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rememberwren · 6 months ago

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A Complete Set (Whatever That Means) || 1

This is a direct sequel to Skin Deep which can be read here. From now on I'm splitting up any one shot that is longer than 10k. So here is part one of this sequel. 6k.

Johnny pierces fem!reader’s nipples.

About this: at least five nipples in this one, an altogether questionable use for a sequel, nipple play, graphic depiction of nipple piercings, alcohol, jealous!soap, spoilers in the 'about this' section, iffy writing. Reader has enough hair to “hold back” and height difference necessitates that she “looks up” to speak to Simon.

Thirty minutes waiting for Green Jade Chinese takeout when you’re only a block from the restaurant is a crime. It’s even more of a crime when it’s thirty minutes spent away from Ghost—whose name you have learned is Simon. Laying on the sofa in Skin Deep, your stomach gives another shameful growl. You glance at the clock on your phone, hoping he hasn’t run into trouble…though you’re not sure there’s much in the way of trouble that Simon couldn’t handle.

The bell over the door rings, and you sit up, smile blooming in anticipation.

“Hey youuu–fuck!” you nearly shriek.

Standing in the doorway is a man who is decidedly not Simon, though there are similarities. They are both tall (though Simon must stand a hand taller), and broad (this bloke’s biceps are threatening the sleeves of his t-shirt as he crosses his arms across his chest), but that is where the similarities end. Where Simon is pale and blond, this man is tan and brunet, his hair a cropped mohawk that looks soft to brush one's fingers through.

Looking over his shoulder is a beautiful woman with braids that drip down to her shoulder blades.

“I tend to have that effect on women,” he says, glancing back at her.

“I can imagine,” she says, no small hint of flirtation in her voice.

“Um. Sorry, but there aren’t any walk-ins,” you remind them. The sign had been right bloody there. Could they not read? A more important question: were they murderers looking for their next victim? In the city, one could never know if a person was malevolent or just stupid.

“Where’s the big guy?” the man asks. He holds up a hand a few inches above his head. “Tall. Devastatingly handsome. Monosyllabic.”

“He should be back any minute.” That’s what you’re supposed to say, right? You always let the murderers know that time is not on their side; no inconvenient prey here. Try again elsewhere. “Maybe you two could wait outside.”

The man does a neat little trick with his tongue, flashing a silver barbell piercing at you like a calling card. “I’m the piercer, lass. I own forty-nine percent of the business. Let Ghost know I’m back with a client, alright? Nice meetin’ you.”

The two of them disappear together behind the curtain at the back of the shop, leaving you hoping that a small hole will open up directly beneath your coordinates and swallow you whole. Hopefully it will leave the shop intact. Maybe you had the time to let Simon know not to look for your body—

The bell rings again, and this time it is Simon, his mask still pulled up over his nose and mouth, one paper bag of fragrant Chinese food tucked under his arm. He takes in the sight of you with your head in your hands, elbows on your knees and approaches with caution.

“What’s this?” he wonders out loud. He sets down the bag and tears it open: egg drop soup, pork fried rice, crab rangoon. All your favorite goodies. A feminine giggle is heard from the back of the shop and he sighs, eyes rolling toward the ceiling.“Soap. What’d he say to you?”

“Nothing. I just put my foot in my mouth.”

“Yer a flexible one, aren’t you.”

“Just in that one, very specific way, trust me,” you say, accepting the disposable chopsticks he hands you. You break them apart and go looking amongst the packages of food for your rice. “I mistook him for a client and asked him to wait outside.”

Simon sucks on his teeth, a sure-fire sign that he is trying not to laugh.

You launch a chopstick at him, scoffing when he catches it nimbly out of the air and offers it back to you.

“Careful with that,” he says solemnly. “Could have taken my fuckin’ eye out.”

In the back, a scream rings out. You jerk, nearly upending the rice in your lap. Under his breath, Simon mutters: “Always Soap with the screamers.”

That night, the two of you fuck at his flat. He puts you on top of him, where you can control how deep the penetration is, and it gives you a chance to explore the angles that you never really had a chance to explore with other partners. With others, it had been a race: rushing toward some blissful edge, hurrying to get them (and if you were lucky, yourself) off as quickly as possible. With Simon, you were just discovering that sex could be fun; sex could be slow; sex could end with no one orgasming and it could still change your life.

He is an excellent sport while you ride him, his eyes quiet and soft in a way they aren’t when you’re outside of his flat together, when the mask is on and pulled up into place. If he weren’t so fucking put together, you might say that he were pussy drunk. As it is, he stays still, hands kneading your thighs until you nearly get a cramp in your hip and then he sits up, guiding you off of him and back into the bedsheets, laying face to face to fuck you in a way that is so painfully intimate it makes you want to shut your eyes.

Afterwards, you curl up against his side and find yourself playing with his nipple piercing. He’s got cute nipples: small and pink as his mouth. The barbell is black, a nice contrast to his skin tone. He watches you sometimes, other times letting his eyes fall shut.

“Did this hurt?” you ask him, tugging on the barbell a little.

“Yes,” he says in that dry way that lets you know your question has amused him.

“You know what I mean. You’ve gotten tattoos and had your ears pierced. What’s the worst pain?”

He shifts to touch a spot on his inner arm where a black and white skull rests. The skin is delightfully soft and thin. “This part nearly had me in tears. Barely felt the nipple, in comparison.”

Your mouth says it before your brain comprehends it: “Maybe I should get mine done.”

He stares at you, eyes briefly falling to your breasts. He reaches down and skims his fingers along the curve of one, his fingertips calloused but his touch so very soft. He says: “Soap did this, didn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re alone with Soap for sixty seconds and now you want your tits pierced. Are you saying that’s a coincidence?”

You frown. “I don’t know. I mean, maybe he influenced me, subconsciously?”

“He didn’t ask you?”

“No! He had a client with him.”

Simon hums. His face is closed off, expression unreadable. You can sense there is more that he holds back the same way you can sense a body of water is deep, but he doesn’t share and you don’t push him, not sure if you’re ready to take that plunge yourself.

“It was a silly idea,” you backpedal. “Forget I said anything.”

“It’s your body,” Simon says, ignoring your words. “You should do whatever you want with it.”

“Yeah? You’d be surprised how rarely anybody ever says that to a woman.”

“Most people are cunts.”

“True.” You reach out and thumb at his nipple again, just to satisfy the urge in your own tiny, one track brain. He takes a measured breath—for Simon, that’s as good as a moan. Your eyes flicker down, but his cock is hidden somewhere beneath the sheets. “Want to go again?”

He guides your hand down to wrap around his cock which is like hard steel wrapped in smooth velvet.

You roll on top of him. The cramp in your thigh has faded by now. Reaching up, you palm your breasts, briefly playing with your nipples. You’ve never considered yourself to be particularly sexy, but the way he looks at you makes you feel powerful, like the sun lives just underneath your skin.

“I think I do want them done,” you say, watching the hungry way he watches your fingers. He sits up, tugging you onto your knees so he can take one nipple into his mouth and tease it with the sharp line of his teeth.

You figure that’s as good a blessing as any.

Simon tends to spring things on you. Texts are usually last minute and painfully succinct: dinner? or my place? He is prone to just showing up out of the blue, unafraid (and unoffended) to take no for an answer when you’re busy.

One sunny fall afternoon, the thing he springs on you is Soap. Simon brings you to the shop, telling you that he needs to meet with a client. You’ve never tagged along to something like this before, but you’re beginning to think that there are few places Simon could go where you wouldn’t want to follow. Convinced you will be hiding in the back of the shop without a word to alert either of them to your presence, you agree easily enough.

But when you arrive, that client is Soap, and instead of letting you hide in the back, Simon picks up a chair with one hand, hauling it across the room so that you both sit flanking Soap on either side while he’s in the tattoo chair getting some fancy, winged symbol just over his pec.

“We’ve got a spectator? A voyeur?” Soap asks, rubbing his hands together. “Oh you know all my seedy kinks, Ghost.”

“I can leave, really,” you offer, already moving to stand.

“Sit,” Simon says.

You sit. Johnny sheds his shirt with obvious relish, and you find the artwork on the wall just over his shoulder to be incredibly interesting all of the sudden.

Soap extends a hand to you. “The big guy still hasn’t introduced us. Some call me Soap, but beautiful women are allowed to call me Johnny.”

You shake his warm hand to be friendly and make the mistake of meeting his eyes. They are very blue, framed by dark lashes and expressive eyebrows. He flashes his tongue piercing at you again and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned. He laughs.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, MacTavish,” Simon murmurs, putting a gloved hand flat on his chest to force him back against the chair. You see then that Johnny has both his nipples pierced: little golden rings that compliment his tanned skin.

He’s fit, unfortunately.

You look back at the picture on the wall while Simon grabs the razor to shave Johnny’s pec. You learn that there’s no such thing as silence when Johnny is in the room. He keeps up a consistent chatter of conversation while Simon preps his body and lays the stencil, and it goes a long way to putting you at ease.

“Would you hold my hand, lass?” Johnny asks, eyes big and guileless. “I’m scared of needles.”

Simon rolls his eyes, tugs his mask into place, and starts the gun without waiting for your response. The buzzing causes a visceral reaction in you, reminding you of your own tattoo that you had received from Simon only weeks ago. A craving rises up in you, tangible in your throat (and between your legs). You shift on the chair Simon brought over for you, eyes drawn to his hands to watch him work.

Johnny wiggles his fingers at you, palm up.

Your chair legs screech against the floor as you scoot in bursts towards him and take his hand. You haven’t even held hands with Simon yet, and here you are holding hands with his best friend. Suddenly regret has you wishing you could draw your hand back and wipe the touch away on your leggings. Unaware of your turmoil, Johnny heaves a sigh, giving you a smile that is painfully handsome. “There. Now I feel safe.”

“You shouldn’t,” Simon reminds him.

“Ready to tell me where your newfound generosity has come from?” Johnny asks, straining his neck to glance down at Simon’s work. “What happened to never tattooing friends for free?”

“I want you to owe me,” Simon says, voice quiet and distracted as he traces the line work.

“You need a favor,” Johnny guesses.

“Something like that.”

“Well don’t leave me in suspense.”

“She wants her nipples done.”

Simon lifts the gun away from his skin just in time for Johnny to jerk in the chair, head swiveling to look at you. Your own head has swiveled to look at Simon, who holds both hands up innocuously, looking not at all apologetic or regretful.

“You want me to cop a feel of your girlfriend’s tits?”

“Don’t say it like that!” you squawk.

“It’s true. We get very close and personal during a piercing, lass—“

“There’s a fundamental difference between copping a feel and touching my breast—“ You realize that you are still holding Johnny’s hand and you practically toss it away.

“I’m not laying a finger on her,” Johnny says firmly, speaking only to Simon now (likely considering you a lost cause). “Period. Out of the question.”

“I’m not letting her go to a stranger,” says Simon, brows drawn down low on his forehead. “So get over your own bullshit and pierce her, Johnny. It’s fine.”

Johnny’s mouth shuts with such force that his teeth click together. He turns his eyes on you and stares. You feel like you’ve already taken your top off even though you’ve done no such thing. Shyly, you cross your arms in front of your breasts, giving him your best glare. It has the opposite of intended effect; Johnny’s gaze softens a little, turns pitying.

“Alright,” he says. “Consider my bullshit over with.”

Simon inclines his head in gratitude. He picks back up the tattoo gun.

“What’s the story with you and Johnny anyway?” you ask Simon over dinner. He rarely takes you out, more content to spend time alone in private rather than in public. His eyes can’t stop scanning the few people in the restaurant. Sometimes his hand reaches for his mask, instinct urging him to draw it back over his mouth and nose, but he doesn’t.

“We met in the SAS, been friends ever since,” he says succinctly.

“How’d you two go into business together?”

“I was doing stick ‘n pokes for anyone who would sit still. He was piercing soldier’s ears in exchange for cigarettes. We both decided we’d rather live to see thirty, so when our time was up, we didn’t re-enlist, pooled our money, bought a location and never looked back.”

You frown. “I didn’t know you were in the military.”

He nods, sipping at a water (he’d refused your offer to share a pint together). You’re aware suddenly of how much there is about Simon that you don’t know.

“Was Johnny the one to pierce your nipple?”

Simon stills for a moment, considering the question. At length he sets his glass down and says slowly: “Yes.”

“Why do I sense there’s a story there?”

“Because there is. I’m sure Soap will be thrilled to tell it with as many details as possible.”

“Shouldn’t you tell me first, to control the narrative?”

Simon’s mouth twitches, lips quirking upwards at the edges. Coaxing one of his rare smiles from him never failed to make you feel like you were walking on clouds. He says: “You’re clever.”

“High praise.”

“Does that do something for you?”

“What?”

“Being praised.”

You sputter a little, flustered. But then it occurs to you: “Are you changing the subject?”

This time he grins, full and beautiful. You think about Soap calling him ‘devastatingly handsome’, and while there was a part of you that was sure the masses would not agree with your assessment of him, you couldn’t help but find Simon striking. Looking at his smile makes you smile, an unconscious mimicry.

He catches the waitress as she comes by and asks for the check.

“You look frightened,” Johnny says when he spots you as you come into Skin Deep. He’s seated on the couch where you and Simon had sex, texting on his phone. How he knows you look frightened, you couldn’t say; he hasn’t even looked up to greet you.

“What gave me away?” you ask, feeling queasy. You’d spent half the night awake watching videos on reddit of people getting their nipples pierced feeling increasingly panicked. It looked brutal. It made no sense to stick a needle through one of the most sensitive parts of your body. But it hadn’t made sense to be stabbed a hundred thousand times by microneedles either—and you’d done that. Eagerly, even.

“That look on your face that says you’re about to be sick,” Simon says from behind you.

You turn and give him a tepid glare. It’s all you can muster.

Johnny leads you back through the curtain, which you cross with a muted giddiness (your first time in the back of the shop!). It leads to a narrow hallway with a few frosted doors. One is clearly marked as a bathroom. One isn’t marked at all. The last has the light on inside, turning the frosted glass a golden yellow. The writing on the glass says SOAP’S ARTISAN PIERCINGS. He opens the door and ushers you both in.

The room is small, with a chair similar to Simon’s except for performing piercings. One wall is dominated by cabinets and drawers and mirrors, a small porcelain sink. A table holds a photobook which you make the mistake of skimming through—it’s full of clits, labias, penises, and nipples, all with a variety of gruesome appearing jewelry.

“Ow,” you mutter, shutting the book.

“Getting ideas for your next piercing?” Johnny asks over his shoulder, washing his hands at the sink. He soaps himself up to the elbows, like a surgeon preparing to root around in your open chest.

“No,” you say. “Definitely not.”

Simon has seated himself in one of the chairs in the corner, his legs looking obscenely long with the way they are folded. He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, watching you closely. You pull a face at him just to watch the way his eyes roll.

“Everything off from the waist up,” Soap says, tugging gloves into place. “Any allergies? Latex, dyes?”

He is much more abrupt today than he had been yesterday. You’re almost moved enough to ask him if he’s upset, but perhaps this is just his professionalism. Regardless, you miss the easy-going nature that had gone so far to put you at ease yesterday.

“No,” you say, shrugging out of your shirt. It is warm in the room but goosebumps still bloom along your arms and chest. God, are you really doing this? Are you really exposing yourself to Simon’s best friend? You glance back over your shoulder, but Simon’s face gives no indication of what you should do. The message is clear: you have to choose. Taking a deep breath, you slide the straps of your bra down your arms and reach around back to undo the clasp, folding everything nice and neatly into a pile on the chair beside you. Your nipples immediately pucker, whether from nerves or some unwilling arousal, you couldn’t say.

Johnny isn’t even looking at you. He’s opening up packages of frightening looking tools: scissors with clamps on the end, needles, toothpicks? “Had any caffeine today?”

“No. Wait, yes. A tea.”

“Goddamnit, Ghost. You and yer bloody teas.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, not really,” Johnny says. “I’d prefer if you hadn’t drunk it, but what’s done is done. Makes the blood thinner though, you know.”

“Didn’t know that. I thought that was just alcohol.”

“Alcohol is worse,” he agrees. He glances over his shoulder, but towards Simon whose dark figure is haunting the corner of the room. His expression is sly. “Ghost knows all about that, aye?”

You latch on to this news eagerly. “Are you talking about when you pierced his nipple?”

Johnny’s brows lift in obvious surprise. “He told you about that?”

You hear the creak of the chair behind you as Simon shifts but you don’t turn to look at him. “He told me some of it?” you say, voice pitching upward at the end in question.

“Which parts, exactly?”

“Just that you were the one who had done it.”

“Left out all the tastiest bits,” Johnny says. “I bet he does that a lot when talking about his days with the 1-4-1.”

Your stomach dips.

“That’ll do,” Simon says sternly from the corner.

Johnny scoffs a little, muttering something under his breath as he arranges the tools to his liking. The silence that lingers is thick and awkward. Eager to break it, he turns to you and your tits. “Alright then. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You want to cross your arms more than you want to take your next breath, but you don’t. You don’t breathe either, really. Johnny stares at your breasts and then asks you to stand and come closer. Knees knocking together, you do, until you are close enough to smell his cologne or aftershave—whichever you aren’t sure.

“Biggest question here,” he says, glancing back toward your eyes. “Are we doing one today or both?”

“Uh—both?”

“Let me bring this to your consideration,” Johnny says. “If you can’t go without playing with them, I recommend just doing one at a time. Because once I pierce it, it’s hands off for six months. No touching, no twiddling, no teasing, no twisting, definitely no tasting, I’m talking to you, Ghost—“

“Fuck off.”

“—so if that’s a dealbreaker, I recommend leaving one to play with. Stagger them. Mitigates the loss a little.”

You glance back at Ghost. On the one hand, nipple play is a favorite of yours. On the other hand, if you don’t do both today, you might chicken out and never come back. In the end, you decide: “Let’s start with one and see how I do.”

“Yer the boss, hen,” Johnny says solemnly. He tears open a tiny package, the bitter scent of antiseptic stinging at your nose. “Any preference on left or right? Do yeh have a favorite?”

“A favorite?”

He snorts. “Alright—which side do you sleep on?”

You say your left, so he takes the antiseptic wipe to the right breast and warns you with a brief, It’s chilly, before swiping it across your nipple. You hate every moment of it, mostly because the stimulation feels good in a distant, muted way. Teeth gritting, you wait for him to be done, even though he is a consummate professional and going as fast as he can.

Next he takes one of the toothpicks, dips it in ink, and marks a spot on either side of your nipple where the needle will pierce. It’s more on the areola itself; you can’t decide if that makes it more or less tolerable.

“Go check the placement in the mirror, let me know if you’re level,” says Johnny, tossing away the toothpick.

You turn to Ghost instead. “Will you be my mirror?” you whisper.

The corners of his eyes crinkle behind his mask. He beckons you closer with two fingers, and you walk to him on unsteady legs. His hand cups your breast, careful not to touch any part that Johnny has sanitized as he looks you over thoroughly.

“Perfect,” he mutters, almost like a curse.

“Hey! No touching!” Johnny calls, crumpling a piece of trash noisily in his fist. He sounds irritated. “Don’t you make me sanitize her again!”

When you and Simon have finished, Johnny adjusts the chair until it is laying flat and helps you up onto it.

“Normally I freehand most piercings,” he says. “But since this is your first, I’m going to use a hemostat clamp. Looks like this—“ He shows you the device which looks like scissors but with clamps instead of blades, holes strategically placed for the needle to be pushed through. “—and I’ve been told it hurts more than the piercing itself, so be warned.”

“I’m warned,” you whisper weakly.

“Arm up, over your head lass.”

He scoots his chair beside you and then gently touches your breast, the latex warm from his body heat. He adjusts the clamp and then grips down tightly, ensuring that the marked spots of ink are within the holes. It does hurt, but not as badly as you imagined. You let out a breath. You can do this.

“Ready for the needle?”

Yeah, you can’t do this. Your other hand reaches out blindly towards Simon. After a moment, you feel his touch: hand warm and solid where he laces your fingers together awkwardly. Neither of you have had much practice in the way of hand holding—and none at all with each other—but you feel his touch all the way in your toes, and you think that’s a pretty good sign.

“Make all the sound you want,” Johnny mutters, breath fanning across your outstretched arm. “It helps, trust me. On three. One—“

He pierces you. You suck in a breath through your teeth. “You bastard, that hurt way more than the clamp!”

“Yeah,” says Johnny, guiding the jewelry through your nipple. He looks down at you with a sad, strange smile. “I’m a liar.”

You shower together that night. The shower is small for a man of Simon’s stature. Add you into the mix and it’s positively tiny, but that just means you both have to stand close together, bodies brushing against each other with each movement. He puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you to the spray to let the water run across your sore breast, thumbs kneading at the tense muscles of your shoulder blades.

You relax back against him, feeling his hard cock against the small of your back. He doesn’t do anything about it, so you don’t either.

“What’s the verdict?” you ask him. “Do you like it?”

“Is it important to you that I like it?” he asks, voice rumbling against your back.

You think.

“Yes,” you say.

His hand comes down to ghost over your unpierced breast, cupping it in his huge palm. Your hard nipple rasps against the calluses on his hand making you shiver even in the heat of the shower. He squeezes softly, pulling a sound from the back of your throat that is lost thanks to the roar of the water against the tiles.

His mouth brushes against your ear, lips damp: “I like it.”

You twist in his arms, his cock dragging against your slick body, and look up at him. His hair is plastered to his forehead, a shade darker than usual. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You guide his hand to your hair. “Hold this for me.”

You slip down onto your knees.

How’s the piercing healing? Simon messages you one afternoon. Soap won’t shut up asking me about it.

Give him my number, you suggest.

After a lengthy silence, Simon texts: He says he doesn’t want it.

And just what the fuck is that supposed to mean? Maybe it was some weird piercer/client boundary he didn’t want to cross, but Ghost had come across more stringent (in just about every aspect of life) and he had had no problem crossing the tattoo artist/client boundary to text you mock ups of your tattoo. Something in your gut goes sour. Something sows itself in the soil of your heart, something thorny and unpleasant, and you don’t like it one bit.

It’s fine, you tell him. I’m taking care of it.

Okay, he says. And that is the end of that.

The next time you see Johnny, it is Simon’s birthday. True to form, he does not make a big fuss of it, though it’s clear that this is the first birthday he has shared with a romantic partner perhaps ever.

He genuinely seems to appreciate the Bluetooth stencil printer you bought him as a gift (he’d looked at the wrapped present like he didn’t know what to do with it, unwrapped it with the same enthusiasm as a man walking to the gallows, but when he’d seen it, he’d given one of those slow, rare grins; the crooked ones thanks to the scar across his mouth), and you silently congratulated yourself on getting him something practical over something sentimental.

“The boys want to get together,” he says that afternoon. “I want you to come, too.”

How could you say no to that?

So you doll yourself up, wearing your nicest pair of skinny jeans and a sweater to keep away the autumn chill. You are giddy at the thought of meeting Simon’s other friends, so much so that you cleanly overlook Johnny’s hot and cold act. At least there will be others there to act as buffers between the two of you.

The pub itself is more crowded than Simon would like. He won’t even take his mask off, keeping his back against the wall and eyes on the door. Not for the first time, you wonder if he doesn’t have some sort of PTSD, something leftover from his time in the service. It would make a lot of things make a lot more sense.

You meet Kyle, who clasps your hand with both of his own, grinning so fetchingly. “Nice to meet you,” he shouts over the sounds of the pub. “Simon’s never brought a woman around before. You must be special.”

“That means be on your best behavior, Garrick,” Simon says dryly, shifting his mask to sip at a beer—the first you’ve ever seen him drink.

“Yes, sir.”

John arrives next. He’s older than the others, though there’s not yet any hint of silver in his facial hair. He smiles, eyes twinkling, and shares Kyle’s sentiments. It shouldn’t make you feel as special as it does, knowing that Simon hasn’t brought a woman to meet his friends before. But it does. It means something. The two of you still haven’t discussed exactly what your relationship is, but it seems clear in the eyes of everyone around you, which makes you feel a little more like you’re standing on solid ground.

Johnny arrives last. His easy grin falters at the sight of you. He slips into the other side of the circular booth beside John and barely greets you, barely even meets your eyes. You don’t shrink, necessarily—you’re aware that you belong here, celebrating Simon, just as much as Johnny does—but you do grow quiet, your arms crossed in your lap, leaning into the warm comfort that Simon’s body beside you provides.

The group together are downright boisterous. Even Simon comes out of his shell some as the drinks come and go, eventually tugging the mask down to rest beneath his chin. They tell stories that make you laugh, make you tear up, make you cringe, make you groan. It eases some anxious part of your heart to hear these uncensored stories, to learn more about Simon’s past straight from the sources.

It’s clear that their time spent serving together has made a brotherhood of them, and while a small part of you feels estranged as the outsider amongst this group, the larger part thinks it’s beautiful to see.

Simon deserves this, you think, as the group gets up: some to go to the bathroom, others to the bar, others to smoke. He deserves to be surrounded by people that love him.

You realize right there in that cracked leather booth of the bar that you are included in that.

You’re in love with him.

“Oh God,” you mutter, pressing your hands to your cheeks. Suddenly your head is spinning from the few shots you had shared with the others. Air. You need air.

Not spying Simon anywhere near the bar, you take your chances of running into him outside and step out of the pub onto the cool street. There is a bitter wind blowing that has you wrapping your arms around your middle, wishing you had worn a jacket over your sweater. Resting your back against the brick wall, you stare up at the moon and think. Nothing has changed between now and five minutes ago, except that now you are a little wiser to your own feelings. A little more aware of how invested you are in this undefined relationship. You don’t need to freak out.

You just need to talk to him and figure out where you both stand with each other. It is the only—

“You followin’ me?” You jerk, startled. Johnny stands there, having come around out of the alley, crushing the remnants of a cigarette beneath his boot. His cheeks are red from the cold, hands jammed deep into his pockets.

“What? Of course not!”

“Alright,” he says, his agreement sounding a lot like skepticism. He moves past you toward the pub doors.

You know that you shouldn’t. You know that for some inexplicable reason, Johnny doesn’t like you, and that you should take this at face value and leave well enough alone. But instead it makes something inside you feel needy and desperate, desperate for this closest friend of Simon’s to like you, desperate to fit it to Simon’s old life.

“Hey,” you say, catching his wrist. “We should plan my next piercing while you’re here.”

He visibly shakes off your touch. His eyes look back toward the pub longingly. “Yeah. Look, not much to plan, really, is there? Just let Simon know when you’re ready and he’ll text me.”

He opens the door. For a moment, the sounds and smells of the pub spill out onto the sidewalk, but then the door shuts and it is quiet and you are alone.

“Johnny doesn’t like me much,” you say to Simon on the way home. You’re driving—three beers in total had managed to make him tipsier than you thought possible for a man of his stature.

He snorts. “Soap loves everybody, and everybody loves Soap.”

You take your eyes off the road briefly. Simon’s figure is illuminated by a passing streetlamp, turning his silhouette into something gilded where he is slumped over in the passenger seat resting his temple against the cool glass of the window. “I don’t love him,” you say, hoping you don’t overemphasize any certain word.

Simon looks to you. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face. Not even being drunk affects the intensity of his gaze, the way it penetrates you, turns you see-through. Whatever he sees in your face must not be enough, because his head thuds as it hits the window again.

“It wouldn’t be the first time that a girl who was supposed to be mine ended up being for Soap.”

You suck in a breath, heart clenching painfully. Taking one hand off the wheel, you search for his thigh—find his knee and settle for it, stroking softly with your thumb.

“I’m not Soap’s, baby,” you say.

“No?”

You shake your head.

“Whose are you?”

“Come on, Simon,” you mutter, face hot. “You already know.”

“Are you mine?”

You nod.

“Don’t say it.”

You blink, glancing over to him. He’s watching you, eyes heavy-lidded and pitch-black in the darkness of the cab. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll make have to you pull over.”

Instead he makes you wait until he’s inside you, still feeling the rasp of his stubble against your thighs from where he had eaten you out. Then, his hands shaking, he asks you again, Whose are you? just to hear the way you chant over and over again: Yours, Yours, Yours.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

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mattiesgf · 1 month ago

Text

scribbles - m.r x reader

summary - dash&lily!au, mattheo and reader communicate through a book, and perhaps its comforting to rant to someone without knowing them?

word count - above 2k

a/n - okay omg, this is literally my first fic ever so don't judge? and I really wanted something like an anonymous romance because I think it fits mattheo. enjoyy

ch2

The Hogwarts library was insanely huge—everyone knew that. Its sections seemed to stretch endlessly, shelf after shelf, book after book. And it wasn’t just academic texts; there were novels too, tucked away in those maze-like aisles.

So here he was, Mattheo Riddle, probably the last person you’d expect in front of the literature shelves, fumbling through titles in a half-hearted attempt to find A Farewell to Arms for his Muggle Studies class.

Professor Charity Burbage wouldn’t shut up about the so-called "sappy Muggle romance." For the sake of his grades, he had to find it. After scanning what felt like every spine in the row, he finally spotted it.

“Finally!”

He grabbed the book without hesitation. Staying in the library wasn’t on his agenda—it never was. The place didn’t exactly hold the sweetest memories for him. The silence, so absolute, seemed to lure the worst thoughts to the surface. It was the perfect breeding ground for overthinking, and Mattheo had no patience for that. He much preferred the controlled chaos of the dorms or the common room. Maybe he’d been alone too long. People could be annoying, sure, but they kept the silence—and his thoughts—at bay.

Just as he was about to leave, something caught his eye: a bright red book on the same shelf. It wasn’t a novel, not with that unmarked spine and leather cover. Curiosity got the better of him, and he pulled it out. The journal smelled faintly of Chanel—a stark contrast to the old-book musk around it. Stickers covered the spine, obscuring what might’ve been the owner’s initials. Lana Del Rey. The Smiths. A tiny “A” tucked in the corner.

He opened it.

The first page was written in delicate cursive, the kind that practically screamed “perfected over years of writing essays on parchment.”

“Do you dare?”

His first instinct was to chuck the thing out the nearest window and let it flop onto the frozen lake below. This felt eerily close to one of his father’s tricks. But then again, when had Voldemort ever cared for indie aesthetics or Muggle music?

Curiosity won. He flipped the page.

“Ah, so you do dare. And no, I’m not trying to lure you into the Chamber to kill you. I just figured if you’re in this aisle, maybe we have something in common.”

“I’ve left some clues for you. If you want them, turn the page. If you don’t, put the book back on the shelf, please—this is kind of my one shot at finding a literary soulmate.”

The handwriting, undeniably feminine, had that neat, practiced vibe. Someone who probably spent way too much time perfecting it in their first year. Definitely not him.

“ALSO, if you’re not a teenage boy, I’d suggest putting it back. And if you’re Madam Pince, I’m definitely a Gryffindor. ;)”

Mattheo let out a low chuckle. She was funny. Slytherin vibes, or so he thought.

The next page revealed a string of numbers:

“1111111”

Some sort of code?

“Solve it, decipher it, and it might just lead…”

He sighed, already feeling the time he’d need to spend on this. But he was hooked. What better way to pass the time than chasing cryptic clues from a journal that promised not to kill him, right?

Tucking the book under his arm, he headed for the exit, but of course, Madam Pince’s sharp voice cut through the air like a spell.

“Mr. Riddle, you must check that out before stuffing it in your bag and leaving.”

“Uh, yeah, of course.” He handed over A Farewell to Arms.

“And the other?”

“That’s mine. Just a journal,” he lied smoothly.

“Right.”

He nodded quickly and slipped out before she could've said more.

As he walked away, a soft voice called out behind him. “You took the journal?”

He turned, spotting a fifth-year—a library volunteer, maybe.

“I did. Why?”

The kid shrugged, barely pausing. “Solve the riddles and put it where you get. She’ll answer.”

“Wait—”

But the kid was already gone.

“Wait—”

But the kid was already gone.

So, it was a girl. Cursive handwriting, fancy perfume, and riddles designed to intrigue. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a waste of time after all.

He made his way back to the dungeons, the familiar stone hallways feeling like they were meant for him, even if he wasn’t sure what “home” really meant anymore.

He reached the dorm, the one that was always a bit of a mess, the one he shared with Theodore and Lorenzo. The air had that funny, almost burnt toast scent to it that Mattheo had gotten used to. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his.

But his mind wasn’t on the dorm or the mess. It was on the journal. It had been... interesting. Why would Mattheo Riddle, of all people, take the time to talk to someone who had no idea who he was? Maybe that’s exactly why—someone who wouldn’t judge him for the name or the bloodline.

“Oi, Enzo, give me a hand with something?”

“God, Matt, do you ever think maybe I have my own stuff to do? Maybe Enzo has plans, y’know?”

“Shut up and help. I totally covered for you with Greengrass about your stupid book, remember?”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah, come on.”

Lorenzo flopped down next to him on the couch, eyeing the journal in Mattheo’s hand.

“So, let me get this straight. You’re talking to a girl—who could very well not be a girl—and you want me to solve the riddles and help you, because you’re actually interested? AND, you're intrigued by one line? the one line she wrote-?”

Mattheo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but it’s a good line.”

Lorenzo gave him a skeptical look. “A good line? She could be some weird third-year with a collection of creepy journals. I’m just saying, don’t get too attached.”

“Relax, I’m not getting attached,” Mattheo said, but the words felt hollow even to him.

Lorenzo snatched the journal from his hand, flipping through the pages. “You’re telling me you’re not intrigued by this?” He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, ‘Do you dare?’ That’s some serious mysterious girl energy.”

Mattheo leaned back, watching as Lorenzo scanned the riddles, his lips curving into a smirk. “Just help me solve it, alright?”

Lorenzo paused, glancing over at Mattheo. “Fine. But don’t blame me when this turns into some weird obsession.”

“Alright, mystery guy, string the letters together and let’s see where we end up.”

Mattheo leaned back, watching as Lorenzo eyed the list of riddles. He was already beginning to look like he was about to fall asleep.

“Okay, Enzo, do them for me,” Mattheo said, tapping the page impatiently.

Lorenzo groaned but took the journal from him, reading the first riddle aloud.

“There’s a light that never fades,

Shining bright even through melancholy haze.

Name the song that calls out for comfort and trust,

It’s about heaven, but grounded in the just.”

Lorenzo paused, scratching his chin. “Okay, that’s definitely an old one, maybe like Lana? Considering the stickers?”

Something seemed to have clicked for mattheo, “No, no, no The smiths! SHE LIKES THE SMITHS, ENZO- oh my god, there’s a light that never goes out, thats it!”

Lorenzo kept going, flipping to the next one, sighing at Mattheo. "Once again, same music taste does not equal soulmate- god, do you ever learn?"

Mattheo rolled his eyes, "Alright, shut up, go on"

“If sweets are your craving, step through my door,

From Chocolate Frogs to Fizzing Whizbees galore.

In Hogsmeade’s heart, where sugar dreams thrive,

Name the shop where treats come alive.”

“Honestly, that’s a no-brainer. It’s Honeydukes,” Lorenzo said without hesitation.

“Right, right. You’re on fire,” Mattheo teased, as Lorenzo moved on to the next.

"I’m often served up cold or hot,

A liquid refreshment, I hit the spot.

I come in flavours, both sweet and bold,

What am I? Guess me, I’m quite old."

Lorenzo grinned. “Coffee? Like, uh, lets say expresso? ”

Mattheo rolled his eyes. “Of course you’d get that one first try.”

Lorenzo continued to read, now with a slight smirk.

“An ode to a woman with a celestial name,

Her vibe is electric, not one you can tame.

From the album that rocked the world wide,

Name the track.”

Lorenzo stared at the riddle for a moment, clearly deep in thought. His lips curled slightly, as if trying to put the pieces together.

Mattheo watched, his mind already racing through possibilities. "Come on, Enzo. It’s not that hard."

Lorenzo looked up, clearly struggling to connect the dots. "I dunno, man. Celestial name... electric vibe... It’s throwing me off."

Mattheo’s eyes widened. “Wait... Arabella,” he said suddenly, catching the reference. “It’s got to be ‘Arabella’ by Arctic Monkeys.”

Lorenzo blinked, then nodded slowly. “Oh, yeah. That makes sense. Good catch, Riddle.”

Mattheo grinned, feeling a little bit smug. “I know my stuff.”

Lorenzo looked at the riddle like Mattheo was crazy.

“I’m a serpent, sleek and sly,

With emerald scales and cunning eye.

In the house where ambition reigns,

What’s my symbol? Speak my name.”

“Matt, come on. The locket, duh.”

“Oh, right,” Mattheo muttered, tapping his fingers on the journal.

Lorenzo barely hesitated before moving on to the next riddle.

“I’m the one who guards the goalposts tight,

Stopping the quaffle with all my might.

I block and deflect, keeping the score low—

What’s my position? Now, let me know!”

“Keeper,” Lorenzo answered with a smirk, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Should’ve known,” Mattheo grumbled, half to himself.

Lorenzo moved on, flipping to the final riddle.

“I’m a potion that makes truth come clear,

In Hogsmeade, I’m sold with no fear.

A drop or two, and secrets unfold,

What’s my name? It’s liquid gold.”

Lorenzo grinned. “Veritaserum. Honestly, these riddles are too easy.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, trying to suppress a smile. “You really think you’ve got this figured out, huh?”

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. “Well, if I’m solving all the riddles, maybe I should be the one old-timey flirting with her through a book. What do you think?”

Mattheo’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What? Absolutely not. I found the book. Plus, you think she could be a possible psychopath—what about that, huh?”

Lorenzo shrugged, unfazed. “Eh, it’s a possibility. But if she’s that crazy, at least it’ll be entertaining.”

Mattheo shook his head, but couldn't help the smirk tugging at his lips. "Not happening."

“Anyway, let me put it together. It says ‘string the first together,’” Lorenzo said, already scribbling down the letters.

Mattheo watched, tapping his foot in rhythm. “Uh, T, H, E, A, L, K, V…”

Lorenzo stared at the letters for a moment before glancing up. “Alright, so… ‘THE ALCOVE.’” He shrugged. “Sounds like the one by the lake.”

Mattheo raised an eyebrow. “Oh, like our Alcove, Alcove?”

Lorenzo gave another shrug. “Could be. Or maybe something else. Who knows? It’s just a game, Matt.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mattheo said, leaning back with a grin. “I’ll go check it out.”

Lorenzo chuckled, tossing the journal back at Mattheo. “Right, because you’re definitely not getting invested. Go ahead, find the weirdo.”

Mattheo smirked, flipping through the journal and eyeing the letters. “I’ll figure it out. But, uh, if she’s leaving clues like this, she’s got a decent sense of humor.”

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, sure. Just don’t get too carried away with it, alright? Since it’s just a game.”

Mattheo sighed and plopped down onto the stone steps, resting the journal beside him. He leaned back, his gaze wandering aimlessly around the alcove, still trying to make sense of the place. The stillness of the moment almost felt like an invitation to relax, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this. There had to be.

He scanned the surrounding area, eyes tracing the worn edges of the stone, the lake shimmering faintly through the trees. And then—there it was.

That familiar "a".

On one of the tiles, nearly hidden beneath the edge of the stone step, was a small sticker of the letter “a”—it wasn’t much, but Mattheo immediately recognized it. The same letter from the journal. The same one that had popped up in the corner of the pages, taunting him with its mystery.

Mattheo’s heart picked up pace, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Now we're getting somewhere. He bent down, carefully peeling the sticker off the tile, wondering what kind of clue this could lead to.

Whatever it was, he was definitely invested now.

Mattheo stared at the sticker for a second, waiting for something to happen, but when nothing did, he was about to brush it off. Then, in a blink, the sticker seemed to melt away, its glossy edges rippling like the surface of the lake on a windy day. Before he could process it, the sticker was gone, replaced by a folded note.

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Hogwarts magic, never a dull moment.

He unfolded the note, the handwriting neat and familiar:

"Leave the journal, I'll answer."

The next day, Mattheo found himself walking past the alcove again. The events from the night before still lingered in his mind, but he'd almost convinced himself it had all been some weird fluke, or maybe just a one-off game.

He hadn't returned to the alcove since he’d left the journal there, figuring he’d check back in a day or so. But as he passed by, he couldn’t resist stopping. The place seemed quieter now, the magic of the night before no longer lingering in the air.

But when he got to the spot, he was surprised to see that the journal was still there. Nothing else had changed. Mattheo stared at it for a moment, debating whether to just walk away, but something—curiosity, maybe—kept him rooted to the spot.

He bent down, picking up the journal and flipping through it.

"Aha, u so could be kinda smart huh? I can’t believe someone’s actually answered, that journal was probably there for a year? And good job with the riddles, I guess? I’m surprised you got the Smiths and Arctic Monkeys one, maybe u have a similar taste Mystery Boy. Your chance now, you give me the dare and I’ll follow through."

- A,

Mattheo leaned back against the wall, grinning to himself. So, she was serious about this. A dare, huh? This could get interesting.

He quickly scribbled in his response, his hand steady as he wrote. "Alright, mystery girl, you asked for it."

omggg, I actually wrote this? I'm very happy about it, and i'd love if people interact w it, also ty @sunkissedscribbles for helping since my first draft looked like a seven year old wrote it 😭 also yes, this will be a series and I'm very open to suggestions and any improvements. (I should probably make a taglist?) - rey

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nadvs · 3 months ago

Text

push and pull (part one)

pairing twin!rafe x female reader x twin!zach

summary life felt complicated enough when you started falling for zach. then you meet rafe. he’s the complete opposite of his twin brother, but he captures your attention just the same.

author’s note finally wrote the zach/rafe twin au!! i won’t be making this a series but it was so fun to write as a one-shot (that had to turn into a two-shot because i ran out of post space lol)

tags college au set in the obx universe. mutual pining. angst. love triangle. miscommunication. no smut. rafe endgame (s2 bangs supremacy) (sorry to my zach girlies)

content warnings alcohol use, mental illness, mentions of parental abandonment

» intro post

» masterlist

Everyone can tell the Cameron twins apart by their hair.

Zach’s is short and unkept, always looking like he just ran off the soccer field, while Rafe keeps his a little longer, soft strands hanging over his forehead, every edge neat and clean.

From the moment you first see them together, you can tell that the two couldn’t be more different. And you don’t need to rely on any tricks like looking at their hair to know who’s who.

It’s their eyes that give them away. While they’re the same captivating shade of blue, Zach has a sense of hope in his eyes that Rafe doesn’t.

────୨ৎ────

Your father has been coaching your college’s men’s soccer team for most of his career. When the directors of the athletic department kept pestering him about the team needing a social media presence for the school’s PR, he asked you if you’d be interested.

As a freshman, the part-time job seemed like a fun way to get to know people, so you accepted the position and made a TikTok account for the team.

Since the start of the season, of all the soccer players, Zach has been the most welcoming. He goes along with whatever you need for work, humoring you when you hold up your phone and ask him trending questions for videos, like what his lockscreen is or what superstitions he follows before a game.

As time went on, you felt yourself gravitating more and more towards him, watching him in awe whenever you came by the field during practices and games.

Eventually, he started inviting you to the close-knit team’s hangouts. You quickly and seamlessly joined the friend group within a few weeks.

Before you knew it, you had a serious crush on him. He’s handsome and funny and a total sweetheart. What makes it so complicated is that you can’t read him at all.

He’s nice to you, but he’s nice to everyone. Maybe your feelings are unrequited, but you hold onto hope that he looks at you the same way you look at him.

It’s a Friday night when you visit Zach’s place for the first time. You’re sitting in the living room with a few of his teammates and their girlfriends, your empty takeout containers scattered over the coffee table, the sound of the autumn wind rushing past the windows reduced to a whisper beneath your loud conversation.

Zach had already told you he had a twin brother that he lived with in a loft off-campus, but when you rest your eyes on Rafe for the first time as he comes through the front door, it’s surprisingly jarring to see someone identical to Zach.

The chatter continues around you as you watch Rafe toss his keys onto the end table, drop a duffle bag, and silently walk into the open-concept kitchen. He swings open the fridge, keeping his head down.

His hair is damp, sweat glistening on his skin. His shirt is plastered to his torso, the planes of his muscles angular and sharp, not leaving much to the imagination.

“You haven’t met my less handsome brother yet,” Zach jokes to you. He points to Rafe, then to you, introducing you to each other.

“Hi,” you say kindly.

When Rafe meets your gaze, he stills for a moment, eyes almost imperceptibly widening. A couple seconds of silence pass.

“Hey,” he finally offers with a quick, tense nod.

“How was your workout?” Zach asks.

Rafe pulls a protein shake out of the fridge and swings the door closed.

“It’s so fucking busy in that gym,” Rafe replies, stepping away. He turns the corner and paces up the stairs towards his bedroom.

He and his brother have always lived in different worlds. They host parties sometimes, but that’s usually as close as their social circles overlap.

Right now, though, it’s like his aching muscles are willing him to turn around and keep talking to the pretty girl sitting in his living room. But while he’s never been good at ignoring his impulses, he’s not about to flirt with his brother’s guest, knowing how much it bothers him.

Before Rafe reaches his bedroom to get ready for a shower, he hears Zach come upstairs to stop him in the hallway.

“I’ll make sure they’re out by nine,” he says quietly. “That cool?”

Zach has always enjoyed having people over and surrounding himself with friends. But he’s aware of how much it annoys his moody brother when he just wants to chill at home. Despite how much Rafe parties and hooks up, when he wants quiet, he wants quiet.

Because Zach naturally wants to keep the peace, when they moved out of Tannyhill, he set ground rules. One of them is that they’ll check in with each other to make sure they don’t let guests overstay.

Rafe looks at his watch to see it’s nearly eight and says, “Sure. Whatever. I’m having a girl over later anyway.”

As soon as Zach left the living room, you heard one of the other soccer players, Chance, quietly make a joke about how that was the most words he’s ever heard Rafe say.

It makes Rafe all the more intriguing to you. Everyone here has some sort of history with him, albeit small and meaningless. But you’re still fairly new to the friend group. You know nothing about Rafe. For some reason, you want that to change.

Zach’s eyes meet yours when he comes back into the living room.

“Still a warm and fuzzy guy, isn’t he?” Chance says.

“Like always,” Zach quips with a shrug. And that’s that. Nobody brings up Rafe for the rest of the night.

When the hangout comes to an end about an hour later, Zach trails you all out through the front door. You bump into a girl you recognize from one of your classes.

“Hey,” she says. “I know you.”

“Hi,” you say with a laugh, holding the door open for her when you realize she’s coming into the loft.

Rafe appears behind Zach and by the way his eyes hungrily travel down her body, you quickly surmise she’s here for him.

And for some reason, it stings that she’s physically the complete opposite of you. If that’s Rafe’s type, you definitely don’t measure up.

You’re not sure why your mind is running away from you so fast. Why do you care about Rafe’s type? It’s his brother you’ve been pining over for the last month.

“How’d you do on that quiz?” she asks you.

“The grades are already up?” you reply.

“On time for once,” she laughs.

“Let’s go,” Rafe mumbles to her, his hand finding the small of her back.

You know it isn’t personal. He clearly just wants to hang out with her, not entertain any small talk. But the way he’s acting like you’re not even in the room hurts.

You say bye to Zach one last time before you follow your friends down the hallway towards the elevator. Your shoes are padding over the tiles when you hear your name half-whispered.

Zach stands with a foot out his door, beckoning you. Butterflies swirl in your stomach as you scurry back to close the distance between you. You look up at his warm eyes expectantly.

“Sorry. Don’t take it personally,” he murmurs with a gentle smile. “Rafe’s like that with everyone.”

You’re sure he’s not like that with the girl he just led upstairs. But you don’t know why you even care that much.

Zach’s the one you like. Obviously if you find him attractive, you’ll find his twin brother attractive, too. You figure your brain is just getting used to it.

You return his smile, appreciative. Stuff like this is why you like him; he cares enough to try to comfort you after his brother brushed you off.

“It’s okay,” you reply. Your friends call your name, urging you to get to the elevator before the doors close. “Thanks. I’ll see you.”

Zach watches you rush away, hoping he managed to make you feel better. He loves his brother. He understands why he is the way he is. But he doesn’t like that he made a girl who was nothing but nice to him feel bad.

As he tidies up the mess in the living room, thinking about how sweetly you had offered to help clear the table, Zach realizes that he enjoys not having housekeepers.

He never liked watching people have to clean up after him. Getting used to cleaning took some time after he and Rafe settled in here when the school year began, but now, it feels good.

Moving out was the best thing they could’ve done. Even though Zach’s only minutes older, he always felt protective of his brother, and being at home with their dad and stepmom just messed with Rafe, bringing out his self-destructive tendencies.

About an hour later, Zach’s doing schoolwork at the kitchen island when he hears the front door shut. He’s used to his brother’s habits, having random girls over, never letting them spend the night.

“She’s new,” Zach says when Rafe saunters into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Rafe says, ducking into the fridge. “Do we have any food?”

“I saved some takeout for you.” Zach points to the container by the oven.

“Sweet.”

“What’s she like?” Zach asks.

Rafe shrugs. Thankfully, his hook-up wasn’t interested in getting to know him, either. She just wanted to be physical. Losing himself in the feeling of a girl’s legs wrapped around him, melting into emotionless pleasure, shutting his mind up, is Rafe’s comfort zone.

“She’s cool,” he mumbles. “It’s nothing serious.”

Zach watches his brother pick at his dinner at the counter, not bothering to sit down.

He never understood how he could have these meaningless hook-ups. Zach can’t imagine sharing a bed with a girl he has no connection with. Or never talking to her again after.

He shuts his laptop, pinching the bridge of his nose before he speaks.

“Hey, you think you could be a little nicer to my guests?” he asks. Rafe tenses up.

“This again?” It isn’t the first time Zach is giving him shit for how he talks to his friends.

“It makes them feel unwelcome when you act like that,” Zach replies. Rafe’s temper flares.

“Did they tell you that?” he snips.

“They don’t have to. Just… be decent, okay?”

“I am. You care too much about what people think,” Rafe mutters.

“Maybe you don’t care enough.” Zach’s lips firm into a thin line. “I don’t want to have to apologize for you.”

“Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “Who’d you have to apologize to? For what?”

Zach mentions your name and how sad you looked as you were leaving. Rafe sighs, but a hint of anxiety pricks at his skin. This happens a lot. He thinks things are fine, and then he finds out later that apparently, he was rude.

“I hope you’re at least nicer to the girls you bring over,” Zach says.

“Not every girl wants a nice guy,” he jokes with a snort. “Can we skip the lecture?”

“Dude,” he sighs in exasperation.

Rafe rolls his eyes. Zach never got that Rafe doesn’t have the ability to read people all that well, that he doesn’t know when he’s expected to tiptoe around feelings. Rafe wishes everyone was just upfront like he is.

Despite the frustration rolling through his body, he hates to lose his temper on his brother. He always regrets it after if he does. So, he relents.

“Fine. I’ll be nicer,” Rafe sighs. He thinks back to the way you looked sitting in the living room earlier tonight, your voice sweet, your smile pretty.

“She’s cute,” Rafe mumbles. “New girlfriend?”

He wonders if Rafe’s mocking him. Or maybe Zach’s just being overly sensitive. His younger brother has teased him in the past for how he’s hardly ever single for very long.

Zach does prefer to be in a relationship, to live in a promise of commitment with someone who wants to love him. But is that so bad?

They deal with their trauma in different ways. Zach runs towards comfort and connection, while Rafe would rather die than be vulnerable with a girl.

Zach would never say it, but he believes he copes much better than Rafe does. But then again, Zach is pretty sure Rafe has mental health issues that he refuses to acknowledge.

“Just a friend. Her dad’s my coach,” Zach replies flatly. “She does social media for the team. She’s off limits.”

“Off limits?” Rafe echoes. “Why? You like her?”

“No,” Zach lies on impulse. It’s not just his brother he considers you off limits to. He can’t pursue you, either. Although he wants to.

But if he admits to not wanting to date the coach’s daughter because it could end badly and leave things awkward for everybody, Rafe’ll whine about how stupid it is to be living life like that, always afraid to upset people.

They’ve had this exact conversation so many times. Zach would say that it’s not stupid to be considerate. Rafe would tell him to be selfish for once. And they’d get nowhere.

“I already told you that you can’t hook up with my friends,” Zach states.

Rafe sighs. He’s done it in the past, had flings with girls Zach befriends, then caught shit for not calling back, even though he’s always clear that he’s not looking for a relationship. Zach hates losing friends as a result of Rafe’s impulses.

“I know,” he finally says. “Relax.”

It frustrates Zach how much his brother acts like he’s high-strung. In reality, he is relaxed. Among his friends, he has a reputation for being chill and fun.

But with Rafe, he has to play this role. He’s had to since they were kids.

Zach stands, taking his laptop with him as he paces towards his bedroom. It’d be nice to talk to his brother about how much he likes you, about how excited he gets when he sees you coming to talk to him, even when it’s just to film a video.

It’s not like he can tell any of the guys on his team. As close as he is with them, he’s sure it’d spread and get back to you.

Rafe’s the only person he’d gush to, but he’d rather not listen to him whine about how Zach needs to stop giving a fuck about consequences. Because that’s who Rafe is.

“Night,” Zach says curtly.

“Hey, I’m sorry, alright? I don’t try to be a dick,” Rafe says. “You don’t want any more of this?”

Zach looks at the food.

“I’m good.”

It’s another lie. He still has an appetite, but he’d rather let someone else eat if they’re hungry. Because that’s who Zach is.

────୨ৎ────

“Whoa,” you say, scrolling through your notifications.

“What’s up?” Zach asks, leaning closer to you.

You’re sitting in a loud and overcrowded on-campus bar with your friends. It’s been a few days since you hung out at Zach’s, being pulled out of the conversation from your phone buzzing incessantly.

Zach’s chin is almost touching your shoulder as you drag your thumb over your phone screen. He smells like soap and warmth, making your heart race.

“This one video randomly blew up,” you say. “From like, two weeks ago. It has almost ten thousand likes.”

“Which one?” Chance asks, sitting across the table from you.

“The one where I asked you guys what’s on your lockscreens,” you tell them. “I’ll send the link.”

Your friends gaze at their phones around the table after you share the video in the group chat, but Zach stays in his spot, preferring to watch over your shoulder, closer than he’s ever been to you.

It’s stuff like this that makes you think he’s crushing on you, too.

“Well, that’s good, right?” Zach offers. “Makes you look good if you get us viral.”

You breathe a chuckle as you read through the comments.

“I don’t know,” you say. “You’re all kind of getting objectified.”

“What?” Kacey, Chance’s girlfriend half-shouts.

“Oh, that explains why I’m getting all these random follow requests,” Chance laughs. He looks at his girlfriend. “I’m not accepting them. Don’t worry.”

“Sunrise guy is so pure,” Roy, the goalie, reads a comment aloud in a teasing tone. “102 likes. Jesus.”

“Am I sunrise guy?” Zach mumbles to you.

You smirk, finally turning your head to meet his eyes. In the video, Zach said his lockscreen was ‘a cool picture he took of a sunrise.’

“I think you are,” you reply. Admittedly, he looked adorable in the video, just coming out of the locker room after a game, his hair messy and his skin flushed.

“Pure,” he repeats, his lips twisting. “Is that good?”

“I’d say it’s good,” you shrug.

“Sunrise guy is fine as hell,” Roy reads, laughing. “And there’s a whole thread under trying to find your Instagram.”

You swear you notice Zach blush as he shuffles to take his phone out of his pocket.

“What are they saying about you, huh, Roy?” Zach teases. “Share with the class.”

“Nobody’s saying shit about Roy,” Chance laughs, scrolling.

“Shut up,” Roy says, punching Chance’s shoulder.

Your stomach twists with unease when you see Zach open Instagram, the red message bubble mocking you.

Sure enough, a few girls dm’d him. He opens a message from a girl with a pretty profile photo.

Hiiii :) please don’t think I’m a stalker lol I just saw you on tiktok and I’m wondering how I haven’t seen you around campus?

You look away, feeling guilty for snooping. It’s a girl who goes to the same college. A girl he could very easily meet and date.

He’s not your boyfriend. You have to remind yourself that he owes you nothing. But jealousy doesn’t care if you’ve claimed someone as yours or not. It still finds a way to seep in.

You shift in your seat, pretending to continue to read comments while your heart squeezes in a vice.

────୨ৎ────

The next weekend, Zach and Rafe are hosting a party. As you get ready, you put extra time into getting pretty. You wonder if you haven’t been obvious enough.

You’ve been flirting with Zach like always, but he might think you’re just being nice, so if the air feels right tonight, you’ll try to make it more clear that you’re interested.

You arrive at the loft, trying to act unfazed when Zach pulls you in for a quick hug. He does it with everyone, though, so you’re not sure if you’re special to him at all.

Rafe notices you walk in. He’s standing just outside the kitchen, a cold beer bottle in his hand. You’re even prettier than he remembers.

Zach leads you to the kitchen where drinks are laid out on the counter, then quickly gets pulled away by the doorbell ringing again.

You pace into the bright space, gazing over the ridiculously large array of alcohol. Ever since you saw the size of this place, you’ve wondered if Zach comes from a wealthy family.

Regular college students couldn’t afford a home like this. And they wouldn’t so generously buy all the many drinks scattered atop the counter.

You meet sharp blue eyes. Rafe raises his beer bottle slightly in greeting. You offer a smile in return, your body numbing.

You notice yet another difference between them. Zach dresses like most other guys on campus, while Rafe is in a crisp button-up, a small logo stitched on the front. You know that brand isn’t cheap. Neither is his watch.

They must be well off. Zach doesn’t seem to want to show it. Rafe does.

You find a drink you can stomach, picking up the cold glass bottle and looking around for an opener.

“Apparently, I was rude to you the other day?” Rafe’s voice cuts over the music.

You look up to see him stepping a bit closer, putting his beer down on the marble with a clack and gripping a metallic bottle opener. You take his silent invitation, handing him your drink.

“You weren’t not rude,” you reply.

Rafe’s dimples cave into his cheeks when he chuckles, looking down, popping the lid off with ease. He likes that you call him out on it, instead of appeasing him.

“My bad.” His voice is husky, his words said with a drawl. He hands your drink back to you. “Zach’s always giving me shit about my manners.”

“He’s right to,” you joke.

You take a small sip from the bottle, your face pinching with a hint of distaste, and Rafe finds it ridiculously cute.

“Don’t like it?” he asks, eyes glinting.

“Just a little bitter,” you admit. You look out at the crowd, some faces familiar, some faces not.

You’re not close enough to the girl in your class, the one you saw Rafe with, to have asked her what their deal is. The curiosity has oddly been gnawing at you.

It’d be weird to mention it to her. Or to him. But you do notice that she’s not here. You take another drag from the bottle, tapping your nails against the counter to the familiar song.

Rafe can’t tear his eyes off of you, noticing the way you’re slightly mouthing the lyrics. If he wasn’t this close, he wouldn’t be able to tell.

“You know this song?” Rafe asks.

“You do, too?” you say, looking up at him again as he towers over you.

“It’s my playlist.”

“Oh,” you laugh, surprised that you have something in common with him, that you both like this fairly unknown artist. “Yeah. This whole album is good.”

Rafe nods. You try not to stare. He has a magnetizing pull that you can’t really make sense of. There’s something so naturally dominating about him, like he’s silently demanding your attention.

The night Zach mentioned your job, Rafe looked through the account you run for his soccer team. Truthfully, he wished you were in the videos instead of behind the camera, but at least he could hear your voice.

You intrigue him. There’s no way to ignore it. His brother doesn’t want him hooking up with his friends, but what’s the harm in talking?

“So, you do TikTok stuff for my brother’s team?” Rafe asks. Zach has obviously talked about you to him. You wonder what else he said.

“My job description technically says ‘content creation’,” you reply. “But I guess ‘TikTok stuff’ works.”

Rafe can’t stifle his smile. He thinks Zach’s an idiot not to like you.

Maybe he’s lying. But it’s unlike him to lie when it comes to girls. He always wears his heart on his sleeve, so much so that it confuses Rafe why, after growing up around so much instability, he’s still so open to being hurt.

“You’re not into soccer?” you ask. He shakes his head no. “Do you play something else?”

“Nah,” Rafe says. “I golf sometimes, but that’s it.”

You can’t help but breathe a chuckle. Of course a rich guy like him would play golf of all sports.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you say.

“What’s funny?” he teases, his stare penetrating.

You have to look away, heat flushing through you. Everything about him, about his appeal, is overwhelming.

“Come on,” he beckons, teasing.

“I was going to say that I’m not surprised.” Your eyes dart down to the small logo on his shirt. “You would play golf.”

Rafe’s amused. Zach never liked making it obvious that they come from money because he says it’s in ‘bad taste.’ It’s another thing about his brother that never made sense to Rafe.

“Really? Who’s being rude now?” he asks.

You look up at him with doe eyes. Right now, it’s really hard for Rafe to give a fuck about you being off limits.

“Still you,” you reply. He laughs.

It’s a surprise, the way Rafe’s not as cold as you first thought. He has a guard up and he doesn’t smile much, but he has his own type of charm.

You continue to chat with him about music and school and even your dad being the soccer coach. Zach must have mentioned that, too.

Thankfully, you’re not quite drunk yet, because if you were, you might ask him what else Zach has said about you, and that could be a giveaway of your feelings for him. And if you show interest in Zach, that would probably kill your chances with Rafe.

Uncomfortable realization pools your senses. While these men are complete contradictions of each other, unalike in so many ways, you like them. Both of them. Shit.

You down the tiny bit left of your drink, a sign of just how long you’ve been standing here talking to Rafe. Time with him has a way of slipping.

You gaze out at the party again, noticing that the living room has gotten much more crowded. And then you see Zach, sitting on the couch, beaming brightly as he talks to a girl.

Rafe catches the way your face falls. When he sees your eyes on his brother, he’s sure of it. You like him. And here you are, making conversation with him while you’re pining over Zach.

He thought you were having fun together. He felt a spark. The sting of rejection tears into him. His gut reaction is to be spiteful. To say you should just go talk to Zach if he’s boring you. Or to really make it hurt, to tell you Zach said he doesn’t like you like that.

Truthfully, as much as he loves Zach, he’s always been a little jealous of him. Everything just seems so easy for him, while every minute of Rafe’s life feels like a fight he’s losing.

Instead of hurting you, he swallows down his words with a swig of beer. Maybe all of Zach’s scolding for his lack of manners is finally working.

“Enjoy the party, yeah?” Rafe says to you. He steps away before you can reply.

Later on, you’re chatting with Kacey when you feel rhythmic buzzes in your pocket. You pull your phone out to see Zach’s name on your screen.

“Hello?” you answer.

“Finally,” he laughs. “Can you open the front door for me? I got locked out.”

A moment later, you meet Zach on the first floor, wishing your heart didn’t skip the way it does when he smiles at you through the glass door.

“I’m an idiot,” he says once you let him in. “I forgot my keys. Thanks.”

“Sure,” you laugh.

“You know, you’re the fourth person I called.” Zach puts an arm around your shoulders as you walk through the lobby. He’s never touched you like this and it’s comforting, but then again, everything about Zach is comforting. “Nobody else answered.”

By the way he’s being more affectionate than usual and slurring his words, you can tell he’s drunk.

“Why were you outside?” you ask.

“I walked someone down,” he answers. “Actually, a girl I met because of that video you posted.”

Likely the girl you saw messaging him just a few nights ago. He must have replied and liked her so much that he invited her tonight. Your heart aches.

“How’d it go?” you ask, feigning indifference.

“Good,” Zach replies. “I think she had fun.”

Of course he answers selflessly, more concerned about what she thought of him. You enter the elevator and he parts from you, pressing the button.

“Was Rafe being nice?” he asks. He obviously noticed you talking to his brother.

“He was actually telling me to leave,” you reply. Zach’s eyes widen and you laugh. “Wow, you’re gullible. I’m kidding. Yes, he was nice.”

He did leave your conversation pretty abruptly, but you’d rather not tell Zach in case he feels the need to apologize for his brother’s behavior again.

“Okay. Good.” Zach looks up at the changing numbers on the screen, smiling proudly as he leans back against the elevator wall.

His younger brother can be brash and reckless, but Zach knows it’s all because his feelings overwhelm him. He sees right through Rafe’s attempts to hide it from everyone, including himself.

Everyone thinks Zach is the emotional one. He isn’t. He doesn’t even come close to how sensitive and unstable Rafe can be.

“He’s a good guy,” he says. “I love him to death. We’ve been through a lot together and when our mom left, he…”

You look over at Zach’s profile, his lips curved into a frown.

“He took it hard and I don’t think he ever really got over any of it,” he finishes his sentence.

His inhibitions have clearly been silenced by alcohol, and you’d ask for more information if it didn’t feel like you were taking advantage of his drunken state.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Rafe’s standing in the hallway, holding his phone, having just caught up with Zach’s missed notifications.

“Where were you?” Zach says, mocking offense. “Do you even care that I was left out in the cold? You know I don’t like being alone.”

“Alright, come on,” Rafe says, shaking his head in disapproval as he pulls Zach forward by the shoulder. He meets your eyes for a second. “How much did you drink?”

“Relax,” Zach says, then laughs. “Wow. For once, I’m telling you that.”

The three of you walk down the hallway towards the loft. Your arms are crossed, still confused about your feelings for Rafe, still hurt that Zach doesn’t see anything worth pursuing in you.

“I love you, you know?” Zach mumbles to his brother. “I was just saying how much we’ve been through and how much I love you.”

Rafe’s body goes cold. He glares at you.

“What did he say?” he asks you, tense.

“I could barely understand him,” you fib. You don’t want to embarrass either one of them.

“You’re not gonna say you love me back?” Zach says to Rafe.

“Dude,” Rafe scoffs. “You cannot hold your booze. You’re going to bed.”

“Never,” Zach murmurs.

After everything that’s happened tonight, you feel too disoriented to be able to laugh.

(part two)

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron and you #rafe cameron and reader #rafe cameron and y/n #zach maclaren and reader #zach maclaren and you #zach maclaren and y/n #zach maclaren x y/n #zach maclaren x you #zach maclaren x reader

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seiwas · 4 months ago

Note

hihi sel! for your trope mashup game: bedsharing + teacher au featuring satosugu! (or any ship of your choice, really bahaha)

bitti!! thanks for playing with me 🥹 u need to know. this took me tf out 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 thanks for bouncing around these ideas w me babie @mieiri

"looks like we'll have to cuddle tonight," gojo plops down on the foot of the bed, hands outstretched behind him.

you drop your bag to the floor, scanning the rest of the room.

there's a decently sized window at the far end, with a small desk and its own chair. to your immediate right is the bathroom, with a single sink, a small shower space, and a toilet. the space is okay, not too big and not too small considering the two giants you’re rooming with.

except, there’s one problem. when your eyes pan to the left, right up against the wall—

there's only one bed.

you can hear geto chuckling behind you, his leather jacket crinkling as he walks around the room.

there was supposed to be a couch at least. that's what your faculty had promised you. it's why you agreed to room with geto and gojo in the first place.

"dibs not middle," geto settles into the seat right at the end of the room.

they both look at you.

oh god.

this professor's retreat was initiated by your college in an effort to mingle with your colleagues from the other departments. not that you needed it to get to interact with gojo and geto, you know each other enough from the weekend martial arts classes you attend together.

that being said, though, knowing them from a shared class is a far different relationship from being comfortable enough to sleep beside them.

between coinciding schedules with the physics department and later time slots of the molecular biology classes, the chemistry classes you teach leave almost no opportunity for you to pass them in the hallways.

which, is honestly kind of a good thing.

you don't think you can handle seeing them even more than you already do on the weekends; gojo dressed in tight compression shirts and geto in those sickeningly fitted vests. how sweaty they both end up after sparring with one another—

"i'll take the floor," you announce, heat firing your cheeks as you immediately rifle through the cabinets in the bathroom for extra towels.

granted, the outfits they wear to work are a lot more modest. gojo always opts for pressed dress shirts, neat and sleek as if he’s busy (which he is, you think. he’s always somehow invited to meetings with the university’s higher-ups). geto, on the other hand, swears by his leather jackets. if it weren’t for the ‘lecturer’ id clipped to his jacket pocket, he’d easily be mistaken as a student. you’re pretty sure he has, especially by his own students on the first day of class.

still, you cannot handle sleeping in between the two of them.

in your panic, you don't notice the sound of footsteps approaching the bathroom door, a broad figure leaning over its frame.

"hey,"

you’re going to kill gojo.

between the two of them, gojo’s always the one who tries to convince you to join in on their antics. but as long as he doesn’t touch you, you think you’ve built up a pretty good immunity to all his tricks.

this, however, is a completely different tactic.

if one of them can persuade you by voice alone, it’s geto suguru—and it seems like gojo knows it too.

“you know there'll be plenty of space on the bed, right?"

it was a mistake for you to look up, because now you've caught his eyes, an impossibly hypnotizing brown that drips warmth into his honeyed speech.

you breathe out, keeping your cool, “it's okay, suguru, i don't mind.”

he crosses his arms, leaning more of his weight on the doorframe as he peers down at you. a strand of his hair falls from the bun he usually keeps it in; it’s tip lands right where his smirk ends.

well, fuck.

"satoru's a stick," he comments, and from within the room you can hear gojo start to whine, “hey—!”, but suguru continues, ignoring him, “i can squeeze closer to the wall."

he tilts his head, dipping it lower.

you sigh, closing your eyes. the towels you’ve managed to scavenge now slipping from your hands.

when you step outside in evident defeat, gojo sits up from the bed, tapping the space beside him as he crosses his legs. gojo runs his mouth a lot of the time, but it’s in this moment that you truly believe pretty boys shouldn’t be allowed to speak. because when he says—

"c'mon, it'll be fun."

—you think the next three days will simultaneously be the best and worst days of your life.

some additional things i didn’t include:

gojo’s pedagogy is terrible but students love to take his class because they think he’s hot + he doesn’t require attendance. his assessments are either extremely easy (aka nothing) or fucking hard and students are willing to take this gamble 🥲 he also sucks at teaching because he can’t explain for shit!!! but he grades high 😃

geto on the other hand!! good all around except his assessments are always fucking HARD. but students also love to take his class because they actually learn something 😃 (and also bc his students crush on him hard lmao)

the sleeping situation happens as follows: gojo takes up most of the bed space and geto does in fact squeeze to the wall, with you squished to his side too 😃 on one of the nights, gojo clings onto you and geto scoots closer because the empty space freaks him out a lil 😃 at some point, both of them squish you in the middle too 😃 you start to think maybe they wanted this all along…

#omg bitti my mind was BUZZING with this oh my gooooood #satosugu x reader #jjk x reader #shotorus.workbook #i hope u enjoyed this bc imagining this took me tf oUT #ask #rep #bitti.🍞#rabbbitseason

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lxkeee · 10 months ago

Text

⋆.˚ . FLY ME TO THE MOON ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚.

-PART FIVE

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Archangel Raphael! Fem! Reader

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Notes: two angels awkwardly trying to make amends.

PART ONE | PART FOUR | PART SIX | MISC.

[y/n] continues to visit a few days later to watch over the hotel and keep track of the progress and anyone can tell that Lucifer and the said angel are trying to discreetly hide the fact they are trying to avoid each other.

Which is increasingly hard to do so for the king of hell, the man can clearly tell that the woman is clearly overworked based on the eye bags underneath her eyes, the dark circles around her eyes, and how she often spaces out.

Lucifer knows how much responsibility the virtues carry, he was one after all but it wasn't as bad before as... Evil didn't exist but because of his actions, it gave the virtues more work and it made work more dangerous as they tried to control the evil that's constantly growing on earth.

Lucifer watches [y/n] as she worked,they are currently at the second floor balcony, sitting by the railings as they looked at the people at the lobby, currently in her disguise—when we say disguise, her wings and halo are hidden away from prying eyes, of course she wears darker clothes to not stand out. Lucifer watches the woman write something on her notepad as she watches over how the new guests acted but Lucifer can see how her head lowers ever so often as she accidentally falls asleep for a few seconds before flinching back up as she wakes up.

His eyes softened, his hand instinctively trying to reach out to her but slowly retracting it back, unsure if he's allowed to physically touch her.

A lightbulb lights up in his mind, remembering the trick he used to do to her to get her to sleep back when they were still in heaven together.

Lucifer discreetly summons a fluffy white pillow, once he notices [y/n] slowly losing consciousness, he gently holds the pillow at the side of her face, discreetly allowing her head to rest on the soft pillow. Slowly bringing his hand down, bringing the pillow along with [y/n]'s sleeping form down. Now the pillow is on his lap with [y/n] sleeping on it. Passed out and deep asleep. Lucifer smiles softly as he looks at her sleeping face.

Lucifer gently removed the clipboard with her notes and the pen from her hands, snapping his fingers to teleport it to [y/n]'s room.

Now on to the next problem, [y/n]'s sleeping form.

“I can't let anyone see us like this.” Lucifer whispers to himself, even though [y/n] is taller than him, he can effortlessly carry her.

The pillow falls into the ground as he princess carried her, thankfully her room isn't too far, just a few doors down the second floor hallway.

[Y/n] snuggles against his chest as he carries her, warmth crawls up to Lucifer's cheeks, his eyes softening in adoration. He misses this. He missed having her in his arms. He misses her in general.

With a sigh, he resumes back to walking. Finally arriving at [y/n]'s room, using his powers [keekee] to unlock the room, [y/n]'s room is neat and tidy, minimalist even, which is understandable since she's only temporarily staying here.

Lucifer carries her to her bed, tucking her gently and making sure she's comfortable. He made sure to remove some of her hair accessories because he knows she'll feel uncomfortable if she accidentally lies on it.

Lucifer places the hair accessories on the bedside table, proud of his work. He looks at the sleeping angel, a small smile on his face as he finally sees her taking a break. Squeezing her hand comfortingly. Despite their current differences, Lucifer doesn't like seeing her like this—overworked, and mentally and physically not okay in general.

“Rest up, [y/n]... You've been working too hard.” He says softly, he was about to leave and finally let go of her hand when she held onto him, holding his hand.

“Don't leave me again, please..?” she begged softly, half-asleep. Her hands squeezed his hand as if she's afraid he'll slip out of her grasp once more and leave her again.

Lucifer's breath hitched, a tear streaming down his beautiful pale and reddish cheek.

“I won't, I promise I won't leave you again. I'll make sure of it.” He whispers softly, his other hand caressing away the strands of her hair that was falling onto her face.

“I'll be here, just an arms reach. But I really need to go and help my daughter... So, I'll give you this...” he says gently, conjuring up a tiny duck plushie with a large white hat that has an apple and a snake in thin air and placing it carefully underneath her arms.

“This will have to do for now but I hope one day, you'll allow me to be fully back into your life and I'll wait for that moment to happen, even if it lasts for eternity.” he says, eye's half-lidded and soft as he spoke. Finally freeing his hand, he began to turn away from her.

“Rest up, Mon ange. Call out my name if you need me... Just like you used to, I'll be here when you call and I promise that, a promise that I'll make sure to keep.” Lucifer whispers with a small smile before finally leaving her side and leaving her room, making sure to lock it from the inside.

[Y/n] was able to sleep properly after so many eons of sleepless nights, cuddling tightly against her new plushie.

As Lucifer got out of [y/n]'s room, Angel Dust so happens to get out of his own room and the arachnid sees the king of hell leaving a certain archangel's room. The arachnid gave Lucifer wiggling eyebrows and a smirk and Lucifer blushes, “It's not what it looks like!” Lucifer defends himself and Angel just gives him a raised eyebrow, “Whaat...? I haven't even said anything yet~” he says and Lucifer just blushed in embarrassment as he quickly teleports away from the arachnid and back to his own room.

Plopping onto his bed and getting underneath the covers, pressing a pillow against his face and just sighs in embarrassment.

Lucifer was beginning to wonder if his actions were too straightforward, was it too much? Will [y/n] hate him even more?

Decisions, decisions, all of them wrong. He says to himself as he groans.

Hopefully this won't deepen the gap between.

But one thing Lucifer is certain is that everything he has said to [y/n] as she slept was all true. All of those words came deep within from inside his heart.

Snuggling into his blanket, Lucifer yawns. He's too emotionally tired to deal with all of this so he'll be running away from his problems by sleeping. Getting comfortably underneath the blanket, the king of hell fell asleep.

With a tired groan, [y/n] slowly stretched her body as she slowly woke up. Yawning as she did so.

“That was one of the best sleep I've had in a while.” she thought before her eyes finally snapped open at the realization, sleep? Weren't she just taking notes of the sinner's progress?!

She sat up, her head darting left and right and seeing that she was back inside her hotel room.

“How did I get here...?” she thought and her eyes landed on the duck plushie that was on beside her, a plushie that is certainly new and not she owned. Her eyes softened, gently grabbing the stuffed animal and examining its features—the most prominent being the big white hat with the snake and apple.

“Oh... Lucifer...” [y/n] mutters as she finally brought the plushie to her arms and hugged it. “He must've carried me back here.” she thought with a small smile and sighs softly.

“I really hope that everything will return to how it used to be.... Just like we used to, I missed you...” she whispers, talking to the plushie as if it could hear her. Chuckling to herself, she places back down the plushie to the empty spot of her bed.

Finally getting out of bed, she made sure she was presentable as she brushed her hair and patted away the creases of her clothes.

Grabbing the clipboard and pen that was on the bedside table, she assumed it was Lucifer who placed it there.

“Time to resume work.” she muttered and quickly left her room, making sure it's locked.

After that, the two slowly and surely got less awkward around each, still awkward but now they know the other doesn't hate them.

[Y/n] watches as Charlie places four apple pies on the table, the sweets are something they [Charlie and Vaggie] got in the way while they were out in the pride city, [y/n] watching the hotel folks begin to take a slice of their own. I remember Lucifer's favorite sweet is apple pie, I wonder why he's not down here? She thought to herself, remembering the times the two used to bake sweets together in heaven and the man always requesting apple pie whenever he visits her.

[Y/n] flinches slightly when she feels that someone tapped her shoulder, turning around and looking down to see Charlie standing there with a smile on her face, “[y/n], feel free to take a slice for yourself. You're part of the team now.” Charlie says with a grin and [y/n] eyes widened in surprise. I'm part of the team...? She thought to herself.

[Y/n] just chuckled and nodded, ruffling the smaller girl's hair, “I am good, but thank you though.” [y/n] says with a smile, she really wants a slice but she doesn't feel comfortable eating with the others yet.

Charlie noticed that the older woman has a nervous look in her eyes as she watched the others converse with each other. During [y/n]'s time here, Charlie notices that the older woman barely interacted with anyone and preferred to hide away from people.

A mischievous idea flashed into Charlie's mind, a subtle grin on her face before it returned to her usual gentle smile.

“I am sure that you're not used to eating with others so I thought that—,” Charlie pauses as she grabs two plates with one slice of apple pie each and hands them to the older woman, “You go and bring this plate of apple pie to my dad and spend time with him?” she suggested and [y/n] chokes on the water she was drinking.

“Huh?!” [y/n] says, a little embarrassed at the idea and Charlie giggles.

“Come on~! This is a perfect opportunity for you two to... I don't know...? Talk?” Charlie says awkwardly and [y/n] sighs softly, “I don't know Charlie... It feels weird.” she muttered and the smaller girl sighs.

These two are hopeless. Charlie thought to herself.

“Just deliver it. Please?” Charlie pleaded with big rounded eyes that the older woman cannot refuse. With a sigh of acceptance she just nodded, “Alright fine, but I'll be leaving immediately after giving it to him.” she says and left, holding two plates of apple slices in her hands.

Charlie pumps her hand in accomplishment. Playing cupid is fun.

Lucifer was inside his room doing paperwork when three distinct knocks were heard against the wooden door to his room. He looked up from the paper, the hand that was holding his pen stopping halfway through when he was signing his signature.

“Who is it?” Lucifer calls out, returning to work.

“It's me, [y/n]. I brought you something...” [y/n]'s voice can be heard behind the door, muffled but Lucifer can tell the slight nervousness of her voice. Lucifer was surprised to hear that she came to visit him. Flustered, he got up from his seat and made himself presentable. Calming his fast beating heart, he walked towards his door and opened it.

Only for something to be shoved into his hand, a plate of apple pie and a golden fork.

“Charlie asked me to give you this, so here you go and have a nice day.” [y/n] says, a little too fast that Lucifer was barely processing the words, “Okay, byee.” [y/n] says and began speed walking away from his room, turning around the corner and disappear.

“[y/n] wait...!” He calls out, hand extended as if trying to reach out to her but the woman had already left. He hesitantly lowered his hand sadly.

Lucifer blinks, the iconic frog blink. Looking down at the neatly cut apple pie served on a plate and a golden fork with it.

With a deep sigh and a determined look in his, he quickly followed her. Fuck this, I'm done running away from my problems and I am done with losing you.

[Y/n] closes the door behind her as she enters the roof of the building, her heart beating erratically from nervousness and running.

She gazed up, admiring the smokey red skies of hell. Sitting down on the floor and placing the plate of apple pie on the floor, taking out her phone and began scrolling while simultaneously eating. Finally calming down, Lucifer probably won't follow me here. Is what she thought.

(Loud incorrect buzzer)

She didn't notice the door to the roof opened ever so slowly, as she was immersed in scrolling her phone.

Lucifer was able to finally catch up to her, his eyes softening to see her sitting on the floor and scrolling through her phone as she ate. Slowly, he approached her and took a seat next to her which made [y/n] flinched in surprise.

“Lucifer?!” she says nervously and he quickly shushes her with his gloved hand, “Shh, let's just eat in peace.” he says softly, almost a whisper. He can tell that the girl is still nervous and he chuckles.

“Don't act like we didn't do this before.” he says softly with a smile and [y/n] scoffs lightly, “It... It was different.” she answers, her voice almost a whisper.

“Why would it be any different now?” he asked with a smile on his face and [y/n] wanted to answer but just sighs and decided to continue eating. Shutting off her phone. Lucifer smiled, clearly amused at her behavior. He too began to eat the delicious apple pie.

The two ate in silence and beside each other, Lucifer summoning his wings and using his wings to keep the girl warm.

This is progress.

TAGLIST:

@adaizel @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @thedarkkitten @selvyyr @froggybich @brithedemonspawn @kottenox @totallymitya @many-fandoms-lover @dou-dou @mezzyb0nb0n @n1chxyaaenthusiast @cherry-4200 @koirb @galaxyj3lly @crystalplays28 @luleck @scootinonyourmom @rory-cakes @mixplara @crescent-z @bitchyzombienacho @kalisha2004 @altervex @nehy019 @napbatata @khafskii @velvettenoctus @hello-imperson @lafy-taffy @cocomollo @samenene @gracefullyfallinglikeanime @lu-ferri12

#lxkeee answers #lxkeee updates #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer hazbin hotel #lxkeee hazbin hotel masterlist #lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer magne #hazbin hotel x reader

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wroteclassicaly · 6 months ago

Text

Warnings: Language, menstrual cycle, mentions anxiety, emotions, blood, cramps, hurt/comfort, Nancy makes an adorable appearance, and lots of fluff!

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader

He isn’t sure how much time has passed, because everything seems so chaotically still. But your trembling, sobbing presence declares otherwise. It started earlier, with a clasped hand to your stomach, pushing your favorite pizza away in disgust. That space between your eyebrows screwed up in pain, and you’d left the table without another word. You should’ve planned on bringing things with you, I mean, hell, you always write your cycles down on Eddie’s Bible quote calendar anyways.

Neither of you were prepared for it to happen today, during the late evening hours, despite its looming date getting closer on Eddie’s wall display. You beelined it for your pad stash that the Munson’s so graciously permitted you your own drawer for in their small bathroom, only to find you had one singular sanitary pad, and a whole lotta mess on your hands. It was unexpectedly heavy, and it really fucking hurt, which didn’t usually occur until the next day. You called for your boyfriend and he immediately found you, head in your hands, on his toilet, thighs streaked in bright crimson, switching from holding your temples to angrily scrubbing at your eyes. Things with your cycle were never awkward with Eddie, not after getting used to it.

He simply knelt down, chain slapping against his pants, house slippers on his feet, taking your hands in his as he asked one question. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

~*~

Eddie rocks you back and forth, rubbing down your spine as you cry. As dusk turned into nightfall, summer storms beginning, battering the trailer with their high winds, your pain increased to the point where he’d considered calling for help. Midol worked for one hour and barely took the edge off, his hand couldn’t do the trick, you felt too bad to attempt an orgasm, and you are shaking with pleading sobs. He does all that he knows to calm you down, a slow ticking beneath his vocal cords, his throat warming as he begins to softly sing to you, cross-legged, you in his lap, arms tucked beneath his pits and draped around his lower back, his own continuously stroking you, not ceasing his back and forth movements. He ignores the tears in his own eyes as you cry out and squirm.

And that’s what you do. You cry yourself into a numbing sleep. That’s when Eddie lays you down and immediately dials up Wheeler, having to answer questions about what milligrams your pain meds are and if you are out of pads and tampons. Despite the rain, she is there with several bags not even twenty minutes later. She puts the chocolate and various salty snacks away with his assistance, hands him a new bottle of Midol, also laying out a new box of tampons and a smaller package of sanitary pads, before she is explaining how your medicine has a higher dosage, and ultimately helps him figure out the hot water bottle.

How Eddie Munson, of all people (she knows better after all these years than to judge a book by its cover) takes care of her best-friend, it makes her giddy, relieved.

“Each girl varies, but this stuff should help. I know her periods get a little rough sometimes. If she needs anything, have her call me or you can call me back, okay?”

“I definitely owe you one, Nance.” As he switches off from the usage of Wheeler, she’s folding the paper sack, grinning widely.

Definitely a teddy bear.

Once she’s safely in her station wagon and leaving his drive, Eddie automatically prepares your hot water bottle, grabs fresh ice water, your new pills bottle, and a few snacks, tucking the bottle beneath his armpit. He settles everything in a neat place on his nightstand, thankful you’re still asleep, but seeing your face still scrunched in agony. He gently lays the bottle beneath your navel, pulling his blanket over your form, leaving you only to wet a washcloth and wipe away the sweat that’s built on your forehead. He does that for a little while, changes your bottle in and out, right up until he sees that frown vanish and you curl into his side. He’s working a poem he plans on turning into lyrics when you stir.

It’s still raining steadily, scattering a beat that he can sample upon the tin roof. You stretch out like a cat, yawning, eyes blinking slowly as you take the room and your boyfriend into focus. You mumble about the time, grasping at the bottle on your belly. When Eddie comes into full view, he’s got one leg propped, the other flat, his notebook balanced on his raised knee, his shirt off, rings gone, with just his pick and boxers remaining. He looks relieved at your lazy grin.

Still, though, he has to check in. “Do I need to go reheat it, baby? I’ve been doing it off and on since Nance dropped it off.”

Nancy was here? He called her Nance? And your cramps are gone. There’s so much to smile about that you become overwhelmed, especially with your ability to focus again beyond mind numbing anxiety, and anguish. Your sclera is flooded with tears and Eddie instinctively freaks out, sliding from the bed. “I’ve got new Midol here, there’s pads and tampons, some snacks, still leftover pizza, and I can fix you right up, sweet—“

You’re kissing the remaining letters of the nickname right off of his mouth. Your hands press into his curls, dragging them through your fingers, enjoying how their soft-silky texture tickles your knuckles. He wraps his arms around your back, letting a palm dig into your tailbone. You mewl appreciatively. Eddie uses a calloused thumb to swipe away your tears on the wet break away, on the verge of losing it at the relief of your relaxed state - himself.

And you, you’re looking at him as if he’s hung the moon for you. No one has to say anything, you both already know.

However, Mother Nature captivates your tongue and takes a hold of your desires. You let one hand drift and gently play with his chain, and he’s unable to deny how he’s practically purring in your grasp. “Eddie?”

“Yeah….?” He’s dazed and grinning like a goofy idiot.

“I’m hungry. Oh, and I love you!”

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midnight-bay-if · 4 months ago

Note

SO BUT LIKE WHAT IF!! What uf in that last angst ask "how long would the cast take to "get over MCs death" what IF!! WHAT IF THEY "Got over MCs death" in their own way, but BAM! MC was rised fron the dead by some outta pocket bullshit like they wished on a star or the an eldritch entity did it on a whim. It's Mc! Mc remembers dying, and death, and then they are simply back! How would that go over?

(Sorry this took so long! Also, I received another similar ask in my inbox so I'm going to group them together.)

S: S follows their schedule like usual. Everything hits the time markers they have set for themselves exactly. Not a second is wasted, nor is there a moment of unpredictability. 7:35pm: Finish folding the team's clothes in an orderly manner. 7:45 pm: Put away their clothes in their respective drawers to ensure their neatness. 8:00pm: Finish writing up the report for the latest mission...

Then, in an inexplicable, unforeseen string of events, a flash of white light catches their eye from outside the window, followed closely by a gust of wind blowing through the open window, scattering the drapery towards them. It feels strange. It feels... different. It feels like something S hasn't experienced in such a long time.

With shaky hands, S reaches for the front door handle. Taking a deep breath, they press down on it and push the door open in one single swoop. There, standing in the middle of the dark road with hands outstretched, inspecting them closely, YOU stand. The logic they so desperately cling to is flung aside the same instant their arms are flung around you. They are conscious of the tears wetting your shoulder, but they daren't, not even for a moment, loosen their grip.

"I do not care if you are merely a trick; a demon come to destroy my mind with the cruel promise of something precious. I will gladly accept my fate to keep holding on a moment longer."

Rain: Rain doesn't feel inclined to move today. It's been a busy week of burying their feelings; now they just want to sit in them for a while, curled up in their blankets. S has already tried knocking a few times, but they lacked the energy to respond. It's been a recurring pattern since they lost you. When Rain is busy on a job, they barely have the time to sit and picture your face; at least like this, they can just lay there and remember the times they lay there with you.

The door to the bedroom opens, and Rain is ready with a barb to throw at whoever has deemed it appropriate to enter their space. But it is your face they are confronted with. It's a cruel trick. You are standing there, confused and dazed, but... alive?

Rain scrunches their eyes closed, rubbing them, expecting you'll vanish when they open them again, like all the other times. But you don't. You are still standing there.

With more energy than Rain has felt in such a long time, they throw the covers off themselves, catching their foot in the blanket as they trip over in their rush to reach you. Their surprising strength engulfs you, uncontrollable tears wetting your shoulder.

"Please let this be real," they mutter, shoving their face further into the crook of your neck. "I don't think I could go through losing you again."

Taj: One, two, three. One, two, three, four. Each punch lands hard against the surface of the punching bag. It's a demonstration of restraint that they don't tear into with their claws. Being alone in S's private gym, pummeling the myriad of equipment, is their only healthy means to release their pent-up rage. If they aren't releasing it on the bag, they will release it on another poor unfortunate. Whether that be S or Rain or some other faceless individual.

Taj continues to punch until they have nothing left to give, and their legs give way beneath them, and they crumple to the floor, breathing heavily. A flash of white light catches their attention through the sweat-streaked hair. Then, the door to the gym opens. Taj expects S to be standing there, lecturing them on overexerting themselves all the time.

Except it isn't S at all. Taj's stills, eyes blown wide as they struggle to catch their breath. They feel their ribcage rattling inside their chest as they shake.

They turn their head away sharply. "No, it isn't real," they mutter, slapping a hand against their head. "Stop it. It isn't real." Each word met with another hit. "It. Isn't. Fuckin'. Real."

It would take your arms, pulling them into a warm, familiar embrace for them to dare to believe. Then, they dig in, claws tearing into clothing to get you to stay.

N: N stands in a crimson puddle of their own making. Their chest heaves from the exertion, their knuckles beaten and bloodied. Their victim cowers in fear beneath them, bleeding heavily from their wounds. N can't even remember what they said. It was some slight against their character, some ignorant remark, but what they fail to realise is they are altered, and their new character is yours. Therefore, a slight against them is a slight against you.

But if there was anything N learned from you, it was mercy. 'The snivelling idiot can keep their life', they think, flicking the blood off their hands.

Suddenly, a blinding white light flashes, lighting up the alley where N stands. It's so bright N has to shield their eyes against it. Its like hasn't been seen since the war, and N recoils from it.

N expects an enforcer, someone ready to smite them for the misdeeds, but the searing pain of flesh being burned from their meat never comes. N drops their hand from their eyes, aghast. They see you... They see you! This wouldn't be above the realms of trickery from back home, but they do not have the heart to care.

They are by your side in a flash, with both hands firmly planted on each cheek, inspecting every inch of you. "I... I do not deserve this, but I will damn well take it."

Umbra: "He's not here! HE'S NOT HERE!" They scream at the top of their lungs, eyes darting around an upturned shack in the middle of nowhere. Umbra followed every lead they had, a path of destruction following close behind. Even here, when they knocked on the shack door and received no response, they entered anyway. Upon realising nobody was home, nor had they been for a long time, they quickly began throwing around what remained.

"They were supposed to be here!" They cry, smashing their fist into a nearby table. "They owe me! THEY OWE ME!"

After such a long and arduous journey, Umbra falls to the floor in despair. How are they supposed to get you back without him?! He was their best chance to you.

No... No, they cannot give up now. There must be something left behind. Some hint, some clue to follow so they can pick up their trail again. Umbra forces themself upright, dragging their weight enough so they can begin rummaging around what remains.

Then, a flash of blinding light from outside snatches their attention. It must be him! He has returned! He can help!

Umbra doesn't hesitate to rush outside, a plea prepared on their tongue. It dies on their next breath when they see you. "MC?" Your name escapes in a whisper, their throat choking the word.

Before they can breathe again, you are wrapped tightly in their arms, their head resting on yours. Their nails dig into your skin as they pin you against their chest. "I know it is; nobody else could possibly feel like this. You are here... You are breathing..." They gasp, tears spilling from their eyes. "Does this mean... I can rest now?"

#ask answer #taj #umbra knight #nazu raumon #simon selby #naera raumon #rain #simone selby #interactive fiction #a special treat since I haven't been able to answer asks as much

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supercap2319 · 1 month ago

Text

Spiderwebs & Red chaos

Peter was working on the Sandman cure, when he stops abruptly, eyes darting back and forth in nervous anticipation. Something—someone has triggered his spider-sense. He stood up, catching the attention of Otto Octavius, and Norman Osborn.

“Peter?” Otto asked.

“What’s wrong?” Norman asked.

Their voices were distant and disoriented as Peter walked towards Happy's kitchen/living room. “I don't know…” It was true. Peter didn't know exactly what he was sensing, all he knew was that it made his heart want to burst out of his chest, and made his breathing shallow.

“May? Y/N?” He calls out loud. Norman and Otto followed him into the living room kitchen area as Peter stands in the center of the villains. “What is it, Peter?” May asked, wondering why her nephew is so troubled. The young hero’s breath was hitched and shallow as he looked around the room, the tension in the air thick enough to cut through with a knife, getting to everyone.

“What's happening?” Flint Marko asked.

Peter looks at him, then at Otto and Norman, who moves around the room, and then at Max Dillon, who looks uneasy at the hero's eyes on him.”Why are you looking at me like that?” Peter searches, on alert. What is he sensing? Is one of

them about to betray him? Where is the threat? Was he losing his mind? All these questions buzzed inside his head like angry bees. He closed his eyes and focused his spider-sense. Reaching. Feeling. Until he…

THWIP!

Peter webs Norman's hand to the robot arm of DUM-E.

Norman smiles. “That’s some neat trick. That sense of yours.” His voice was low and ominous.

“Norman?” Otto asked.

“Norman’s on sabbatical, honey.” Norman said, a gleefully undertone in his smile.

“What the hell?” Max asked.

“Goblin…” Y/N whispered in realization. Peter and May share a look of concern.

“Surprise. No more darker half? Did you really think that I’d let that happen?” Aunt May slips quickly into the storage room, searching for the cures as Norman, aka, Goblin, continues his tirade. “That I’d let you take away my power just because you’re blind to what true power can bring you. Because you and Y/N squander the potential that you have.”

“You don't know us.” Peter said, staring Goblin down.

“Don’t I?” Goblin asked.

“No, you don't.” Y/N talked towards Peter's side, fingers twitching with power, but he wouldn't release it. Not just yet.

“Here's the real truth: the people of this city. There's one thing they love more than a hero... is to see a hero fail, fall, die trying. In spite of everything you've done for them, eventually they will hate you. Why bother?”

“Because it's right.” Peter said.

Meanwhile, May grabs the cures, one-by-one, and shoves them into her F.E.A.S.T. tote bag.“I saw how she trapped you two.” Goblin begins as May sneaks back into the kitchen from the storage room, clutching the bag of cures. She nods at Peter. She has them. “Fighting her holy moral mission. We don’t need you to save us... We don’t need to be “fixed!”

Sandman frowns as Goblin looks around the room of people he does, and doesn't know. “These are not curses.” Max looks down at his cure device. Beep! Another green light flashes on the device. Two more to go.

“Norman, no.” Otto protests.

“Quiet, lapdog!” Goblin snaps.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Peter said.

“I’ve watched you from deep behind Norman’s cowardly eyes. Struggling to have everything you want. While the world tries to make you choose. The Spider-Man and the brother of the Scarlet Witch, so desperate to have it all.” The device on Electro’s chest beeps once again. Only one more

light to go…

“Gods don’t have to choose.” Max looks at Norman, now really buying in… “We take.”

“You're no God, Goblin. You're sick.” Y/N said.

“Guess we'll find out…”

“May... RUN!” Peter said. May breaks for the door with the bag of cures. Electro takes the cure device off his chest, as Goblin tears free from the web holding him to DUM-E. Shooting electricity out, Electro reaches towards the storage room…

CRASH!

The Arc Reactor tears free from the Fabricator,

bursts through the kitchen wall, and flies into Electro’s hand as there is surgical electrical

contact happening. “Hey!” Y/N powered up his fist that glowed red with power, but Electro blasts him into the wall, crashing upon impact.

“Y/N!” Peter cried.

Goblin pounces on a distracted Peter, smashing him into the nearby stairs.Seeing this, Sandman disintegrates into a whirl of sand. Retreating. Down the hallway, May runs to the elevators, pressing the “down” button over and over again Electro surges with ARC Reactor power, supercharging his powers as he causes lights throughout the condo building to flicker on and off. May looks up, the hallway lights are flickering here too. As she pushes the elevator “down” button once more.

Doc Ock looks at Electro in horror. “Oh my God. What have you done?”

Electro scoffed. “I liked you better before.” He unleashes a Stark-grade cascade of electricity, blowing Otto back through the living room wall. Otto tears through glass and steel, plummeting to the ground below before finally coming to a

wrenching stop, his tentacle arms gripping the side of the building. Down in the plaza of the condo, J. Jonah directs his camera man upward.

“Up here, he’s up there!” The camera man points his camera towards the building just in time to capture Doc Ock climbing away, disappearing into the night. “It’s the guy from the bridge!”

In the stairwell, Aunt May heads for the emergency exit door, races downstairs.

Electro and the swirling cloud of sand that is Sandman approach the burst-open living room wall. Sandman propels himself forward, Electro following after he powers up with his new source of energy. The sand swirls around the police cars, rocking them back and forth as Max Dillon transforms into pure yellow lightning, hitching a ride on the tornado of sand. The shelter truck nearby rocks violently. The side of it being slashed, until the Lizard explodes out of the hole he cut open and runs off.

J. Jonah James looks at his camera guy. “...Did you see that?!” Police and bystanders scramble for cover as Electro and Sandman take to the wind and fly off.

Meanwhile, back in Happy’s apartment, Peter scrambled to help Y/N to his feet. Peter manages to get his boyfriend upward as they both turn to see Goblin staring at them, challenge in his eyes. “Y/N, find May. Protect her.” Peter said.

“No, not without you.” Y/N said. “We'll face him together.”

“No. Please, just do this for me. I need you to keep her safe. Promise?” Peter looks at him, vulnerability in his brown eyes. Y/N nods and begrudgingly heads for the door. “I promise.” He flies off, a red trail of energy behind him until he was gone.

“Perfect. Just you…and me…” Goblin cackled.

Peter charged.

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #spiderman comics #spiderman x male reader #tom holland #no way home #spiderman no way home #peter parker #peter parker x male reader #lbgtq #Gay #Bi #the apartment scene

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darksturnz · 10 days ago

Note

we need bambi!mads and star!reader content NOWWWWW

i totally thought i posted this already, i apologize :,)!! here’s their back story before i drop any blurbs !

The Beers Kitchen, 2011

The kitchen of the Beers family home smelled like lemon cleaner and fresh-baked cookies. Y/N sat cross-legged on the cold tile floor, her jeans frayed at the hem, a scuffed sneaker lying discarded by her side. She’d been told to wait there by her mom, who was busy scrubbing a stubborn stain from the counters.

It wasn’t Y/N’s first time in the Beers house, but it always felt like stepping into another world. The polished floors gleamed, the glass vases sparkled, and everything had a place. Back at the trailer, things were just…things—piled up, scattered, or forgotten.

“Don’t touch anything,” her mom had warned before rushing off to clean another room.

But curiosity burned in Y/N. She leaned back against the kitchen island, gazing up at the tall shelves. One had a porcelain angel perched on the edge, delicate and golden, as though it might take flight.

“Hi.”

The voice startled her, and she whipped around to see a girl standing in the doorway. Madison Beer. Her dress was a pale yellow, her dark brown hair tied back in a neat braid. She looked like a doll, Y/N thought, the kind you weren’t supposed to play with.

“What’re you doing?” Madison asked, tilting her head.

“Nothing.” Y/N’s cheeks flushed. She tucked her hands under her legs. “I’m waiting for my mom.”

Madison’s gaze flicked to the dirty rag hanging from Y/N’s mom’s bucket, then back to Y/N. “You’re the maid’s daughter?”

The question wasn’t cruel, but it still stung. Y/N straightened her back. “Yeah. So?”

Madison didn’t flinch. Instead, she crossed the kitchen and plopped down beside Y/N on the floor, her dress puffing out like a cupcake wrapper.

“I’m not supposed to sit on the floor,” Madison said matter-of-factly, then grinned. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Y/N stared at her, unsure if it was a trick. “Why are you sitting here?”

“Because you look bored,” Madison replied, pulling her knees up to her chest. “And my mom says bored girls cause trouble.”

Y/N blinked, then smirked. “Your mom sounds fun.”

Madison giggled, covering her mouth like she wasn’t supposed to laugh too loud. “She’s not. But I’m fun.”

“You think so?”

Madison nodded, her braid bouncing. “I know so, wanna see my secret hiding spot?”

Y/N hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to leave the kitchen, but something about Madison made her want to follow. “Is it actually secret?”

“Duh.” Madison jumped to her feet, holding out a hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Y/N stared at her hand, the fingers pale and perfectly clean, so different from her own. Slowly, she reached out and took it.

9 years later

The trailer smelled like stale beer and burnt cigarettes. Y/N sat on the worn-out couch, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the blank TV screen. Her mom’s voice still echoed in her head—soft reminders to clean her room, to do her homework, to take care of herself. Now, the house was silent except for the occasional thud of her father pacing the kitchen, cursing under his breath.

“It’s your fault, you know,” he’d said last night, the slur in his voice like venom. “If you hadn’t called her, she wouldn’t have been out.”

She hadn’t responded. She couldn’t. She just sat there, letting the words settle deep in her chest like shards of glass.

There was a knock at the door. Y/N didn’t move. She couldn’t be bothered to know who it was.

“Y/N?” Madison’s voice was soft, hesitant. She knocked again, louder this time. “It’s me.”

Y/N forced herself to stand, her limbs heavy and sluggish. When she opened the door, Madison stood there, holding a plastic bag in one hand and a thermos in the other. Her dark brown hair was tied back into a messy ponytail, and her usual warm smile was gone, replaced with quiet concern.

“I brought you soup,” Madison said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “My mom made it.”

Y/N let the door close behind her, leaning against it as Madison moved around the room, setting the bag on the counter and unpacking its contents. She didn’t ask how Y/N was doing. She didn’t need to.

Madison turned back and frowned. “Have you eaten anything?”

Y/N shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not hungry.”

Madison crossed the room in three quick steps and pulled Y/N into a hug. It wasn’t the soft, tentative kind they’d shared before. This was tight, grounding, desperate. Y/N felt her knees buckle, and Madison held her up, one hand stroking her hair.

“It’s okay,” Madison whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N hadn’t cried since the accident. She didn’t cry at the hospital, at the morgue, or even at the empty funeral. But now, pressed against Madison’s shoulder, she let out a choked sob.

“I called her,” Y/N said, her words muffled. “She was picking me up from work because I forgot my—”

“Stop.” Madison pulled back just enough to look Y/N in the eyes. “This isn’t your fault. I won’t let you think that.”

Y/N swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “You didn’t hear him. He—he hates me, Maddie.”

“No,” Madison said firmly. She cupped Y/N’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away the tears. “He’s wrong. And you don’t need him.”

“But I don’t have anyone else.”

“Yes, you do.” Madison’s voice was steady now, unshakable. “You have me.”

TAG LIST: @jetaimevous @sturnsblunt @riasturns @ifwdominicfike @chrissturns-wife @mattsmunch @pip4444chris @ribread03 @ariestrxsh @angelic-sturniolos111 @pvssychicken @mattslolita @stvrnzcherries @dottieboo @lovergirl4gracieabrams @bluestriips

#ⓘdarksturnz #𐔌 .⋮bambi!madison.ᐟ꒱#𐔌 .⋮star!reader.ᐟ꒱#madison beer angst #madison beer fluff #madison beer au #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic

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candycandy00 · 9 months ago

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The Doll House - A Choso x Reader Fanfic Part 3

When your younger sister is tricked into selling herself to the Doll House, you rush there to help her, only to find her being led away by her trainer, Choso. Moved by your desire to save your sister, he convinces the owner to let you take her place.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Read Geto’s Part Here!

Read Toji’s Part Here!

Read Nanami’s Part Here!

Read Sukuna’s Part Here!

Read Gojo’s Part Here!

Note: Please remember that these stories don’t take place at the same time, or even one after the other! Consider each one its own timeline. So if you see Geto and Toji with other dolls, don’t be alarmed lol. I had to do it this way because if I don’t, by the time I get to the last trainer, there won’t be any other trainers left to interact with!

AU! Each trainer will get their own story! This is Choso’s. I’m keeping the tag list from previous parts. If you’d like to be tagged in future parts, let me know! You must be an adult to be tagged! Any feedback whatsoever is adored!

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. FemDom. Sub Choso. Oral sex. Pegging. Strap ons. Divider by @benkeibear!

The next morning, Choso is up earlier than usual, excitedly moving around the room, making sure the place is neat with no “toys” in plain view. Now you know why he keeps them in a nondescript drawer, right below his sock drawer.

You watch him with a smile on your face. You know exactly how he feels. Your own sister has visited you a couple of times, and both times it made you very happy. Family is such a precious thing.

When ready, he leaves to go pick up his brother, and you look forward to a fun Sunday.

Choso isn’t gone long. Yuji’s grandfather must not live too far away. The little boy runs in through the front door, beating Choso inside, looking perfectly at ease in what is essentially a brothel. He looks just like his picture, pink hair and big bright eyes. He stops right in front of you and grins as he asks, “Are you Choso’s new girlfriend?”

You grin back. “Yeah, sure. And you must be Yuji!”

“That’s me!”

Choso walks through the door, carrying a bag of, you assume, Yuji’s things. He’s beaming as he watches his little brother chat with you, asking your name and how long you’ve been living at the Doll House. Then Yuji smiles and says, “You’re really pretty!”

This kid! Such a charmer! “Thank you! You’re a very handsome young man yourself!”

He turns to Choso once he notices his big brother has caught up to him. “Is Megumi here?”

Choso shakes his head. “Not today. He only visits every now and then, remember?”

Yuji is quiet for a moment, as if thinking hard, then he suddenly says, “I’ll go ask Toji to go get him!” And then he runs toward the hallway.

“Who’s Megumi?” you ask as the two of you follow him down the hall.

“Toji’s son,” Choso replies. “He’s Yuji’s age, so they play together when they happen to be here at the same time.”

“I didn’t realize he’s a dad,” you say, thinking of the somewhat gruff but friendly older man.

Yuji knocks on Toji’s door loudly, his small fist pounding the door until you hear it open from down the hall. Then you hear Toji’s voice.

“Oh, hey Yuji. What do you need?”

You see Yuji lean to the side, as if looking around Toji, into the room. Then you hear his cute little voice say, “Why is that lady naked?”

“Ah, shit!” Toji blurts out, stepping quickly out into the hall, finally coming into your view as he slams his door shut behind him. “Uh, she’s gettin’ ready to take a bath.”

Yuji stares up at him, his face blank. “You said a bad word.”

Toji’s face seems to twitch slightly. “I’m a grownup. You’re allowed to say bad words when you’re a grownup.”

“Really?” Yuji asks, then looks down the hall toward you and Choso. “Is that true?”

Choso gives him an uneasy smile. “We’ll talk about that when you grow up.”

Toji leans against his door and crosses his arms. “So what do you need, kid?”

Yuji returns his attention to the huge trainer. “Can you go get Megumi? I wanna play with him.”

Toji scratches the back of his head. “Megumi’s with his uncle right now. I don’t even know what he’s up to today.”

“Please, Tojiiiii?” Yuji asks, looking up. “He’s my best friend!”

You get the impression that Yuji has a lot of “best friends” but you find this scene too cute to say anything.

Toji sighs. “Alright. I’ll call and see if he wants to come over.”

“Thanks, Toji!” Yuji says, hugging the man’s thigh.

Toji pats the boy’s head. “Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome.”

A little later, Toji leaves to get his son, and you, Choso, and Yuji grab a snack in the kitchen before sitting down in the welcome room to wait.

Yuji is chatty, telling you about his classmates at school and the soccer team he plays on.

“I’ve scored more goals than anybody else!” he exclaims proudly.

“Really? That’s amazing!” you tell him.

“Yuji is very good at sports,” Choso says. “He’s a lot more athletic than I ever was.”

You glance at Choso, thinking of his well sculpted body and the flexibility he’s shown during your sessions. “You’re pretty athletic though,” you say to him, “and you have a lot of stamina.”

Yuji perks up. “Have you guys been playing together?”

Both you and Choso blush and avert your eyes at the innocent question. “Uh, yeah, we play games sometimes,” you say.

“What kind of games?” Yuji asks.

Choso looks at you awkwardly, opening his mouth to give some kind of answer, but at the same moment, you hear the front door swing open. Yuji, realizing his friend has most likely arrived, jumps up and runs to the lobby, completely forgetting his question.

You and Choso both exhale, then glance at each other. He laughs, and so do you. “What were you going to tell him?” you ask.

“I was going to say Twister,” he says with a grin.

“Good idea.”

Just then Yuji appears in the welcome room again, smiling as he pulls along another little boy by the hand. This must be Toji’s son Megumi. He has dark messy hair and a somewhat sullen expression, but he’s making no attempt to pull his hand free.

“And I brought a new game,” Yuji is saying as he walks toward the hallway, “Curse Fighters 3! It’s awesome! There’s a guy who can shoot his own blood across the screen! And another guy who doesn’t have special moves but he uses all kinds of cool weapons! And one guy fights while wearing a blindfold!”

As their voices fade down the hall, you hear Megumi say, “Who would fight while blindfolded? That’s dumb.”

Toji is standing in the welcome room, looking a little exasperated. Choso looks up at him and smiles apologetically. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Toji shrugs. “It’s fine. Megumi won’t admit it, but he loves playing with Yuji. I think your brother pulls him out of his shell.” Then Toji heads toward the hall. “I’ll go tell the others we’ve got kids here today.”

“Thanks,” Choso says.

Whatever Toji told the other trainers must have worked. When you walk into the dining hall at lunch time, all the dolls you normally see are dressed in regular clothes, even Geto’s and Gojo’s. You don’t see the kids, and wonder if they’re still playing video games as you and Choso begin fixing your plates. Just as you’re about to ask him if you should go get them, the door leading to the kitchen bursts open and Gojo limps into the dining hall.

Megumi is wrapped around one of Gojo’s legs, being dragged along by the tall trainer. Yuji is hanging from Gojo’s neck, and there’s an orange toy arrow stuck under Gojo’s arm.

“Help! Help!” Gojo is shouting dramatically. “The little goblins are attacking!”

Everyone else watches the scene with amusement, aside from Sukuna who simply looks bored. Gojo drags himself to Geto’s table and practically throws himself across it. “Suguru! You have to help me!”

Geto gives him a wicked grin as he crosses his arms. “Help you? Who do you think told them your weakness?”

Gojo pulls himself up, Yuji still holding onto his neck, and looks at Geto with shock as he screams, “Traitor!”

Yuji hops down, pulling the toy arrow free. “Now we know you’re weak to arrows!” he yells as he pokes Gojo with the foam tip.

Megumi disentangles himself and pulls another arrow out from behind him. It must have been stuck through the belt loop of his shorts. He wordlessly jabs the arrow against Gojo’s thigh.

Gojo yelps and jerks away from them, finally collapsing onto the floor. Yuji hoists his arrow into the air and declares, “We did it! We defeated the white haired demon!”

Megumi doesn’t yell, but he does mimic Yuji’s motion, holding his own arrow up. Most of the people in the dining hall, including you and Choso, clap and laugh.

Yuji bows as if he’s an actor on a stage, then he and Megumi are at the food table, already filling plates. Choso walks over and supervises them, making sure they don’t make a mess.

Surprisingly, both boys elect to sit at Nanami’s table with him, chatting animatedly. Choso seems to notice your confusion.

“They like to play with Gojo, but they like to talk to Nanami,” he says.

Looking across the room, you can’t hear what’s being said, but the blonde trainer is looking at the kids with a warm expression while they seem to ramble on to him.

“It’s nice that the other trainers are friendly to them,” you say.

Choso’s smile is lovely. “I’m really thankful to them for being so kind to Yuji. I know he can be a bit… rambunctious. But no one complains.”

Your eyes shift to the table a few feet away with a lone occupant. Sukuna is eating his dinner like usual, taking no interest in the kids.

“Even Sukuna?”

Choso wears an uneasy expression. “Well, he doesn’t complain, but-“

“I don’t like Sukuna!” Yuji suddenly says beside you, seeming to appear at your table out of the blue. “He’s mean!”

You glance nervously at the tattooed trainer, knowing he’s close enough to hear. He looks at Yuji and gives the child a menacing grin. He doesn’t say a word, but from the look on his face, you can practically hear him saying, “The feeling’s mutual, brat!”

Yuji flinches, but doesn’t flee or back down.

“How is he mean?” you ask, curious.

Yuji frowns at the man before turning his attention back to you. “He says bad words all the time without apologizing. He won’t play with me or Megumi, and he never lets me meet his girlfriends!”

Before you can respond, Yuji is already heading back to Nanami’s table. Choso gives a somewhat apologetic wave to Sukuna, who shrugs.

“He never complains, even though Yuji antagonizes him sometimes,” Choso tells you. “But he’s not friendly with him either. I can’t expect everyone to spoil Yuji, so I’m just glad Sukuna puts up with him.”

You relax slightly as the dining hall calms down. Both boys are eating beside Nanami and his doll, and all the other trainers are chatting and eating like normal people. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to look at the screen. Your sister has sent you a message to let you know she finished all her paperwork for starting classes. You send her a happy, cheering emoji and smile as you put your phone away.

************************

Hours later, after dinner, Choso and his doll are walking down the hall, toward the kitchen. Yuji and Megumi said they want a “snack for dessert”, so they ran ahead to pick something.

As the two adults approach the door to the kitchen, his doll suddenly freezes and holds up a hand, silencing whatever Choso was saying.

“Did Yuji just say he could climb to reach something?”

Choso is momentarily confused. He didn’t hear anything. But the doll dashes through the door at top speed, Choso following after her.

As they burst into the kitchen, they see Yuji on top of the counter, in the process of falling backwards off it. Choso’s immediate reaction is to try to dive for him, but his doll is closer. She rushes forward and catches Yuji in her arms, the two of them falling to the floor. She lands on her ass, cradling Yuji, protecting him from the impact.

She barely takes a moment to wince before she’s looking the child over. “Are you okay?”

Yuji looks stunned for a few seconds, but quickly recovers. “I’m fine!”

She sighs with relief, then her face becomes stern. “Don’t ever do that again! Climbing on the counters is dangerous. You could’ve been hurt!”

Yuji looks shocked. He’s not used to being scolded by anyone besides his grandpa. Choso is well aware that he’s way too soft on Yuji, and perhaps a strong scolding is good for him, especially in a case like this.

“I’m sorry,” Yuji says, looking dejected as he climbs out of the doll’s lap.

She gets to her feet and smiles down at him. “It’s okay. Just be careful from now on, okay? You scared me. Think about how sad your brother would be if you got hurt while visiting him.”

Yuji looks at Choso, his big eyes glossy. “Sorry, Choso!”

Choso walks over and rubs Yuji’s hair affectionately. “I’m not mad. I’m just relieved that you’re okay.”

“I told him not to,” Megumi says, his arms crossed. When he stands there like that, he looks just like his father.

Yuji turns sharply to look at his friend, as if he’s been betrayed.

Megumi’s slightly smug expression falters. “What? It’s the truth!”

Choso pats Yuji’s head again. “Don’t be mad at Megumi. It sounds like he was giving you good advice. You should listen to him. Now, what were you trying to reach?”

Yuji is such a sweet, bright young man. He doesn’t linger on negative feelings and never pouts. So he’s almost immediately back to normal, pointing to a box of chocolate snack cakes in the top cabinet. Apparently he’d seen Gojo get some out earlier, so he remembered where they were.

Choso’s doll pulls the box down and gets out a small, individually wrapped cake for each of the boys. They take them, thank her, and then they both run back out of the kitchen and toward the empty room they’ve been using to play in.

Once they’re gone, his doll turns to him. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have scolded Yuji. It wasn’t my place. I think my big sister instincts just kicked in when I heard him say he was going to climb.”

Choso gives her a warm smile. “No, you were right to say what you did. He can be a bit reckless at times, and it worries me. But I’m too easy on him to say anything. Thank you for catching him.”

She smiles back. “Anytime.”

Later that night, Toji drives both boys home. He’s done this a few times now, so he knows where Yuji lives, and it’s on his way. Choso thanks him when he returns.

“No problem,” Toji replies. “My kid actually talks to me when your brother is around.”

After the other trainer goes to his room, Choso’s doll stands beside him. “Sounds like he and Megumi have a complicated relationship.”

“I suppose they do. I had a complicated relationship with my own father,” he says.

“Same here. I guess that’s pretty common.”

He glances at her, wishing he knew more about her, wishing he knew everything about her. But she’ll be gone in a couple of weeks, and he’ll never see her again. She said she wanted them to be friends, but how would her new owner react to her remaining in contact with her trainer? It would be highly unprofessional on Choso’s part.

Actually, he wishes she could just stay with him.

***********************

Several days later, you walk into the welcome room to find Choso accepting a package from the delivery man, bowing slightly as he thanks the man.

You look at the plain brown box in his hands, your heart beginning to race as you approach him. “Is that it?”

Choso notices you, blushes, but then grins. “It is. Want to open it now?”

“Definitely,” you say, and the two of you return to his room.

In the early days of the training, Choso told you to order whatever you wanted to use in the training sessions and he would pay for it. You’ve ordered a few items but nothing really special. A few days ago you spotted this item, and after asking Choso if it’s something he’d be okay with using, you ordered it immediately. Since then, all you can think about is trying it out.

Choso sits the box on the bed and gestures for you to go ahead and open it. You feel like a kid at Christmas as you tear the box open and remove your prize.

It’s a bright red double-sided strap on. There’s an impressive silicone appendage sticking out from the front, and an equally impressive one sticking out from the inside of the strap, which is supposed to go inside you.

When you first approached Choso about the idea of pegging him, you were a bit nervous. But he told you he enjoyed it under the right circumstances (plenty of lube and a careful partner).

“I think it would be amazing with you,” he told you, his eyes shining with excitement.

So after some prep work, you find yourself standing naked in his room, him on his knees in front of you, eating you out to get you slicked up. When you’re ready, he helps you pull the strap on up and into you. It’s a snug fit, and the thought that the same thing will be going inside Choso makes you clench.

You stand with the bright red dildo hanging over Choso’s face, and he looks up at you expectantly.

“Suck me off,” you tell him, and he begins licking the dildo, his tongue moving over it in such an erotic way, you imagine you can feel it. When he takes it into his mouth and moves his head back and forth, the motion causes the dildo inside you to move, stirring you up. You moan and grab his hair, guiding his head to a rhythm.

It feels so good, and Choso looks so fucking hot on his knees, deep throating the dildo, you’re on the edge of cumming within minutes. But you hold back, and instead gently push him back and then lead him to the bed.

He slips his black pants down his hips and steps out of them, along with his boxers. He’s already hard, a pink dusting on his cheeks as he climbs onto the mattress and gets into position, on his knees, facing the foot of the bed. You climb on behind him, a bottle of lube in your hand.

Looking down at him, you find yourself mesmerized by how tight and smooth his ass is. He’s definitely put some work into getting such a fine, toned body. You rub and squeeze his ass for a moment before drizzling the lube liberally over him and the strap on. You rub it in, taking care to do it thoroughly. The last thing you want to do is hurt him.

You spread his firm cheeks and press one finger into him, testing to be sure he’s nice and slippery. He seems to tense up slightly, and you grin as you give his ass a light, playful slap. “Are you ready?” you ask, removing your finger and watching his cute asshole clench the air.

“Yes, Mistress,” he replies, eyes forward. There’s a bit of a crack in his voice that sends a shiver through you.

Satisfied that you’re both prepared, you line the silicone dick up with Choso’s hole and slowly, carefully, ease it into him. He makes a small gasping sound as it goes further in, but otherwise remains calm and quiet until it’s all the way in.

You experiment with a few shallow thrusts, enjoying the way your end feels inside you and the way Choso’s muscles ripple beneath you. Leaning forward, you put your mouth close to his ear and say, “How does it feel?”

“It feels good, Mistress,” he says, in that shuddering voice you love so much.

Gradually, you begin thrusting deeper and harder, listening to his grunts and moans to determine whether it feels good or hurts. He agreed beforehand to let you know if he felt any discomfort, but you still want to take care with him.

As your thrusts speed up, the dildo on your end moves back and forth, thrusting into you as well. You find yourself moaning along with Choso as you fuck him.

You notice his body is quivering with pleasure, his strong arms trembling as they try to hold him up. His hair is loose, the way you like it, spilling over his face in sweaty strands. You reach around him and gently grip his hard, leaking cock. He moans as you begin stroking him, using the same rhythm as your thrusts. His cock feels lovely in your hand, all hot and slick and throbbing. Your thrusts become faster as chase your own pleasure, the silicone rod inside you making the perfect amount of friction with every move.

“Mistress,” Choso’s strained voice says between groans, “m-may I cum? Please?”

The pulse of his cock is faster now, the appendage twitching in your grip. You stroke him a few moments longer, thrusting deeply into him, before finally moving your hand down to give his balls a squeeze. “Cum for me,” you whisper into his ear, pushing into him as far as possible.

He moans loudly as he cums, shooting his load onto the sheets, his body shaking. Seeing and hearing it is enough to bring you to your own orgasm, and you keep thrusting as the pleasure overtakes you.

You’re left panting, collapsed on top of Choso, the dildo slipping out of him and hanging between your bodies. When you have the strength, you draw back and begin unfastening the strap on. Choso turns around and helps you remove it. The inner dildo, that had been inside you, is sticky and glistening. Before you can reach for it, Choso holds it up to his mouth and begins licking it clean.

Fuck, he’s amazing. How are you supposed to just move on to some other man after being with someone so perfect? No one is ever going to compare to him. Choso not only pleases you sexually, but he’s a kind and responsible man who makes your heart flutter. You’re starting to seriously dread the end of the training. If only you could just… stay here.

*****************

The following evening, Choso is getting ready to take his nightly shower when he notices something amiss. His doll is looking at her phone, and instead of the usual bright smile she wears while texting her sister, her face is becoming increasingly distraught.

She looks up at him, the phone now trembling in her hand. “I have to go home, right now,” she says, her voice shaky. “My sister is in trouble.”

Choso feels a spike of alarm. “What’s wrong?”

Her eyes are full of anger and fear as she says, “Yosaku broke into our house. He said if he can’t have her, no one can! She’s hiding in the bathroom!”

Tag List:

@suguguro @kaedear @onyxsphynx @poopoobuttsy @butterskyy @collectionofdolls @akaotv @witchbybirth @bloofinntoona @wasurenagusaa @tclbts @tojirin @lucyrocks86 @badbyeyoongi @97britt @aydene @lzaj19 @lyn-lotte @missthatgirl @peachedtv @ladytamayolover @nanam1nx @deegausserr @voids-universe @hinata7346 @maflorex @issracollen @xkittiecatx @ryumurin @emrys3456 @mysecretesc8pe @typicalloser3 @gabriiiiiiii @fvsm4x @tyunhyukamyloves @rottmntrulesall @jakeywon @better-imagination-9 @wealwayskeepfighting @denenene @tomura-complex @kuro-chi69 @hellsingalucard18

#choso x reader #choso #choso kamo #choso smut #choso kamo x reader #jjk x reader #Jjk smut #x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut

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melancholiaincarnate · 2 months ago

Text

search history: funny halloween pranks for teens

「 in which ᵎᵎ 」 kento nanami pulls a halloween prank on his students.

「 words ᵎᵎ 」 421

「 author's note ᵎᵎ 」 welcome to the first day of zone's and i's spooktober bash! tomorrow's ficlet is zone writing "fall chores with choso"! linked on our name's are both of our masterlists!

「 warnings ᵎᵎ 」 none bcus kento nanami is a cutie n i love him

kento nanami was an observant man. so of course, when his students' eyes shone, (yes, even megumi's) when gojo presented them with candy after training, an idea clicked in his head.

it's a funny sight to see a man dressed in a neat suit wandering around the halloween section of his local target. he eyed costumes, pumpkin carving kits, and even halloween-themed gingerbread houses, until his eyes landed on what he came for.

candy.

he doesn't have a sweet tooth, not like gojo does. (nobody's sweet tooth rivals gojo's). but kento nanami does enjoy candy every once in a while. slipping some bags into his little hand-basket, he nodded to himself.

he'd spend the night creating little gift bags for his students. he knew nobara liked chocolate more than megumi, so nobara's bag was filled with more chocolate. while megumi preferred sour candies, and yuji, being yuji, (and practically gojo's son), preferred all sorts of candies, so nanami made sure to fill his bag with a little bit of everything.

this would be the treat. for the trick, he grabbed a reusable bowl from his tidy kitchen cabinet, and filled it with chocolate m&m's. then, he also filled it with skittles. (see search history: funny halloween pranks for teens).

armed with his tricks and his treats, kento nanami would enter gojo's classroom the next morning, with an unusual smile on his face.

"oh, nanamin," gojo sang, "all for me?"

nanami ignored him, placing the bowl on the table, and handing each student their individual bag before gojo could get his sticky little hands on them. "the bowl is for everyone," he eyed gojo, "but the students have their own bags."

gojo had already stuck his hand in the bowl and taken a handful on nanami's m&m and skittle concoction. his face twisted and he swallowed thickly.

"what the hell was that! was that-" he smacked his lips, "m&m's and skittles - together?" nanami frowned. the kids were supposed to get tricked first, not gojo.

"yes. it is. i thought halloween was supposed to be tricks and treats - so i brought treats for the students. the trick was also supposed to be for them to figure out, but-" he sighed, "you got to it first." "that's not even a trick, nanamin!" gojo whined, "that's just pure evil! who does something like this?"

the students, ignoring gojo's antics, inspected their bags, and unlike kids in other schools who received small candy bags, they did not trade anything. nanami knew his students all too well.

#nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami fic #nanami fanfic #jjk fic #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #nanami fluff #znfspooktober

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beansmack2021 · 10 months ago

Note

Oooh idea if you’re interested! Husk taking in Alastor’s daughter reader when Alastor leaves for 7 years?

He Stayed (Platonic!Husk x Alastor's Daughter)

She was 10 when she'd been dropped off at Aunt Rosie's one night. Alastor told her he'd be back soon, and that she needed to behave herself and be a respectful young lady.

"Okay! I love you, Daddy!"

He was gone quickly, swept away by his own shadow. Y/N hummed a happy tune that she'd heard on her father's broadcast earlier in the day while she played with her stuffed raccoon. She played for hours, not really grasping how late it had gotten until she heard a knock at Rosie's door.

She assumed it would be her father, ready to whisk her away and take her back home. Instead, she rushed to open it and greet him, and was met with the face of her father's servant, Husk.

"Oh! Hi, Husk! Is Daddy here, too?"

Husk shook his head, clearing his throat.

"Listen, kid. Your old man asked me to look after you for a little while. Why don't we go back to my place?"

Young Y/N tried not to get too upset. Surely a little while just meant a few more hours, maybe a couple of days, right?

Wrong. Y/N didn't see her father for another 7 years after he'd left her in Cannibaltown. She'd spent her time with Husk, who taught her how to keep her poker face from wavering. She'd clean the bar for him occasionally, but he usually took that task on by himself.

"Oh no. Your old man would kill me if you even went near the stuff on that shelf. Sorry, kid."

Y/N stiffened whenever he'd mention her father. She really didn't care much for the man who chose to abandon her. She'd do whatever she wanted, including chugging the most expensive bottle on the shelf, but she worried too much about her father finding out and punishing Husk for her own decisions.

Late at night, she'd wonder what her father would think of her now. She'd mourn the time lost before she realized that he'd chosen to rip that time away from them, and then she'd just get angry. She'd be angry for a while. She threw the framed photo of the two of them on the ground and watched the shattered glass fly across the floor. Then she'd pick up the frame, dust it off, and hold it close to her chest as she cried.

Alastor was terrible. She hated him for leaving her. Still, she couldn't help loving the man she'd known before he abandoned her.

When Husk would hear her sobs through the walls of their home, he'd knock on the door of her bedroom and come in with a bag of chips from the bar and a few cans of soda.

"Hey, kid. What's all this crying about, huh? Why don't we play some blackjack?"

He always knew how to cheer her up. Sometimes, he'd show her some neat tricks that he could do with just a bit of magic and a deck of cards.

During one of their later nights, Husk was simply holding Y/N as she cried. Then, out of nowhere, they appeared in this rustic looking room. Directly before them stood none other than Alastor, her father.

His ears perked up a bit and his pupils narrowed as he saw his daughter's tear streaked face for the first time in nearly a decade.

"Husker, I trust that you're not the reason my little girl is crying right now. It would be very unfortunate for you if you were."

Alastor's head turned at an odd angle and his sound was filled with more static by the second. Y/N stepped between her father and the man who'd taken care of her for seven years, anger clear as day on her face.

"You can't hurt him. I won't let you."

Alastor perked up again.

"Oh come now, dear. He's merely the help."

Y/N's back straightened, and her expression changed to one of defiance.

"No, Alastor. He's not just the help. He's the one person I care about most in Hell."

Alastor's permanent smile widened.

"Oh, Y/N, even more than dear old dad?"

"Much more, because unlike "dear old dad", Husk stayed."

Alastor hadn't really been prepared to be hit by such a damaging statement. His smile almost faltered. Almost. Y/N's rage didn't, though. Not even a bit.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin fanfic #hazbin x reader #hazbin x platonic reader #hazbin x daughter reader #hazbin husk #papa husk

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insomniac4000 · 4 months ago

Text

The Great YouTube Bake Off-ChrisMD

2864 Words

Chris Dixon was no stranger to challenges. From football tricks to wild challenges with his friends, he had tackled just about everything on his YouTube channel. But today, things were a little different. Today, Chris was venturing into a world he had only ventured into a few times and it wasn't his strong point, baking.

It had all started as a joke during one of their dates. Y/N and Chris had been together for seven months, she was a professional baker she had worked in kitchen restaurants before as a pastry chef but recently set up her own bakery and cake making business. While they were out y/n ordered a fantastic dessert but Chris was unimpressed with his complaining how hard was it to get a cheesecake right. Y/N scoffed at Chris's arrogance and thus was born the idea for a bake-off.

"How hard can it be?" Chris had confidently said while scrolling through pictures of extravagant cakes on Instagram. "I mean, it’s just mixing ingredients and throwing them in the oven, right?"

Y/N had raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. "Sure, Chris. Whatever you say."

And that’s how they found themselves in the bright, spacious kitchen in a studio which had been used for Youtuber's cooking challenges, cameras set up and ready to film for Chris's second channel. The stakes were high bragging rights were on the line, and maybe a little something extra for the winner, as Chris had hinted at the possibility of the loser doing the winner's chores for a week. The kitchen counter was lined with ingredients, utensils, and an assortment of decorative toppings. Each of them had a cake recipe of their choice, and they would have two hours to complete their creations.

"You ready for this?" Chris asked, grinning as he adjusted the angle of the camera, making sure it captured both of them perfectly.

"Ready as I’ll ever be," Y/N replied with a twinkle in her eye, tying up her hair in a neat ponytail.

"May the best baker win!" Chris declared, striking a pose.

"Or the one who doesn’t burn the kitchen down," Y/N replied, causing Chris to laugh.

The judge was none other than long time friend of Chris, ArthurTV. Everyone was introduced on camera, y/n giving a small nervous smile. She hadn't appeared on the channel yet and she was grateful she was doing something she knew about so she could hopefully provide some content.

The clock started, and both contestants dove into their tasks. Chris, with his trusty iPad displaying a recipe began gathering his ingredients. He had chosen a classic chocolate cake—simple enough, but with a lot of room for error if one wasn’t careful.

Y/N, on the other hand, was as calm as ever now she was in the zone. She moved with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times, expertly measuring out her ingredients without even glancing at the recipe. She had chosen a rainbow cake, one of her personal favourites, a common order in the shop and something she was well used to making.

As Chris cracked eggs into his mixing bowl, he glanced over at Y/N's workstation. She was working at a speed that was slightly unnerving, her hands moving in a blur as she sifted flour into a bowl. He suddenly felt a pang of doubt—maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. But Chris wasn’t one to back down. He turned his attention back to his own cake and began mixing the batter with more vigour than necessary. Unfortunately, this resulted in a small cloud of flour puffing out of the bowl and landing all over his shirt.

"Smooth," y/n commented, not even looking up from her batter.

Chris glanced down at the mess, then at his girlfriends pristine workspace. A mischievous idea formed in his mind. If he couldn’t beat her fair and square, maybe a little sabotage was in order.

"Whoops," Chris said loudly, deliberately knocking a small bag of flour off the counter. The bag burst open as it hit the floor, sending a plume of white powder everywhere. "Guess I’m just clumsy today."

Y/N paused, looking up from her cake. "Really, Chris? Sabotage this early?"

Chris grinned innocently, wiping flour from his shirt. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

Y/N shook her head, laughing. "You do realize this just makes it more obvious that I’m going to win, right?"

"We’ll see about that," Chris said, turning back to his bowl. But as he resumed mixing, he couldn’t help but notice how easily the girl had brushed off his attempt to throw her off her game. If anything, she seemed even more focused.

As the bake-off continued, Chris began to realize that y/n was not only a natural in the kitchen, but she was also completely unflappable. She whisked, folded, and poured with a precision that made Chris feel like an amateur. But he wasn’t about to give up, if anything, her calm demeanor just made him more determined to win, by any means necessary.

He subtly tried to disrupt her progress, hoping to shake her confidence. First, he "accidentally" bumped into her while reaching for a measuring cup, causing her to spill a little bit of sugar on the counter. She just shot him an amused look and cleaned it up without missing a beat.

Then, Chris tried adjusting the oven temperature while she wasn’t looking, but Y/N caught him in the act. "Chris!" she scolded, a mock-serious expression on her face. "Are you trying to sabotage my cake?"

"Who, me?" Chris replied, feigning innocence. "I would never."

"You do realize this is all on camera, right?" She reminded him, pointing to the lens that had been capturing every moment.

Chris froze, momentarily forgetting about the cameras. He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, right. Well, I guess I’m busted then."

Y/N shook her head, unable to hide her smile. "You’re hopeless." She then decided her own course of action and when Chris was seriously measuring out some more ingredients y/n saw her opportunity and swiped the cocoa powder quickly, placing it on a high shelf where she knew Chris wouldn't be able to reach properly by himself. It was a big joke that y/n was an inch or so taller than Chris, she didn't mind but of course his friends ripped him for it.

"Where..." Chris said out loud looking around his workbench, spotting a very sly smile on his girlfriend's face. "Have you seen my cocoa powder?" Chris asked walking over to his girlfriends bench, she shook her head but the smile on her face gave the whole thing away. Chris sighed and looked behind her, seeing the packaging on a shelf next to a colander, he sighed and had to nicely ask Arthur to fetch it for him.

"That was uncalled for," Chris mumbled, y/n giggled to herself as she continued to pour her mixture in to the many cake tins she was using.

Despite their antics, both parties managed to get their cake batter into the oven without any major disasters. As he closed the oven door, he turned to y/n and asked, "So, what kind of decorations are you going with?"

"Buttercream," y/n said, as she started mixing softened butter and powdered sugar together. "Simple, but delicious."

Chris nodded, making a mental note. He hadn’t thought much about frosting, but now that she mentioned it, he realized that it was probably just as important as the cake itself. He decided to go with chocolate ganache—a little fancy, but hopefully, it would impress Arthur, and his girlfriend who's opinion meant everything.

Arthur had agreed to be the impartial judge for the bake-off, though Chris knew there was a good chance Arthur might side with y/n if the cakes were too close to call. The two of them had become fast friends since Chris and y/n started dating, and Chris couldn’t help but wonder if Arthur was secretly rooting for her. Chris knew he could be a bit of a handful sometimes too and it could come across he had a bit of an ego but it was all in jest, if nothing else he always tried his best.

With their cakes baking, Chris and y/n began preparing their frostings. Chris’s ganache, despite his lack of experience, was coming together nicely. He had managed to avoid burning the chocolate and was now carefully stirring in the cream. He felt a surge of confidence—maybe he could actually pull this off.

Y/N, meanwhile, had already finished her buttercream and was now focusing on making some unicorn decorations to top the cake. She moved with such efficiency that Chris couldn’t help but be impressed, even as he plotted his next move.

As y/n stepped away to check on her cake in the oven, Chris saw his opportunity. He quickly grabbed a small spoonful of salt and mixed it into her buttercream, hoping it would be enough to throw off the taste without being too obvious. He barely managed to return to his own station before y/n came back.

"How’s your cake looking?" Chris asked, trying to sound casual.

"Perfect," y/n replied with a satisfied smile. "And yours?"

"Uh, still baking," Chris said, glancing nervously at the oven. He hoped his cake would turn out as well as hers seemed to be. If not, he might have to rely on his sabotages more than he’d planned.

After what felt like an eternity, the oven timer dinged, and they both pulled out their cakes. Chris’s cake was a little uneven, but nothing a bit of frosting couldn’t fix. Y/N's cakes, of course, looked flawless—golden brown and perfectly risen.

They let their cakes cool before moving on to the final stage: decorating. Chris spread his ganache over the cake, trying to make it as smooth as possible. Y/N, meanwhile tasted her buttercream and shot Chris a look before starting again. As soon as her new buttercream was finished she was piping intricate patterns onto her cake with her buttercream.

As they worked, Chris couldn’t resist one last attempt at sabotage. He "accidentally" knocked a small jar of sprinkles off the counter, sending them scattering across the floor. Y/n just sighed and shook her head, clearly used to his antics by now.

"Chris, you do realize that if you spent as much time focusing on your cake as you did on trying to mess with mine, you might actually have a chance," she said, her tone more teasing than anything else.

"Hey, I’m just trying to keep things interesting," Chris replied with a grin.

The timer was ticking down faster than Chris would have liked, he still had chocolate sprinkles to add on and was going to put some sliced strawberry's to add too. He looked at his strawberry's and his face fell when he saw they were squished, like someone had put their fist on them like the hulk.

"Right madam, you're going to pay for that!" Chris scolded, he walked over to the fridge and luckily there was still a handful of fruit in there.

With their cakes finally completed, Chris and y/n stepped back to admire their work. Chris’s chocolate cake, while a bit rough around the edges, looked pretty decent, especially with the shiny ganache covering its imperfections. Y/n's unicorn cake however, was a work of art, with delicate piping, a face painted on the side and a unicorn horn placed on top wrapped in gold.

"Not bad," Y/N admitted, giving Chris’s cake an appraising look. "You might actually have a shot."

"You think so?" Chris asked, trying to hide his surprise.

"No I'm just being polite, but let’s see what Arthur thinks."

Arthur arrived back in frame. He greeted them both with a grin, clearly excited to see what they had come up with.

"Alright, guys, let’s see what you’ve made," Arthur said, He walked over to Y/N's cake first, examining it closely. "Wow, this looks amazing, Y/N. Very professional, but I'm going to have to have a look in the middle." Y/N then cut a slice out revealing perfect layers in her cakes.

"That's actually really impressive." Chris uttered, he was truly proud of his girl, she was obviously talented.

Arthur then turned his attention to Chris’s cake. He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by how decent it looked. "Not bad, Chris. I was expecting something a bit more… chaotic."

Chris chuckled, scratching his head. "Yeah, well, I had to make sure I wasn’t completely embarrassed on my own channel."

Arthur nodded, clearly amused. "Alright, let’s give these a taste."

He started with Y/N's cake, cutting a small slice and taking a bite. His eyes widened as he chewed, clearly impressed. "This is really good," he said after swallowing. "The flavours are spot on, and the buttercream is perfect. Chris I don't know how you don't weigh twice as much being with her." Arthur joked.

"It's hard," the curly haired man replied.

Y/N beamed, and Chris felt a twinge of nerves. He watched as Arthur moved on to his cake, cutting a slice and taking a bite. There was a long pause as Arthur chewed, his expression unreadable.

"Well?" Chris asked, unable to take the suspense any longer.

Arthur finally swallowed and nodded. "You know, Chris, this is actually pretty good. The ganache is rich and smooth, and the cake is moist. I’m impressed."

"Let me have a bite," y/n asked and thanked Arthur when he gave her a fork, she took a bite of the confection, it was maybe a little too heavy on the sugar but overall the cake was moist, spongey, the chocolate was rich and the ganache was smooth, for an amateur Chris has done a thoroughly decent job. "I'm actually impressed!" Chris smiled at his girlfriends comments, although Arthur was the judge she was the one he was really trying to impress and knowing he had done that made his heart swell a little.

Arthur stepped back, holding up his hands in a gesture of finality. "Alright, guys, this is a tough one. Both cakes are really good, but I have to choose one winner." Chris and y/n exchanged glances, both trying to read Arthur’s expression.

Arthur took a deep breath and said, "The winner of this bake-off is… Y/N!!!"

Her face lit up with a smile as Chris groaned in defeat. "Of course she won," he muttered, though there was no real bitterness in his voice he knew it would make good content if he protested a little bit.

"Thanks, Arthur," Y/N said, giving Chris a playful nudge. "Guess I’ll be picking out your chores for the week."

Chris laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, you deserve it. But you have to admit, I gave you a run for your money."

"You definitely did," Y/N agreed, though there was a hint of mischief in her eyes. "But next time, maybe try to sabotage a little less and bake a little more."

Arthur, still recording, chimed in, "And there you have it, folks. Y/N takes the win, but Chris put up a good fight. Make sure to like and subscribe if you want to see more challenges like this one!"

"But next time, it's going to be a free kick challenge and I’m going to crush you." Chris warned, y/n shook her head laughing.

"I’m looking forward to it."

"This is where she admits she is secretly the best free kick taker in the UK and has been playing for years," Arthur joked a little, y/n gave a smile to him and Chris which was so innocent it looked like a halo could appear above her head at any moment.

"I've got my eye on you," Chris winked pulling his girlfriend in for a side hug, her placing her hand on his chest with his around her waist.

As they started cleaning up the kitchen together, Chris couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction despite his loss. The challenge had been fun, and he’d learned a lot—mostly that he should never underestimate y/n. And who knew? Maybe baking would become a new hobby for him.

But for now, he had a week of chores to look forward to, courtesy of the best baker he knew. And as much as he hated losing, he had to admit that it was worth it.

#chrismd #chris dixon #chrismd fic #chrismd x reader #chrismd imagine

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