger.

“In a month’s time I’ll take over the gang,” he growls, lip's twitching in annoyance. “I’ll kill that fucking old bastard with my bare hands and rule this part of the city.”

“I don’t see how that's rel—”

“I’ll give you your fucking clinic.”

Your mouth runs dry but inspecting him from head to toe you don’t find a hint of amusement on his face. The darks of his eyes almost appear…earnest. If only you would believe them.

“We’ll make it all proper, put up bunch of smiling signs and shit,” he continues on, growing only more confident with each word. “And if no one comes, there’s plenty of dogs in the gang. Jungkook alone has like 500. You can doctor them all day long.”

A long drag of silence washes over you when he stops talking and though it takes you a while you do speak and with pride, you can vouch that your voice does not shake.

“I don’t want that.”

“Fucking SHIT!” he curses sharply, taking a lunging step towards you. His teeth are gritted and his gaze is insane but the eyes…his eyes are wet.

“Are you that fucking bolstered up your fucking moral high horse? Are you that obsessed with accepting broken things that search you for a cure?!”

“I accepted you, didn’t I?”

It’s almost funny…well, no, it’s not funny at all. You’ve seen all sides of him. Min Yoongi the thief, the killer, the psychopath but never just Min Yoongi — a man. A man with a heart, a man with feelings other than hate and twisted carnal pleasure at the suffering of others. You saw it, just now in the fleeting point between one second and the next, you saw him, bare and devastated like a kitten out in the cold and then it’s gone and you’re fairly sure that because of you that part won't ever appear again

“I’m sick of men like you, no, men in general telling me what I can or cannot do,” evenly, you conclude your train of thought but it’s unclear whether Yoongi hears it at all. Both his gaze and face are blank and the fists have uncurled, his arms laying listlessly by the side. With one clean punch, you knocked the fight out of him.

No pride comes because of it.

“I’ll choose who I am and where I go and you’ll have no say in it.”

He stands utterly silent before you, the shaggy black hair falling down like a curtain — obscuring his eyes. That stupid flowery shirt flows in the slight breeze he’d created by breaking your kitchen window.

Then he smiles.

It’s empty.

And you shudder.

“You know, darling," he coos, lips forming a deceptive pout. There's not a trace of warmth on his face. "You should never show your pretty face back here ever again.”

The tone is the same as it had when you first met him on that dreadful night. Pleasant.

He stalks past you with languid, considerate steps and opens the busted window like he’s done dozens of times before, climbing over the ledge. Your heart is in your throat and only now you grasp how fast it’s racing.

He’s almost gone but because it’s him, Yoongi makes sure you hear it before he drops down in the otherwise empty dark. The faint yellow light of the streetlamps outside etch long, menacing shadows upon his face but even so you think that he’s grieving somewhere underneath his own facade.

“Though if we meet outside...I ain't making any promises.”

tagging: @pinkcherrybombs; @devilsbooksworld; @btsiguess-kpop; @belladaises; @halesandy; @seok-jinnies; @themochiverse; @cuteipat; @ratherbefangirling; @manchuria; @chimchimmarie; @smalliechelle; @koostarcandy; @flitzerj; @royallyjjk; @dreamamubarak; @anti-social-mochi267; @jung-nika-hoseok; @silverliningsandstorms; @ahewlett

#yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi x y/n #yoongi angst #bts angst #yoongi oneshot #bts oneshot #yoongi haegeum au #yoongi drabble #bts drabble

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bestmusicalworldcup · 6 months

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2024 Best Musical World Cup Alphabetized List

Listed below is the 128 musicals that have qualified for the 2024 Best Musical World Cup Bracket.

& Juliet 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee 35MM: A Musical Exhibition A Chorus Line A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder A Little Night Music A Strange Loop American Idiot Amélie Anastasia Annie Annie Get Your Gun Assassins Avenue Q Bare: A Pop Opera Beauty and the Beast Beetlejuice Billy Elliot the Musical Bonnie and Clyde Bring it On Cabaret Camelot Carrie Cats Chess Chicago Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Come From Away Company Death Note: The Musical Dreamgirls Elisabeth Evita Falsettos Fiddler on the Roof Firebringer Frankenstein: A New Musical Fun Home Funny Girl Ghost Quartet Godspell Grease Guys and Dolls Hadestown Hair Hairspray Hamilton Heathers Hedwig and the Angry Inch Hello, Dolly! Holy Musical B@man! How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying In The Heights Into the Woods Jekyll and Hyde Jesus Christ Superstar Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat Kinky Boots La Cage aux Folles Legally Blonde Les Misérables Little Shop of Horrors Little Women Man of La Mancha Mary Poppins Matilda Mean Girls Merrily We Roll Along Monty Python's Spamalot Moulin Rouge My Fair Lady Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 Nerdy Prudes Must Die Newsies Next to Normal Oliver Once Once on this Island Parade Pippin Ragtime Rebecca Rent Ride the Cyclone School of Rock Seussical Shrek the Musical Singin' in the Rain Six Something Rotten Spies Are Forever SpongeBob SquarePants: The Broadway Musical Spring Awakening Starlight Express Starry Starship Sunday in the Park with George Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street Sweet Charity Tanz der Vampire / Dance of the Vampires The Addams Family The Book of Mormon The Color Purple The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals The Hunchback of Notre Dame The King and I The Last Five Years The Lightning Thief The Lion King The Music Man The Phantom of the Opera The Prince of Egypt The Producers The Rocky Horror Show The Secret Garden The Sound of Music The Trail to Oregon! The Wiz The Wizard of Oz (1987) Tick Tick Boom Tuck Everlasting Twisted: The Untold Story of A Royal Vizier Urinetown Waitress West Side Story Wicked You're A Good Man Charlie Brown

#best musical world cup #2024 best musical world cup

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lassieposting · 2 years

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Y'all ever think about how Young!Vesemir would still have to take contracts to provide for the Kaer Morons

Give me little Witchers who are left alone in a cramped room above a tavern for days at a time, told to sit tight and keep quiet and not draw attention because they're surrounded by humans and he won't be there to protect them

Little Witchers teaming up to look after Vesemir when he comes back from a hunt injured and exhausted. Double-mutated Geralt gets Stitching Duty, because he's got the steadiest hands. Eskel sits by Vesemir's head and distracts him during the unpleasant bits. Lambert gets sent out to make sure Vesemir's horse is stabled/untacked/fed/watered/groomed, and Remus goes running down to the innkeep to make sure Vesemir is fed and watered too.

Little Witchers who realise, as children inevitably will, that their parental figure is struggling, and try to ease the load. Geralt will venture out to forage for potion supplies while Ves is away. Eskel learns to charm free meals out of motherly innkeepers with compliments or the offer of helping out with chores. Lambert is a shameless little thief, but sometimes he'll filch something Ves can sell when their coin is low.

Vesemir who freezes in place the first time he comes back to a tavern, bloody and covered in mud, and is greeted by a gaggle of little Witchers running to hug his legs, because? He's their only stability. He's their protector, their provider, the only source of positive attention they really have. He's often sarcastic and short-tempered and sharp-tongued, but they miss him when he's gone, and they feel safer when he's back.

Vesemir who goes from oh no, absolutely not, every single one of you sleeps on his own bedroll to ugh fine whatever but the first one of you little bastards to kick me is getting yeeted when the pups all dogpile onto his bed after he's been away a while or someone has a night terror or he's hurt and they're worried about him.

Vesemir who shrugs off hateful comments aimed at him with a snarky comeback, but will absolutely throw the fuck down with anyone who starts in on his boys.

Little Eskel and Geralt - the oldest, the first to notice that Ves will go hungry so they can eat when funds are low or opt to replace Lambert's boots over replenishing his potion ingredients - who always ask to tag along on hunts. They can help! They'll be useful! They won't get in the way! They want to pull their weight!

Vesemir who actually realises that his own relationship with his father figure was more distant than he would've liked, as a boy. He idolised Deglan, wanted his approval. Deglan took a special interest in his training, served as his mentor for his first year on the Path, called him an affectionate nickname. But never hugged him. Never said he was proud of him. Always taught him that Real Men Need No One, young feller, now let's have none of that pansy nonsense.

Vesemir who sees the pups go from fearing him to missing him and trying to look out for him and seeking affection from him when they're scared or sad or pleased to see him, and makes a conscious decision that actually, Deglan, you were wrong. Yes, being cruel to be kind is often essential to Witcher training: it's a tough, dangerous, survival-of-the-fittest lifestyle. But real men hug their fucking kids

Just. Jesus I am like two years late to this party and absolutely consumed by single dad Ves feelings send help

#the witcher #netflix witcher #nightmare of the wolf #kaer morons #vesemir #dad!vesemir #just? how comfortable the wolves are with hugging each other and the deleted forehead touch scene with ves and geralt #this is a man who hugged his children

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musicaltheatregirlsandsongs · 1 year

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Hi! I finished up the list of songs that made it in, I still need to make the brackets, and will post those once they’re done! Complete list under the cut

A Little Fall of Rain - Les Misérables

A Little Priest - Sweeney Todd

A Musical - Something Rotten

Agony - Into the Woods

All you wanna do - Six

Another National Anthem - Assassins

Another Suitcase in Another Hall - Evita

Anthem - Chess

Any Kind of Dead Person - Ghost Quartet

Anything you can do (I can do better) - Annie Get Your Gun

Balaga - Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812

Being Alive - Company

Belle - Notre-Dame de Paris

Brain Dead - A New Brain

Burn - Hamilton

Cabaret - Cabaret

Carnaval del Barrio - In the Heights

Carrying the Banner - Newsies

Cell Block Tango - Chicago

Chant - Hadestown

Come what may - Moulin Rouge

Confrontation - Jekyll & Hyde

Costume Party - Come from Away

Dead Girl Walking - Heathers

Dead Mom - Beetlejuice

Defying Gravity - Wicked

Dentist! - Little Shop of Horrors

Die Schatten werden länger - Elisabeth

Don’t Rain On My Parade - Funny Girl

Drink with me - Les Misérables

Dust and Ashes - Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812

El tango de Roxanne - Moulin Rouge

Epic III - Hadestown

Epiphany - Sweeney Todd

Esmeralda - the Hunchback of Notre-Dame

Everybody’s got the right - Assassins

Feast or famine - Black Friday

Feed Me (Git It!) - Little Shop of Horrors

For Good - Wicked

Get Down - Six

Gethsemane (I only want to say) - Jesus Christ Superstar

Giants in the sky - Into the Woods

Glory - Pippin

Go Tonight - The Mad One’s

Good Kid - the lightning thief

Heaven on their Minds - Jesus Christ Superstar

Holding to the Ground - Falsettos

How Can Love Survive - The Sound of Music

I’m Alive - Next to Normal

I’m Breaking Down - Falsettos

Ich gehör nur mir - Elisabeth

If I had my time again - Groundhog Day

If I were a rich man - Fiddler on the Roof

Inevitable - The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals

Independently Owned - Shucked

Joseon Swag (조선수액) - Swag Age: Shout Out, Joseon! (스웨그에이지: 외쳐, 조선!)

Judas - Clown Bible

Juntton - Gambämark

King of New York - Newsies

Land of Yesterday - Anastasia

Le Monde est Stone - Starmania

Les Rois du Monde - Roméo et Juliette, de la haine à l’amour

Let it out - The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals

Letters - Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812

Lilacs - Preludes

Loser Geek Whatever - Be More Chill

Losing My Mind - Follies

Love will come and find me again - Bandstand

Madame Guillotine - The Scarlet Pimpernel

Michael in the Bathroom - Be More Chill

My Grand Plan - the lightning thief

No One Else - Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812

No One Remembers Achmed - Twisted

Noel’s Lament - Ride the Cyclone

Nonstop - Hamilton

On My Own - Les Misérables

On the Verge - Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown

Once and for all - Newsies

One Day More - Les Misérables

Place, je passe - Mozart l’opéra rock

Popular - Wicked

Prologue - Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812

Prologue: Tradition - Fiddler on the Roof

Quartet at the Ballet - Anastasia

Quiet - Matilda

Rebecca Reprise - Rebecca

Requiem - Dear Evan Hansen

Revolting Children - Matilda

Ring of Keys - Fun Home

Santa Fe - Newsies

Seize the Day - Newsies

Sick to Death of Alice-ness - Alice by Heart

Skid Row (Downtown) - Little Shop of Horrors

Solo - Octet

Starchild - Ghost Quartet

Sweet Transvestite - Rocky Horror Show

Talia - Ride the Cyclone

Telephone Wire - Fun Home

The Ballad of Jane Doe - Ride the Cyclone

The I Love You Song - The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee

The New World - Songs for a New World

The Opera - Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812

The Pitiful Children - Be More Chill

The Point of No Return - The Phantom of the Opera

The Song of Purple Summer - Spring Awakening

The Starry Night - Starry

The Thrill of First Love - Falsettos

The Torture Tango - Spies are Forever

The Turning of the Key - The Clockmaker’s Daughter

There! Right There! - Legally Blonde

This World Will Remember Us - Bonnie & Clyde

Time Warp - Rocky Horror Show

Tonight (Quintet) - West Side Story

Touch Me - Spring Awakening

Twisted - Twisted

Unlikely Lovers - Falsettos

Usher Pt. 3 - Ghost Quartet

Wait For Me - Hadestown

Wait For Me (Reprise) - Hadestown

Waving Through A Window - Dear Evan Hansen

Wenn ich tanzen will - Elisabeth

What would I do - Falsettos

When the going gets tough - Spongebob Squarepants

Wilkommen - Cabaret

You Gotta Die Sometime - Falsettos

Your Daddy’s Son - Ragtime

Your Fault/Last Midnight - Into the Woods

30/90 - Tick, Tick… Boom

#musicaltheatresongs #musical theater #great comet #falsettos #newsies #les mis #malloysicals #starkid #stephen sondheim #andrew lloyd webber #i included every song that got more than one submission #plus a few that got one submission to get a convenient number

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thiswasinevitableid · 1 month

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Greener Pastures (Vincent/Apollo)

Second place of the "First Rodeo" prompt poll was "Greener Pastures. For those who don't know, Apollo was introduced in this Amnesty Superhero AU. Thank you to @bellafarallones2 for playing in this space on Discord!

He was star of the rodeos but now they rob him blind

It took 18 years of Brahma Bulls and life on the line

To get this spread and decent herd but now he spends his time

Pulling night guard.

-Stan Rogers, Night Guard

“How many does that make?” Duck stands from where he’s examining the tire tracks at the southern end of the pasture.

“Seven.” Vincent removes his hat, fanning himself with it, “If they get anymore I’m in serious trouble. The car’s paid off but the house isn’t; I’ve already been to the bank once to explain the situation and they’re not happy.”

His neighbor stands, knees cracking worryingly for a man who’s only 32, “Cops got anythin’?”

“Nothing. I’m small potatoes, Duck, they don’t care about one old rancher losing his herd.” He sighs, “I’ve been on watch every night this week, but there’s too much distance to cover, and they know it. They got the last one out from under me.”

“You want me to help? Might go better with more eye’s on ‘em.”

Vincent considers it. He’s known Duck since he was 16, knows the offer of help isn’t given if it’s not meant.

But if this goes wrong, his friend doesn’t deserve to be hauled into jail with him.

“I’ll think about it. I have a plan tonight; if that doesn’t work, I might just take you up that offer.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent leaves a pile of windfalls from Duck’s orchard in the southwest corner of his property, and the cows can’t resist, munching happily as Vincent uses the scant oak trees for cover.

The black R.E.O pulls in silently, lights off. Dulce stomps her feet when the tires stop, but Vincent shushes her softly, petting a flank to keep her calm.

Two figures, the same size and height, leave the cab, ushering one of his heifers into the back of the truck. He can’t move just yet. He needs the proof.

As the truck begins pulling away, he pulls his Winchester from the scabbard on the saddle, takes aim, and fires four shots.

The cattle scatter, panicked, and Dulce nickers, alarmed. There’s two, responding bangs as two tires blow, sending the truck careening side to side before the driver loses control and plows headfirst into an empty drainage ditch. The passenger door flies open and one figure takes off across the road and into the neighboring field.

As Dulce trots over to the wreck, he hears another truck coming. The lights from Duck’s pick-up render the whole sight like a scene from a picture show, and the vehicle is barely stopped before the younger man is hopping out.

“Jesus fuckin christ, Vince, you scared the hell outta me. Thought you’d gone and got shot.”

“I’m alright. I worried the driver might not be. I didn’t aim anywhere near him, but I only got two tires with four shots.”

Duck hops down into the ditch as Vincent shines his flashlight on the door. When it opens, a figure is slumped over the wheel, and his heart climbs up his throat. Then the rustler stirs, groaning, and looks at Duck. His angular face is partially hidden by red glasses, and his pale hair is almost white.

“Hello.” The thief’s gaze moves from Duck to Vincent, then to the rifle, “Ah. I see. I understand my position is not an ideal one, and my bargaining power low, but I would appreciate it if you did not shoot me.”

Blood is running down his chin; he must have hit his nose in the crash. He looks more like a dazed deer than a threat.

“Get him into the house and get my cow back to the herd.” Vincent jerks his light in the direction the other man ran, “I’ll deal with that one.”

Duck nods and Vincent turns Dulce into the starlit night.

The second thief has made it a decent distance, but he’s only heading in the direction of more flat grass and so Vincent does him the courtesy of calling, “You may as well stop now. You won’t outrun me.”

He doesn’t stop, seems to try to sprint, only to fall a moment later. Vincent can hear him cursing the entire time he rides up.

When he dismounts, the man looks up, unafraid and sneering.

Vincent puts the barrel against his throat.

“The safety is on.”

“I know.” He sighs, “I’m not actually going to shoot you. But I need you to understand the gravity of the situation.”

The grin widens, “Coward.”

“Get up.” Vincent stands back so the man can climb to his feet. He seems unsteady on them, though it’s not until his hands are tied and Dulce is kneeling for him to get on that Vincent understands why; his ankle is sprained, though he’s been walking around on it without wincing this whole time.

The short walk back to the house is a litany of insults to his weight, age, intelligence, cleanliness, and parentage. Were it any other day, he’d be able to let it roll off him, remind himself that he’s not interested in the opinions of cruel people.

Were it any other day, he wouldn’t have spent the morning in the bank, staring down the loss of everything he nearly broke his back for.

The rustler thrashes and twists as Vincent helps him down, clearly trying to make a break for the ditch, or possibly for Vincent’s own truck. By the time they burst through the front door, he’s holding the boy by the scruff.

Duck is just hanging up the phone, and both he and the other thief jump at the bang of the windowpane on the door. The thief is holding a frozen bag of peas to his forehead, and in the light of the kitchen Vincent can now see he and the man trying to kick his legs out from under him must be twins.

“Apollo, for heaven’s sake, stop that. Hurting them is not going to do anything but make this hole deeper.”

“I will not be cowed by some fat, old man!”

“Be quiet.” Vincent turns to Duck, “was that the sheriff?”

“Yep.” Duck leans against the wall, frowning, “but he says he won’t send anyone out to pick ‘em up. When Indrid here gave me their names, that made a little more sense. These are Cold’s boys.” He glares at Apollo, “why they’re stealin from decent folk when their pa owns half the fuckin county is fuckin beyond me.”

“It is a long story. But I did tell you they would not send anyone; you needn’t have troubled with the call.”

“You ain’t exactly proved yourself the honest type.”

Indrid bites his lip, “If our actions have caused a financial burden, perhaps we could work it off?”

“At least one of you has sense, and some manners.” Vincent releases Apollo, but keeps a hand on his shoulder.

Apollo flicks his blonde hair from his face, then sinks his teeth into the side of Vincent’s hand.

“God fucking–” he catches himself, doesn’t swing out with his other hand to slap him. Instead he shoves at his shoulder and tries to pull away, tries to pull Apollos hair, but all the man does is bite down harder.

“Fuck, is he part Gila Monster?” Duck tries to pry Apollo off with limited success

“That is certainly one theory.” Indrid pinches his brothers nose, and after ten seconds of spluttering the other twin finally releases Vincent’s now-bleeding hand.

“Traitor! We could have run just then if you’d hit this brick with something.” He kicks Duck in the ankle.

“I am not going back to him.” Indrid says to him with what Vincent is coming to understand as very reasonable fear.

“Coward. Traitorous, useless coward!” Apollo lunges at his brother, but this time Duck is ready with the dog leash from the front door, wrapping it around his wrists and trapping them behind his back.

Vincent hauls the still-thrashing brat into the spare room, muttering, “I ought to put you over my knee” under his breath as he slams the door and slumps against it in the kitchen. Duck is watching him with concern.

“I…I’m sorry you had to see that. I don’t like to lose my temper.”

“Apollo has that effect on people.” Indrid sits back down as Vincent washes his hand and fetches a bandage from the bathroom.

“You don’t think he might have rabies, do you?” He’s only half-joking.

Indrid shakes his head, “It would be nice if it could be explained so simply.” He fiddles with the corner of the now-thawed peas, “I truly am sorry. And I wish I could say that we–or, I suppose, he–will not do it again. But that would be a lie. Father has his reasons for demanding we do such things. Apollo might steer clear of Capra Farms, but he will find someone else’s livelihood to undermine.”

“So, what, we’re just supposed to keep him here like a fuckin lion in a zoo?”

“That may be our best choice. At least for now.” Vincent looks at Indrid, “Can you bale hay and pick fruit?”

Indrid nods, almost eager.

“Duck, I suggest you take this Mr. Cold up on his offer. You need more hands than I do. I’ll keep Apollo here with me for now; maybe once he’s calmed down he’ll see reason.”

And if not Vincent thinks I always was good at breaking in horses.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Knowing when to ignore things is a skill. If Apollo can apply it now, he can get himself out of this. He will ignore the pain in the ankle that fat old goat made him bandage himself. He will ignore Indrid’s betrayal. He will ignore the inexplicable surge of heat that came with his captor threatening to put him over his knee.

He will ignore it. He will bide his time. And then he will take back his car, steal anything and everything of value Vincent Capra owns, and go home.

Apollo supposes he could use the phone in the kitchen to call the cops to fetch him. But Capra has earned vengeance, and that will take time.

When the door to his little room, with its small but comfortable bed and shelf of old books, is finally unlocked, he does his best to walk un-hobbled into the kitchen.

“Good morning.” Vincent does not turn from the stove, where he’s scrambling eggs in the early morning light.

Apollo says nothing, simply sitting down and pouring himself coffee.

Vincent turns, setting a plate of toast next to jam and butter, and the bowl of eggs next to a little vase of wildflowers. Apollo realizes he did not, in fact, take the old man's place at the table; there are two settings laid out.

“I want to apologize for my behavior.” Apollo says with as much sincerity as he can conjure, “my brother had the right idea. I will help around your…farm. To pay back what I owe.”

“Thank you for your apology.” Vincent replies mildly. Then he pauses in buttering his toast, “I’m sorry for how I acted. I doubt you can understand what losing livestock means, but all the same I shouldn’t have threatened you.”

He sets the toast down and Apollo realizes; the old goat is embarrassed.

Pathetic.

“I hope we might be able to start fresh this morning. I have a few jobs you should be table to do without aggravating your ankle.” He holds out a hand, “do we have a deal?”

Apollo shakes it with his best smile, “We do.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent doesn’t trust Apollo any further than he can throw him–which, after that bull bucked him in 73 and hurt his back, isn’t far–but at least the younger man can follow directions.

He fed the chickens and collected eggs, cleaned dishes and milked the cow Vincent keeps just for that. He also got himself barked at by Quixote before Vincent whistled at the dog to follow him out to the pasture.

When Vincent sets dinner on the table, the younger man actually thanks him before helping himself to the meatloaf and green beans.

There’s a clink as Apollo sets the fork down, staring at his plate.

“Is everything alright?”

“Why are you doing this? How are you doing this?”

“This being…?” He fills his water glass.

“The food, old man.”

“I’m not about to let you starve, or make a separate, sad meal just to punish you. So, you eat what I eat.”

“But why does it taste so, so good?”

Apollo seems so perplexed Vincent stifles a laugh.

“Because that’s how food is supposed to taste. I may not be a rich man, but butter and salt and nice spices are some of life's little joys,”

“Ah.” Apollo says, understanding without grasping his reasoning.

Vincent assumed Apollo’s life was a luxurious one up until now. Now he wonders if the twins had been like prized stallions, kept too close and penned in for fear of losing their value, greener grass only seen when they were let loose to do their fathers bidding.

“If you want a real treat, I still have cherry preserves from Duck’s last harvest. Can you check the freezer? There may be some ice cream in there that it would top beautifully.”

Apollo balks at the order a moment, but still stands up and opens the door. When he turns and nods, it’s with a far more genuine smile than the one he gave this morning.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

It takes five days for Apollo’s ankle to take his weight, and once it does Vincent puts him to work more concertedly. He spends all of Saturday fixing a stretch of barbed wire, comes in sore and sunburnt but flops into bed after dinner feeling…oddly pleased with himself.

Sunday morning finds biscuits and gravy in the kitchen, with Vincent telling him he needs to run into town for some supplies for dinner. Apparently, the older man observes the silly tradition of not working more than needed on Sundays.

When the truck pulls out, Apollo takes a test jog around the house, and looks over his damaged car. Unless he can lure a mechanic out here, he’ll have to take Vincent’s truck when he finally makes his run for it.

Climbing up the porch steps, he finds Indrid waiting for him with a suitcase.

“Duck drove me back to the house when I knew father would be gone. I got my things, and a few of yours.”

“Good. I’m sick of wearing these hideous hand me downs. The pants are all too short and the shirts all too wide.”

“I was also sent with this” Indrid lifts a basket of cherries, “it turns out Duck’s orchard is prize winning. He also sells hay to half the ranches in the county.”

“I do not care.”

Indrid sighs, “I know.”

“Is he mistreating you?”

“No” His brother looks horrified, “Duck has been wonderful to me. Especially given the circumstances under which we met.”

“Oh. good.”

“Try not to sound so disappointed.” Indrid steps down, past him.

“I am not. Now go away. Vincent will be back soon and I want to sweep the house before he is.” He ignores how that sounds and wills Indrid to do the same. His brother cocks his head slightly, but says nothing else as he starts back up the road.

Vincent returns just as Apollo is tossing out the last of the dust and throwing a stick for Quixote to fetch. Dinner is pork chops, apple sauce, and onions cooked brown and sweet. Vincent sips his beer while Apollo sticks to an orange soda.

After their meal, Apollo is looking for something to read in the main bedroom when he notices the photo on the wall.

“That’s you.”

“After my first big win on the circuit. Two days later I put most of the prize money into the account that turned into this farm.”

“Ah.” Apollo feels something dangerously close to guilt.

“I do think I cut quite a figure back then.”

“Yes. Though you have only gotten better with age.”

It’s the kind of compliment that soothes the egos of little men who nonetheless have something the Colds need. Only when it’s out does he understand he means it. The Vincent in the picture, dark haired and beaming, dust on his cheeks, is handsome. The man beside him, grey haired, with more weight to him and more lines on his face, is stunning.

Vincent chuckles, accepting the compliment but not believing it.

“I…I was going to sit. On the porch. To watch the fireflies and…and maybe see if I could spot the owl who has been calling. Would you like to join me?”

Why is it so hard to ask? Why does it seem to take a thousand years for Vincent to answer?

A gentle smile, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Apollo is kneeling by the fireplace. It’s snowing outside, and Vincent sits in the chair before him, fully clothed, firelight making him look like a painting, like the statues of great men in the museums Apollo went to as a child.

The rifle is on his lap and he shifts the barrel out over his knees. Apollo leans forward, taking it into his mouth and sucking. Vincent murmurs that he’s doing well, that he’s so very pretty like this. The gun is not loaded, this he is certain of. Even if it was, he is certain he would not be afraid. It is safe like this, comforting, and as it always does the dream melts into the two of them in the fields, grass green as Vincent takes him into his arms.

He wakes up to the smell of coffee and toast, the way he has every morning for the last three weeks. Apollo is no fool; he knows what his dream means. Knows that every insistence to himself that he did not like men has been a lie, perhaps even the longest lie of his life. He also knows that his brother was kissing that silly cherry grower by the western fence last night.

If Indrid, odd and unappealing as he is, can make someone kiss him, surely Apollo can do the same.

They’re fixing the barn door today; it was knocked off its hinges by a bad summer storm. The chore passes uneventfully, the two of them discussing whether to go into town for a movie on Sunday, when Vincent’s jeans catch on a nail, ripping a hole in the thigh.

“That was close.” The older man checks to be certain there’s no injury, “thank goodness I wore the thickest pair.”

Apollo nods, eyes on the patch of now-exposed skin. There is a tattoo there. An arm and something green, he thinks.

Vincent has a tattoo. And if Apollo does not get a full look at it soon, he is certain he will lose his mind.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been hot enough that, were it anyone else but Apollo, Vincent would assume the suggestion of a swim was solely due to the weather.

But he knows his Apollo. There is always an ulterior motive.

He scolds himself as they arrive at the swimming hole; Apollo isn’t his. He’s working off a debt, and one day he’ll fly off somewhere new, either by mutual agreement or by stealing everything Vincent owns.

That option should worry him more, but it’s hard to view Apollo as a threat when the hardened cattle rustler is animatedly talking about the heron they saw on their walk here while trying to get out of his clothes.

He strips down and climbs into the water as Apollo is distracted by a hawk overhead. When the younger man sees he’s already in, he looks almost annoyed. Vincent does avert his eyes as Apollo tosses his underwear away; he’s swam naked with plenty of friends, but he’s certain Apollo has not done the same. He doesn’t want him to be uncomfortable.

That worry evaporates when the blonde stands directly next to him, looking down with an intensity Vincent is trying not to read too much into.

Then Apollo huffs, grabs his leg, and sends him backwards into the water.

He twists away and comes up spluttering.

“Hold still!”

“Apollo, what on earth-”

“What part of hold still was unclear, old man?” Apollo grabs for his leg again.

“What are you trying to do?”

“See your tattoo. I need to know what it is of!”

“Asking is preferable to drowning me.” His exasperation is fond as he sets his leg on a rock so Apollo can see the blonde merman inked into his skin.

“It’s…it’s a man.” Apollo blinks, tilting his head.

“Yes. He wasn’t cheap, so please don’t insult him.”

“Do you like blondes?” Apollo’s eyes flick to his face, then back to the tattoo.

“It’s been known to happen.” Vincent lowers his leg back down so he’s standing comfortably.

“Blonde…men?”

“Yes, Apollo.” He says patiently, amused that his clever ranch hand seems so stymied.

“As in you like men to have sex with? While also being a man?”

“That's generally how it works.” He takes a step forward as Apollo goes stiff and faces him like he’s expecting execution.

“I think I would like to have sex. With you. Because I have been having dreams that are about your gun. And sucking on it. When it’s not loaded.”

“Oh, my gun is always loaded.” He teases.

Apollo looks alarmed.

“That was a sex joke.” He says reassuringly, and hazards putting his arms around Apollo’s waist.

“Oh. Ha. Ha?”

Were he being charming, being bold, Vincent would fear this was all an act. But the awkward shyness of it all leaves no doubt in his mind as to what the man in his arms is after.

“You’re an odd little bird, Apollo Cold.” He strokes an angular cheek.

“And that is a good thing?” Apollo sets his hands on Vincent’s shoulders.

“I certainly like it.” He tilts his chin up,meaning only to offer the invitation, but Apollo is instantly kissing him. It’s painfully, endearingly inexperienced, and the younger man seems to know it.

“I, I have not done this before. I am sorry if I am bad at it.” He takes Vincent's hand and kisses over the skin still a little pink from the healed bite.

“You’ve picked up plenty of skills on my farm. I think you’ll manage this one.”

Apollo grins, bright and breathtaking as a sunrise, “I may need a bit more practice. Though I would prefer somewhere less damp.”

Vincent climbs from the water and helps Apollo up after him, enjoying the way his cheeks redden when he’s eye level with his cock. Then he fetches the blanket they brought, lays it out in the shade of a tree, and lays down with his lover in the soft, green grass

#vincent/apollo #vinlo #yeehawgust 2024

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