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sp0o0kylights · 9 months ago

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"Valentines Day is a capitalistic scam made to sell chocolate and flowers!" Eddie Munson bellowed, leaping to the top of a cafeteria table not even ten minutes into lunch.

"Do you think he was born like this, or just dropped on his head as a baby?" Heather asked, rolling her eyes as the super senior began waving his arms around, getting way too into his annual “anti-valentines day” rant.

Steve, who'd tuned out the dramatics in favor of trying to figure out how he could ditch school, only heard her because she’d begun running her foot up his leg.

Directly in front of Patrick.

As if half the school didn’t know he planned on asking her out after school.

Long over being a part of these kinds of games, Steve kicked out, forcing Heather’s leg off his.

He did it harder than he intended and immediately winced, as if he hadn’t meant to do it at all. Aimed a sad little look at her, softening his eyes in the way he knew ladies loved while murmuring a quiet "sorry.”

A pudding cup was offered as an additional apology--which Heather, thankfully, accepted.

Crisis averted, Steve used the movement of handing the cup over to get his legs well out of Heather's range. He had other things to think about today, and getting drawn into whatever drama Heather was trying to brew wasn’t on the list.

Particularly given the basketball team as a unit had started snubbing him out.

"Newsflash ladies! Your man isn't taking you to some shitty restaurant because he loves you, he's doing it because he hopes you'll give it to him in your car!" Munson continued, voice growing impossibly louder.

A crude gesture followed, involving hip thrusts and hand jabs.

Several of the cheerleaders shot him disgusted looks as he did it.

"Definitely dropped on his head." Carol said, glaring at Munson as his little group of freaks and geeks cheered him. "More than once."

Steve hummed an agreement, more on automatic than from actually listening. He knew how to look like he was paying attention, even if his head was deep in possible escape plans.

If he dipped at the last minute to the bathroom on the way to fifth period, Tommy wouldn't have time to stop him and he could make a break for his car…

That just left making up a plausible enough excuse as to why thee Steve Harrington, whose single status was the current hot topic of the school, left school early on Valentines Day.

("Candy, sex, the overwhelming affection of all the ladies." Tommy drawled out that morning, practically preening. "Valentine's Day is the best holiday man. Just look at all this!"

He waved a hand at his locker, which was absolutely covered in paper hearts.

"The rally squad put hearts on the lockers of everyone on the basketball team, Tommy." Carol argued, rolling her eyes. "Steve’s is practically buried in them.”

Tommy opened his mouth to respond, no doubt with something else teasing and rude, but Carol’s elbow caught him in the gut first.

“If you keep acting like this you're not getting any sex." She warned.

"Aww baby, don't be like that. You know you're the only one for me." Tommy teased, with a wink that prompted Carol to smack him on the shoulder.

Laughing, he added: "Besides we can't fight or we'll miss our favorite game. Which poor gal thinks this year is the year Steve will take her out on a date!"

Carol allowed Tommy to put an arm over her shoulder, the two of them turning knowing grins on their friend as a singular unit.

Even if Steve hadn’t felt like their friend in a hot minute.

Not in the way he used to.

"I do love watching them stutter through their little confessions.” Carol admitted, like this wasn’t something they’d loved doing since middle school. “I wonder if anyone will ever top Cindy Komer."

Steve almost wasn't fast enough to cover his wince--that particular incident had been painful for him and Cindy.

Steve still had no idea what he'd said to make the then-freshman cry.

He thought he'd been nice about turning her down, but judging by Carol constantly quoting what he'd said, Steve had a feeling he'd accidentally been an asshole again.

Not that anyone ever thought it was accidental.

“Steve? Hel~lo? Are you listening?” Carol said, snapping to get his attention and God did Steve hate that.

Never realized just how much until Nancy but after she’d pointed out that Carol treated him and Tommy both like her dogs, well.

It was hard not to notice--and be a bit resentful.

“God you keep doing this, you’re turning into such a space case.” Carol continued, the edge back in her voice. The same one she’d been using for a while, like Steve was on her last nerve. “Please tell me you’re not still mooning over Nancy fucking Wheeler.”

“No.” He snapped, only to know instantly that was the wrong move, and try to fix it before Carol blew up. “No--I’ve just already had to fend someone off today. Like first thing--I was barely out of my car.”

There, that should keep Carol and Tommy both off his back for being “angry” and it wasn’t even a lie. He really had been asked out earlier, though the girl had been gracious about his rejection.

Of course, this kind of instant redirection came with a price--and in this case, it was being absolutely hounded for more information.

“Oh shit who!? Was it that Buckley girl?” Carol perked up immediately, like a hunting dog scenting prey. “I swear she stares holes in your head, she’s so weird…” )

"This isn't about romance! It's about showing who has the most cash, gets the most sex! It's a pathetic social ritual you're all falling for!” Munson yelled, jolting Steve back into the present. “I bet none of you even enjoy it!”

"Tell that to all the girls Steve’s dated!” One of the younger basketball guys hollered, prompting a wave of laughter from the rest of the cafeteria. “They seem to enjoy it plenty!”

Steve couldn’t see who had said it, and should have felt the normal wave of smug warmth that the team had his back.

Except his team had already proven they didn’t.

Were in fact, siding more and more with Hargrove, just as Tommy was.

They were rapidly approaching a watershed moment. Steve could feel it, the same way he’d always been able to tell when a crowd was about to turn.

He was losing, but was still on top of Hawkins social spaces enough, had caught it early enough, that he could turn everyone’s favor--if he wanted.

Emphasis on ‘if.’

Munson spun to face his table, hair whipping to smack him in the face. The guy had clearly been trying to grow it out, but right now he looked like one of those poodles Carol's mom loved so much.

So said Carol, anyway.

"You sure about that?" Munson challenged, a crazed grin breaking across his face. "Rumor has it King Steve lost his groove ever since Wheeler dumped him!"

Steve grimaced, though he was secretly thankful Munson went with "dumped" instead of "cheated on" (or any of the other vile words Billy had flung around, spreading across the school in the sick, crawling way rumors moved.

Hargrove had been positively brutal about the whole Jonathan and Nancy thing, and the only reason he wasn't here now to spin this whole situation against Steve was because the guy always vanished at lunch.)

Tommy's face morphed into an affronted snarl, hands slapping down on the table. He turned expectantly to Steve, waiting for "The King" to get up and "handle" Munson.

Like Steve even cared about this dumb high school shit anymore.

It took him a moment to realize Steve wasn’t planning on doing anything. Was in fact, going to remain perfectly quiet, other than an eyeroll and half-assed middle finger in Munson’s direction.

Tommy let out a disgusted scoff in his direction and then decided to handle things himself.

(Like that had ever been a good idea.)

“Shut up, Freak. The only game you have is in the prison showers.” He snapped, half rising from the table. “Isn’t that why you keep your hair long? So all the boys will actually fuck you?!”

Whistles and yells lit the air, though Steve didn’t miss how the girls at the table looked taken aback at the sheer vitriol in Tommy’s voice.

Even Carol looked startled, eyes sliding to meet Steve’s as if to confirm she hadn’t just imagined it.

The three of them had always been good at this kind of mindless high school banter, but this over the top, crude shit?

It wasn’t Tommy’s style.

It was Hargrove’s.

(That was its own growing issue.

The way Tommy was gravitating towards Billy.

How Carol kept expecting Steve to act like he used to.

That she blamed his “outbursts” on Nancy, snidely mentioning that Steve had better have learned his lesson about “changing his personality for pussy.”

Even now Steve knew they were only defending him because Munson was the one saying it.)

“I didn’t realize Harrington still had his attack dog!”

Munson put a hand against his heart as though injured, staggering dramatically backwards.

“I thought you were too busy putting your tongue up Hargrove’s ass to bark at people!”

Tommy immediately fired back, letting loose an uninspired string of curse words and something about Eddie being queer again. Steve didn’t hear the specifics--didn’t care to hear it, even as things started to spiral out of control.

All he wanted to do was go home.

Ideally before Billy got back from lunch and decided to make a spectacle himself, because Steve could feel that coming just as he could everything else.

He was running out of time to come up with an excuse to get out of here without making a production out of it, and Munson wasn’t someone he wanted to piss off today, given he’d half hoped to buy weed off the guy before he ditched.

…Which was looking more and more unlikely given Tommy had just screeched some insult that had put Munson’s sights back on Steve.

“You sure? Cause Harrington looks like he’s just gonna sit there and take it, just like he takes everything Hargrove and Wheeler and anyone else throws at him.”

He leered, leaning forward as if to see into Steve’s very soul.

“I don’t know if anyone else has noticed, but our beloved King here hasn’t exactly been defending his crown. If anything, he’s abandoned it.”

The world stopped.

This was the first time someone actually called him out on the fact that he often let whatever crap Billy spewed go. That Nancy and him had a few awkward encounters publicly, with at least one of them starting a rumor that she’d told Steve to fuck off.

(She hadn’t of course, but Carol had stopped running damage control, and Steve was feeling the effects of her ire.)

Silence echoed, and Steve realized with a dawning sort of horror, that Munson was waiting for a response from him.

Just as the entire cafeteria was.

The catalyst was here, brought on early by one Edward Munson.

With a startling amount of clarity, Steve realized he was done.

With his so called friends, with the girls who’d tried corning him all morning, with Hargrove and just--everything.

He was over it.

If Billy wanted the crown so bad he could fucking have it.

(If Tommy wanted to pretend he was tougher than he was by mimicking the dick, then he could have that too.)

“This is stupid.” Steve announced, dropping the masks he so carefully wore. The ones he kept having to fix, because the Upside Down and its related demons (human and non) kept taking chunks out of it.

He stood, feeling the weight of the room press down on him as he faced them all down.

“Yeah--!” Tommy started to pile on, seeming to think Steve was about to unleash hell, and got the surprise of a lifetime when Steve turned and jammed a finger in his face.

“Shut up.” He snapped.

Knew instantly he only got away with it by the fact that he’d caught everyone off guard.

King Steve did a lot of things, but he rarely blew up.

“This is stupid.” He reiterated, voice booming across the lunch room, “ You wanna fight? Fine, but leave me out of it.”

“The King doesn’t want to play? Why I never thought we’d see the day!” Munson clucked his tongue, and without missing a beat Steve turned to him.

“For someone who is always screaming about nonconformity, you sure are happy to attack anyone who doesn’t do what you want.”

Steve’s voice was loud, but he wasn’t screaming. Wasn’t yelling or throwing his arms around.

He didn’t need to. Had never needed to.

“I heard you going off on that guy whose lunch you're standing on yesterday, because he wanted to watch the Colts play.” Steve continued, voice cold. “Half of your friends are terrified of you, because you’ll scream at them just like you accuse us of doing--and let’s be real here, Munson, you do it more.”

In a dramatic move that absolutely, 100% came from Dustin and his theatrics, Steve shrugged his letterman jacket off and bunched it into a ball.

“You might as well crown yourself King, because you’re the exact same as the rest of us. Here--you can start with this.”

Cocking back an arm, Steve let the jacket fly. Watched with everyone else as it landed neatly right at Eddie’s feet.

Shell shocked, Munson’s eyes drifted from Steve down to the letterman jacket and back. They were massive, those stupid eyes of his, but at least it meant Steve could see the realization wash over the guy in real time.

Steve should have felt smug about it. His past self would have.

Presently?

He just felt tired.

“You’re welcome to jam it up your ass.” He finished, before giving his own sarcastic half bow to the room.

The cafeteria was dead silent. Not a fork was scraped, or a loud piece of chip chewed. All eyes were on Steve, some waiting to see if Eddie would let him have the last word, others just shocked to see Steve lose his shit in front of them.

Idiot he was, he tried to rally anyway.

Even Tommy, who’d partly stood up, hands pressed against the lunch table looked shocked.

“What the fuck Steve!?” He sputtered, and it wasn’t long before half the basketball team was muttering similar remarks.

They were ignored.

Whispers ripped across the room when Steve turned on his heel, striding towards the exit and making it clear things were over, but Tommy didn’t give up.

“Fuck you Harrington!” He hurled at his back, Carol now standing and placing a restraining hand on his arm. “You’re not fucking better than any of us!”

Steve didn’t even look back.

"That's my point Tommy." Steve said, loud enough to be heard. "No one is better than anyone else. You lot are all just buying into your own bullshit.”

Then he was slamming through the doors, and out into the sunlight.

xXx

He didn’t want to go home.

Not anymore, which was ironic in a way that made Steve’s face screw up in a grimace.

Here he’d been dying to go to his stupid house all day, and now, after losing his shit and undoubtedly, the last of his social standing, he just didn’t feel like being by himself.

All alone, in a house too big for him, full of nothing but dark corners and a phone that never rang.

So instead, he wandered, reminiscing on how Valentine's Day used to be his favorite day of the year.

Steve loved the gesture of it all--the romance, the wooing. The butterflies floating in one's stomach, mixing with fear of rejection and a burning kind of hope towards starting something new.

Of course, Steve also had always had a girl in mind, when he celebrated. Now, after Nancy…

He did not.

It felt weird to go to Skull Rock--the place he himself had made into Hawkins hottest makeout spots. Likewise all the local restaurants were off limits--too many adults knew how much he loved the holiday.

Steve didn’t want to face that. The expectations, the knowing winks that would slide into uncomfortable frowns. Any possible advice given wouldn’t be appreciated, and the last thing Steve wanted was to get the “everyone has an off season, son” speech.

So he’d stayed away from his usual haunts. Explored some storefronts instead, the Beamer parked in front of Family Video as he wandered.

Had an entirely too peaceful two hours, which of course, meant he had to bump into someone.

At least, Steve thought dully, whole body tensing in preparation, it was Munson.

Not Hargrove, or Tommy, or hell--the children, demanding he help them fight some other fucked up creature the government had accidentally summoned.

“Hey Harrington.” Munson said, and it took a moment for Steve to realize the guy was embarrassed. “I uh, I need to talk to you.”

Steve just stared at him.

“If you couldn’t tell from earlier,” He warned, “I’m a little done talking for today.”

Or any day, for the foreseeable future.

“Yeah no--I, I got that. I--okay.” Eddie stopped rocking on his heels, before giving his entire body a shake, like the guys sometimes did while prepping for a game. “Hear me out, and then you can deck me or leave or whatever makes you feel better.”

“I’m not going to deck you.” Steve said, exasperated and frazzled and not wanting to do this whole song and dance a second time.

Not that it mattered, because Munson had already launched right into whatever it was he needed to say.

“There’s this book right? My Uncle got it for me. It’s a fantasy book all about this big battle and there’s these wizards in it, and--” He stopped himself, shaking out his hands.

Like he realized he was rambling and needed the movement to get himself back on track.

“I always--I guess I saw myself as a Gandalf kinda guy? Like I was this shepherd herding these lost sheep. A person who intimately knew all the dark forces of the world and could be a shield for them. Do not pass and all that.”

He chuckled, but it was weak, and he killed it almost immediately.

“...Okay?” Steve said, knowing he was supposed to say something here, even if he had no idea what.

Maybe something about how Gandalf the Grey wasn’t exactly a shepard given he’d led the hobbits straight into Mordor, but saying that meant admitting Steve knew what Lord of the Rings was, which wasn’t a conversation he felt like getting into.

Particularly not because he’d only read the damn things after losing a bet to Dustin and Mike both.

Munson nodded, as if acknowledgement was all he needed.

“I thought that’s what I was doing. I wasn’t and I didn’t realize I wasn’t until you pointed it out. You shouldn’t have had to point it out. You shouldn’t have had to say any of what you did.” He rushed to add, oddly sincere.

"Is this…" Steve might be confused but catching on, an uptick at the corners of his mouth as the tiniest spark of amusement leaked through. "an apology? Are you trying to apologize right now?"

Eddie groaned, flinging his head back. "No!”

Then immediately;

“Actually yes, but--”

Which caught Steve off guard enough that he laughed, and had to hide it with a cough.

“I am sorry, man. I shouldn’t have said that shit about you, especially not about you and Wheeler. It's more than that though.” Munson swallowed, before squaring his shoulders. “It’s that you were right."

“I was right?” Steve repeated dumbly, because fuck, he couldn’t believe it either.

Not that Munson heard him. Eddie always had been hard to stop once he started, and Steve had been in enough classes with the guy to know the train had left the station.

"I did yell at Jeff because he wanted to watch that stupid football game.” He began, and Steve got a front row seat to watch as one Eddie Munson word vomited his way through a myriad of emotions.

“I fuckin’ lost it on Grant because he missed band practice to drive his sister to some thing. Gareth looked like I was going to hit him when I asked if I had really been that bad--same exact look he gave Hagan and those other assholes that cornered him in the bathroom two weeks ago!”

“Tommy did what?”

Steve was promptly ignored.

(Or more likely, Eddie simply didn’t hear him, too lost in his own voice to realize Steve had said something.)

There were a lot of mentions of the Gandalf guy. Where Eddie thought he’d gone wrong, and even something about a glowing eye thing that had Steve a little concerned until he realized Munson was talking about Sauron (and also made Steve realize that he’d been pronouncing Sauron in his head wrong, oops.)

“I called up this friend of mine who graduated. She’s always been no nonsense, so I asked her for her advice.” Munson said, finally seeming to slow down a little. “She told me I might as well eat my own doctrine because I sure wasn’t living by it, and that if I wanted to fix it then I should start by apologizing. To everyone but--to you, first.”

Eddie took a step back, winging out his hands as if to present himself.

“So here I am. Apologizing.”

A pause wherein neither of them did a thing, which caused him to awkwardly add; “To uh, you. Harrington.”

“Yeah I got that.” Steve said, because what else was he supposed to do here? “Good for you? I guess?”

“Most people either forgive a guy or tell him to fuck off.” Munson pouted, and mimicked like he was kicking at a rock.

It made Steve want to laugh again, though he shoved the urge down.

“Someone once told me,” He said instead, speaking slowly to make damn sure he didn’t let slip this piece of advice came from a middle schooler. “that apologies without actions don’t really mean anything. They’re a start--they let people know you’re aware you screwed up, but no one’s going to trust you if you don’t follow through. So I can forgive you, but I think you’re better off doing this with one of your friends.”

Someone who would hug it out, or at least tell Eddie how he could be better, at least.

Rather than argue, Munson just titled his head back, eyes to the sky. Like he was really thinking on the words, before giving a sort of accepting sounding noise.

“Trying too.” Steve admitted with a sigh.

“That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?” He asked, head coming back down so he could stare at Steve.

“The thing in the cafeteria was a good start.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie grinned.

“Yeah. Don’t think Hagan’s gonna see it the same way though.”

“We were falling out anyway.” Steve admitted, and hated how easy it was to say.

That they really were just going through the motions of friendship. Had been, ever since Jonathan had punched Steve in the face.

“Think you lost more than just him as a friend, to be honest.”

“Pro tip about the actions thing, Munson?” Steve said with a snort, once again unsure of where this conversation was going, “Nice people don’t typically point out when someone’s turned into a social pariah.”

“No, I get that. Say,” Eddie’s grin had grown, which Steve would have taken poorly except he invaded Steve’s space with a goofy little hop. “I think you might be in need of some new ones!”

“New…friends?” Steve hesitated, very unsure of what was happening.

Munson promptly stuck his hand out. “Yup! So--hello, my name is Eddie Munson, and I am here to apply for the position as your friend!”

Steve snorted, but the harshness of it was taken away by the grin on his face.

He took Eddie’s hand, noting how doing so made the older teen’s smile widen.

“Nice to meet you Eddie, I’m Steve.”

Excited, Eddie waived their arms up and down, with far more enthusiasm than the gesture required.

“How about we cement our new friendship by renting a truly terrible horror movie and drowning our woes with my other good friend, Mary Jane?”

Then he waggled his eyebrows, like that was something scandalous.

“Tempting me along with weed, huh?” Steve mused back, sticking his hands in his pockets once Eddie let him go. “Guess you’re a little like Gandalf the Gray after all. Just don’t send me on any missions.”

“Steve Harrington.” Eddie gaped, pure delight spreading across his face. “Have you read Lord of the Rings!?”

He got a shrug and a sly; “Maybe.” in response.

It was worth the barrage of questions, even if the rapid fire pace of them nearly gave Steve a headache.

(Just as it was worth it several months later, when Steve was comfortable enough to instigate wrestling matches with Eddie over the dumbest of things.

One particularly semi-drunk tussle over the remote led to an interesting discovery when Eddie popped a boner, and then frantically tried to escape when it brushed against Steve’s leg.

Instead of panicking--or letting Eddie bolt in his panic, Steve just dropped his whole weight down, effectively pinning the slimmer man to the floor.

“Steve.”

Eddie said it so quietly he almost didn’t hear it, the word filled with desperation.

The kind of tone someone whispered a prayer in, a sort of pleading that Eddie did better with his eyes than his voice. Or would have, given his own were firmly scrunched closed the second he realized he’d been caught out.

Except--

“Not right now I’m thinking.” Steve told him absently.

Which he was. Speed thinking even, if that was a thing.

Because if two plus two equaled four (which it did) then feeling the exact same, fluttering excitement about Eddie’s boner as Steve had Nancy’s breasts, equaled…

“The fuck? Steve--”

Steve shushed him.

That pulled a frustrated, embarrassed groan from Eddie that went directly to Steve’s own dick, not that it needed much help waking up.

“I think I’m having one of those crisis’s Robin is always accusing the basketball team of having.” Steve informed Eddie dutifully, the dots done connecting.

Eddie, still refusing to open his eyes, snorted.

“Whatever man. Can you at least be decent and hurry up with the beating? This is embarrassing enough.”

“I’m not going to beat you up.” Steve said, thankful that his brain managed not to add some shitty comment about the entire town being awash in rumors of Eddie’s sexuality. That he’d confirmed it here wasn’t exactly a surprise.

“I’m going to try something. If you don’t like it, let me know.” Streve added, before screwing up his courage and leaning down.

That of course, got Eddie to open his eyes.

“Wha--” He managed, before Steve’s lips were on his.

For one single, blissful moment, Eddie Munson’s mouth was too busy to talk.

“Yeah?” Eddie said, voice wrecked, and oh, Steve liked that.

“Huh.” Steve muttered, when they broke for air. “Well that’s new.”

Liked the way Eddie looked at him more, hesitant, but with heat in his gaze.

Steve had always been good about knowing what to do with heat.

He leaned back down, pecking lightly at Eddie’s lips, and was delighted to find Eddie not only let him, but kissed back.

“Not bad, Munson, but I think I could give you a few pointers.” Steve muttered, nose ghosting alongside Eddie’s. “Let me show you…”

One boyfriend, several weeks, and another interdimensional monster later, Steve found himself socked in the arm by none other than his coworker, Robin Buckley.

In her defense, she’d confessed her love for Tammy Thompson, still somewhat drugged on the Starcourt bathroom floor, only for Steve to tease her that at least his boyfriend could actually sing.

“God you and Eddie Munson.” She muttered after, smile on her face. “How did that happen?”

Steve knocked his shoe into hers, returning the grin unabashedly.

“So remember last Valentines Day?” Steve started, all too eager to finally tell someone who understood about the best thing to ever happen to him.

Robin of course, would soon also be ranked in that same chart, but Eddie didn’t need to know that. )

#DADDYS BACK #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #pre steddie to steddie #0o0 fanfics #be gentle with me I JUST got my computer back lmao #this was a warmup I finished out #Ive been writing at work on my lunches #yes I have been working on adopt a jock #and the third part of the holiday hellfire fic #I think I stared at that steddisy one once #maybe #IDK this whole ass month has been a blurr

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handonhaven · 2 years ago

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Thinking about how at the start of tvd when Elena had been struggling with the death of her parents, Matt asked how she was and Bonnie was like “how do you think? It’s only been 4 months.” And then in legacies, Hope was barely grieving Landon for only a few days and, not only did no one actually care about how she was doing, but she was getting criticized and called obsessed and being pushed to get over it. I swear, the lack of sensitivity and compassion in the show, particularly towards the two main characters, was insane. At least in the last couple seasons, it was one of the many reasons why the show became so difficult to watch imo.

#text #my posts #s3 #anti super squad #anti legacies #and that’s just one example of the insensitivity towards hope’s and landon’s pain and trauma #the list goes on and on #and it was all disturbing tbh

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humandisastertonystark · 1 year ago

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So we're just not gonna mention this bullshit with Tony and how that supposedly had to happen to make Peter "grow" bc what we need are traumatized teenagers losing their third father figure in a row to "traumagrow" them into early adulthood

And Tony can't get a break bc "big bad egoistical billionaire" that only kept saving cities, countries and the whole universe to get nothing in return except PTSD, panic attacks, a girlfriend that gets him in danger bc she can't sit still and continuously blames him for being Iron-Man and therefore getting injured, like she didn't know who he was the whole time.

Top it off with teammates that kept on calling him a selfish asshole, blame him for stuff that was literally not his fault (looking at you "Ultron argument" users, I will eat you for breakfast with bones and hair) and never fucking appreciated ONCE how he's literally homing them the whole time, taking care of every expense and the damage caused during fights, creates and upgrades their weapons and continuously saves their ass by quickly changing the plan mid fight or being the only one to come up with a solution in the first place.

But of course there's no problem with all of that because he's a selfish rich narcissist and nothing without the suit except a genius, billionaire, playboy and philanthropist, right Captain Rightious?

Like yes, he was the self-centered rich orphaned playboy in Iron-Man 1. And then the whole kidnapping and torture thing happened that ended up with him having an arc reactor stuck in his chest, several additional traumas ( using "additional" bc that childhood made him not start mentally well), creating the first prototype of a suit from fucking scraps in the middle of the desert and quitting his business with weapons and rebranding his company.

That was his redemption. His redemption arc and transformation, from careless billionaire to troubled hero, was literally the whole fucking plot of the first movie. But of course that wasn't enough, he needed to repent through the whole MCU timeline until he makes the ultimate selfless sacrifice –

(not like he didn't nearly die several times before that, like the time he sacrificed himself to close the portal in Avengers 2012 or when his supposed "friend" smashed his shield so many times into his suit 'till it stopped functioning and split his arc reactor in half, leaving him to nearly die of hypothermia)

—because of course, his death is the only way to prove to everyone he's a hero and person who actually cares.

Sounds really fucking familiar to me.

It's almost like there's a whole other character that Marvel really loves to put through endless "repent cycles" until they finally decide that the character collected enough mental health issues to give them their "happy ending" by killing them via self-sacrifice.

*deep breath*

Thanks for coming to my weekly, randomly triggered "Tony Stark deserved better and if you say otherwise I will find you and pee on everything you love" rant.

Cheerio, delerio

endgame is so funny bc they said “instead of respecting the og avengers what if we gave them endings that were equivalent to their own personal hells”

#anti mcu #anti endgame #tony stark deserves better #tony stark protection squad #anti steve rogers #anti the whole fucking team I'm sick of it #he never wanted to join the super secret boyband to begin with #fuck marvel #mcu criticism #5 a.m. rant on a monday

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sheepscot · 1 month ago

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I've had a thought in my head that I think the greater dpxdc fandom would enjoy:

Either through the GIW asking for help with the ghost boy menace or some internal review finding their (the GIW) results lacking, Amanda Waller is now in charge. She decides to sic the suicide squad on Danny. I just want to see battle shenanigans between the suicide squad equipped with all the fancy anti-ecto weapons and one ghost teenager.

Danny learning about the bombs that were embedded into them that will go off should any of the Suicide Squad go rogue and offering to make the bombs intangible, can't kill you if they can't interact with you. and he only offers because 'wow forcing criminals to do the governments dirty work or die super unethical'

who on the team would take him up on the offer?

@stealingyourbones, @nerdpoe, @dcxdpdabbles, @evilminji, @puppetmaster13u

#dpxdc #fic prompt #suicide squad #danny phantom #did not know ss had that meaning its been changed

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kannouo · 2 months ago

Text

I'm so lucky, lucky!

fandom: obey me pairing: demon brothers x gn!reader warnings: none prompt by @ember-is-clueless: Can I request the brothers with an extremely lucky MC? The MC might not go to gamble a lot but when they do they win every time, it also strays off to other aspects like if they guess which answer is right on a test, they get it correct. Thank you <3 A/N: ty for the request <333 I hope this is okay. this idea was pretty fun to think about actually as there are a lot of scenarios that could happen surrounding this. i also went super far with just how lucky the mc is lol, just letting you know i basically went the superpower route.

LUCIFER

• Lucifer notices how lucky you are very early on during your stay at the Devildom.

• You were somehow always in exactly the right place at the right time to avoid his and his brothers' wrath. When demons at RAD would make any attempt to harm you, you would just happen to run into him or even Diavolo himself before they could do anything. In fact, even when you went against his orders and went out late alone, you would always come back unscathed.

• Lucifer doesn't believe in luck, and therefore isn't comfortable relying on chance alone to keep you out of danger. It might save him a headache or two, but overall, he won't loosen up his overprotective tendencies. What if the one time he puts his faith in your luck to protect you, something goes wrong?

• He realises later on that your luck comes into play with him too. Whenever you're caught alongside the anti-Lucifer squad — if he ever even manages to catch you in the first place — he always just happens to be in a merciful mood that day, so the punishments you all receive are comparatively light.

• He is trying to work on this. He can't have anyone thinking he's gone soft.

• Is admittedly impressed by your ability to pass any test by guessing the answers, but cannot support you getting by on just that. He will still enforce studying time for you and insists you actually make an effort with your schoolwork, even if you don't think it's necessary.

• Lucifer is not amused when his brothers start trying to drag you everywhere with them to use your luck to their advantage, and encourages you not to let them do so. Even if you don't mind it, nothing good comes from them getting their way all of the time.

You were really in trouble this time. Caught trying to give a cup of coffee laced with one of Satan's newest concoctions to Lucifer, it seemed lady luck was absent today. You knelt before him with your head lowered as he glared down at you, but just as he opened his mouth to begin his lecture... CRASH! You jumped at the loud sound of glass shattering in the hallway, followed by a yelp that sounded suspiciously like Mammon. You turned to Lucifer, who had directed his attention to the door, where the sound came from. "MAAAMMOOOOON?" As Lucifer stormed over to the door and out into the hallway, you lived to thank your lucky charms another day.

MAMMON

• Mammon noticed you were lucky pretty quickly, but it took him a while to realise just how lucky.

• He'd make jokes about how lucky you seemed to get all the time for going out at just the right time to always conveniently avoid Lucifer's wrath, but he only took it seriously when he challenged you to a game of poker and lost all of his savings, as well as the jacket and belt he was wearing at the time. He was stunned.

• Mammon might have a reputation for losing all of his money on gambling, but that doesn't mean he's bad at it. He just suffers from the same habit a lot of gambling addicts do — he can't stop. He wins and wins until he loses. So, now knowing you're even luckier than he is...

• How do you feel about being a walking lucky charm?

• He'll take you with him to casinos as "arm candy" and have you blow on his dice before he makes a move, or even just play the round in his place and split the winnings. You don't even have to know the game, just go with your gut and you'll end up winning by complete chance.

• Another thing he likes to do is walk up to random demons and make a bet such as, "do you think this human here can flip a coin that'll land on heads 10 times in a row?" It being a statistical unlikelihood, the demon will usually allow Mammon to take one of their pennies (so they know it's not a fake) and bet against it. They never bet that much grimm on it, but the shocked look on the demons' faces every time as you just keep landing on heads is completely worth it.

• Lucifer isn't happy about any of this.

• Don't worry though. Outside of making bets surrounding you and dragging you to casinos with him, he's practically your personal servant. He has to butter you up so you don't refuse next time, you know? So, he waits on hand and foot for you all day. Practically worships you.

"MC! MC, babe!" You peeked over the couch as you heard Mammon shouting your name from the hall. Just as he passed by the living room, he caught sight of you and broke into a grin, hurrying over and leaning over the back of the sofa. "There ya are! C'mere, take a look..." You shuffled closer so you could get a view of what he was holding. "...Lottery tickets?" You questioned, glancing up at him. "Yeah! I just bought 'em— will you scratch 'em out for me, baby? Please?" He begged. "I'll do anythin' ya want!"

LEVIATHAN

• Levi takes a while to find out about this ability because of how much time he spends in his room. There are very little opportunities for your luck to come into play there... except for in video games.

• The first time you demolished him in a game you told him you had never played before by pure chance, he demanded rematch after rematch until he solemnly concluded that it wasn't going anywhere. You were pretty sure he hated you for it, judging by his refusal to talk to you or message you afterwards, until he invited you back to his room again, this time to play a co-op game together.

• Predictably, he's jealous of your luck. How come you don't even have to try, and all these good things just seem to come to you naturally? It's not fair.

• He mostly gets over any petty resentment he holds after you two start to get closer, and actually really enjoys games where he can team up with you. He's pretty bad at explaining controls, but it doesn't even matter because you always end up with the luckiest possible circumstances. You contribute even when you aren't trying to.

• Thinks it's hilarious a lot of the time, too. If he's in a voice chat lobby he'll start mocking the other players for losing so badly against a total noob. He's surprisingly toxic.

• One time, Levi had to leave his room because Diavolo had arranged a student council meeting on the day where a special, limited-edition figurine of one of his favourite shows was dropping. He damn near had to be dragged away from his computer by Lucifer, and was sulking the whole meeting. Why today of all days...?

• But you just so happened to pull out your DDD and open Akuzon at the exact moment the figurine dropped. Blissfully unaware, you ordered it, thinking nothing more of it other than "Levi will probably like this".

• He was devastated when the figurine was already sold out by the time he got home, but when it showed up at the door anyway, he couldn't decide between being ecstatic and confused. Was this some kind of miracle?!

• When you explained that you had ordered it for him, he literally drops to his knees and starts thanking and praising you.

• Joins Mammon as your second personal servant.

"LOLOLOL, I thought you losers said you were good at this game!" Levi taunted into his headset, provoking the other players in the lobby to talk back, hurling all kinds of insults his and your way in response. "How much of a normie do you have to be to lose that bad against a total noob?" "Levi," you hit his shoulder. "Stop it." Levi looked at you then paused, a sly smile forming on his face as he listened to the other players yell. "They're saying I carried." You furrowed your brow. "Like hell you did! Oh, it's on."

SATAN

• Also doesn't really believe in luck, but his opinion can be changed if you allow him to experiment with it a little.

• Here's a pop quiz about various subjects in the Devildom you should, by all sound logic, know nothing about. Let's see how you perform when all you can do is guess. Huh... they're all correct. Alright then — could you crack this egg for him? Just a regular egg, and he'll see... its a triple yolk. Well... for the final test, here's a random lottery ticket. You couldn't possibly—... did you just hit a jackpot? Seriously?

• After a while of "observing" your unnatural abilities, he is eventually forced to conclude that lady luck really does exist, and she plays favourites.

• Your luck definitely comes in handy, and he will use it to his advantage, mainly to gain the upper-hand in pranking Lucifer. As long as you're around or are the one performing it, it's far more likely for their pranks to succeed. And if they get caught, the punishments are always far less severe, so they can get back to finding new ways to inconvenience Lucifer as fast as possible.

• He also likes bringing you with him to bookstores, because whenever you wander around or randomly pick out a book, it always happens to be some kind of rare edition or cursed book that is... for some reason in a public bookstore. And it's not like the curse will hurt you either. No, you're just too lucky for that.

• Sort of develops a more laid-back attitude to what you do overtime, unlike Lucifer. Satan has full faith in your luck, and doesn't tend to worry much about your safety. That isn't to say he doesn't care, more like he believes fate itself will always keep you safe.

• Also, whenever he takes you to cat cafes or areas popular with stray cats, they always surround you and jump up onto your lap. Even the feistiest of cats are calm enough to be pet by you. He loves this, and tries to take you with him every time he goes out somewhere like that.

"Pspspspsps..." "Oh, that's Paprika. She doesn't have an owner and is scared of people, so she won't—" Satan's sentence was cut short by the usually shy and aggressive kitty jumping up into your lap. She 'mrrp'ed as you pet and cooed at her, and it took you a moment to notice the utter silence from the man next to you. "Satan? What's wrong?" He blinked and gazed lovingly at you, completely starry-eyed. "...I love you."

ASMODEUS

• He knew you were lucky right off the bat. I mean, you had to be with looks like yours. You basically won the genetic lottery!

• Obviously, your abilities go far beyond just good looks. But he honestly doesn't care as much as his brothers do about all of that. He's much more focused on how you are absolutely slaying every single outfit you try on! No matter how hideous a combination is, you always make it look good... How?!

• I would say he's jealous, but that would be a lie. He's still hotter, obviously... but you're close second! Well, no, you're not that close behind, but still!

• If there's anything he is jealous of, it's your lack of bedhead. He's drawing a line, it's completely unfair for you to wake up looking perfect every morning.

• If Asmo were to ever use your luck to his advantage, it would be to score his most desired modelling shoots. Just having you near him makes scouts more likely to approach him, and having you in a picture makes it go instantly viral. You're his lucky charm for stuff like that.

• Doesn't approve of his brothers stealing you away for all kinds of shenanigans though. Mostly because it's taking your attention away from where it should be, on him. He may not take advantage of your luck as frequently as the others, but if that's what it takes to have you all to himself, he might start to!

• Designs a cute little four-leaf clover accessory for you to wear, like a bracelet or a hairclip.

"MC, honey!~" Asmo came running into your room, a big smile on his face. Before you could even speak, he latched his arms around you in a bone-crushing hug, kissing all over your face. "Thank you so much for getting me that photoshoot~ it was amazing!" Confused, you wriggled around for a bit of freedom, and he loosened his grip on you. "I didn't get you anything?" "Of course you did, sweetheart! It's all thanks to you I was lucky enough to come across an opportunity like that~ so, how about a special reward for my favourite lucky charm, hm?~"

BEELZEBUB

• Beel is unlikely to notice unless your luck is pointed out to him. Not because he's stupid or doesn't pay attention to you, but because he just doesn't think in that way. He'll notice when things seem to conveniently always go your way, but he doesn't piece all of those events together and come to the conclusion that you have absurd luck on his own.

• It's only when one of his brothers comment on it that the puzzle pieces all connect and he's like "ooooh." His only real reaction beyond that is a shrug. He frankly doesn't care that much.

• He notices that whenever he takes you out to eat, he always ends up with extra food on his plate that he didn't ask for. He notices that there always happen to be extra replacements for any ingredients he eats when he's on dinner duty, as long as you're in the house. He notices how some vendors are more willing to give him samples on-the-house when you're by his side. It's just not the main reason why he wants you around all the time.

• He loves you because of how unique you are and because of how much you've helped his family. Your luck is convenient, yes, but he doesn't go out of his way to use it for himself. The last thing he wants is for you to think he's using you.

• ...He might ask you to help him sneak food into places though.

• Beel is also unlikely to put much faith in your luck to keep you safe. He knows you've managed to evade danger in the past, but he'd much rather protect you himself so he can be sure.

• Even though he doesn't use your luck to his advantage, he'll ask a lot of questions about what you've been able to do with it in the past. He might ask you to try out a few things solely for experimental purposes, but it's usually just to see how far-reaching your luck actually is. Treats it like a superpower, which it kind of is.

• Such as: what if someone tells you to cook a meal you've never heard of without a recipe? If you just try random stuff, will you end up with a good meal anyway? You tried that one out — the answer was, somehow, yes.

You felt a rough tap on your shoulder. Turning, you were met with Beel, looking very guilty and with a bag full of snacks. "Can you hide these in your coat?" He asked. "Beel, we're at a movie theatre..." You spoke with a hushed voice, looking around warily. "We can just buy popcorn." "I know, but... just popcorn isn't enough." He looked at you with such sad eyes that you couldn't help but give in. You took the bag from him, tucking it under your arm, and he lit up. "Thank you, MC."

BELPHEGOR

• Sure, he noticed, but was pretty sure he wouldn't care about it at all. He sleeps through most days anyway, so...

• He was totally wrong, though. He remembers waking up next to you one morning, cuddled snugly into your chest and arms lazily draped over you from the night before. Groaning, he turned and looked over at his bedside clock... 12:00, it read. He blinked. Had he slept through the beginning of RAD? Without Lucifer or Beel coming to wake him? Seemed unlikely...

• It was only when he checked his DDD that he saw a few messages in the House of Lamentation group chat of Lucifer informing everyone that there had been some sort of mishap with a potion, so RAD's halls were closed off for the day, and perhaps tomorrow. How lucky, he thought. He gets to spend all day in bed with... MC.

• Anyway, he tries to sleep in your bed literally every night from then on, because whenever he does there always seems to be some kind of event that causes RAD to be cancelled or delayed.

• Lucifer bans him from doing this after realising it. He can't just have the entire school year amount to nothing because classes kept getting cancelled, after all. Belphie was not happy about this at all.

• Even when staying overnight with MC is banned, he'll still find ways to use their luck to his convenience. When he naps on them or near them, he's far less likely to be disturbed from his sleep. There's also the bonus of MC helping him and Satan get away with their pranks on Lucifer more often.

• That's what he gets for revoking Belphie's sleepover privileges.

• Your luck sometimes backfires on him, though. Whenever he tries to pull a prank on you, it always goes horribly wrong. To be fair, he probably should have predicted that outcome.

"Belphie... wake up..." You spoke softly into Belphie's ear and he twitched in his sleep. All it took was a few more gentle shakes and he finally stirred, looking at you with sleepy eyes. "Come on, it's time to get up." "What?" He huffed and rested his head back down on top of you. "RAD's cancelled... I don't need to get up..." "It—" You paused and blinked down at the avatar of Sloth. True, it was cancelled for the day, but that announcement was only made about thirty minutes ago. Belphie had been sound asleep. "—How did you know it was cancelled?" The only response you got was a smirk and a knowing look before he went right back to sleep.

#obey me #obey me x reader #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #obey me shall we date

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slater-baby · 6 months ago

Note

i keep thinking how funny it’d be to be working out or training with ghost and just staring at his chest (cause it’s right there) and being convinced that his chest is bigger than yours

I know you probably thought of this as a cute scenario but........this turned out super horny alkjdflkjaf I apologize profusely

Tags: Simon Riley x f!reader, ogling, suggestive comments (without explicit consent), elements of hypermasculinity, flirting, semi-public fingering, Simon and Reader are both perverts

*DESCRIPTION HEAVY*

Word count: 6k

Sweat trailed down your forehead, the small droplets falling from your nose with every thrust of the barbell. You grunt as you shove your hips up, feeling the strain up the back of your legs, and with a final, triumphant noise, you drop the weight back to the floor. With one shaking hand, you wipe your face from your forehead to your neck, grimacing when you see the darkened spots on your sports bra.

Fuck, you pant, lifting your arms, How was it even possible for an armpit to sweat this much?

Lazily, you roll your eyes, shimmying out from under the bar. You go through the motions, re-racking each plate while taking leisurely sips from your bottle. However, just when you begin wiping down your bench, a hand slaps you on the back nearly hard enough to send you face-planting into the leather.

“Soap—” you grunt, pawing at your back like an idiot when you turn to face the man, “What was that—”

“Nothin’, Lass,” he chuckles, sidestepping your attempted swat to reach for the dumbbells, “Just wanted to say that was some good shit there,” he points towards where you were sitting just minutes earlier, “New PR, was it?”

“Not really,” you pant, “But it’s better than last week.”

Before Soap can even answer, you spin dazedly in the mirror, groaning when you see the wet palm print he left against the back of your bra. In the reflection, you can see Johnny’s face contort into a snort when he sees it, too. You send him a deadpan look just for that.

Ugh, you shudder, grimacing at the feeling of Soap’s sweat against your back, Even if I sweat like a pig, at least I don’t sweat like these boys…

Just to make yourself feel better about your soaked bra and leggings, you spare a glance at Kyle and Johnny, both of whom are flexing in the mirror between camera flashes, veiny arms shaking with the strain it takes to get the perfect Instagram story. However, judging by the way they hunch over the phone like a pair of pouting little boys between each photo, it’s not going too well.

“God,” you say, loud enough for Soap to hear, “If you’re gonna sweat that much, can you at least contain it to your side of the gym? I’m just an innocent bystander…”

“Dinnae mean to catch you in the crossfire, lass,” Soap turns then, hands on his hips. His tank top—ripped from beneath his arms to his waistline—is plastered to his chest and practically see through. His mohawk is limp against his scalp, idly dripping sweat into his eyelashes. And even Kyle, who had the sense to take his shirt off before the temperature reached sweltering levels, was still flushing with heat from the doglegs around his neck to the old sneakers on his feet.

Compared to them, you look like you’d taken a short walk in the rain. The two of them might as well pass themselves off as wet dogs.

“Just tryna tell you m’proud of you,” he stares down at you from beneath a curtain of sweaty eyelashes, “What? That illegal or something?”

You scoff with a smirk, shoving him away before his muscular arms can envelop you in a sweat-slick hug.

“It is from you, MacTavish,” you giggle, swiping your water bottle off of the bench, “You just wanna cop a handful.”

“What?” Soap calls after you as you walk back towards the benches, “Just sayin’, Lassie…keep liftin’ like that ’n you’ll have the best arse on the squad…”

With every step you take, you swear that you can feel Soap’s eyes glued onto your swaying hips and ass, looking his eyeful and then some. You can’t help but roll your eyes at his antics.

Fuckin’ dog, you laugh in your head.

“Yeah, and you’d just love that, wouldn’t you, Soap?” You fire back.

“Whatever,” the scot yells back, shaking his head as he pulls a dumbbell off the rack, “You basterds just don’t appreciate my expertise…”

“Your expertise?” You laugh, turning on your heel just to send Johnny a suggestive waggle of your eyebrows.

“Careful, Lassie,” Soap quirks his head while he curls the dumbbells, winking at you in the reflection as another drop of sweat crests the edge of his hairline, “Or ye just might get what yer askin’ for.”

“Soap,” you fake a gag, “How many times do I have to say ‘I love you like a brother’ before you stop hitting on me?”

“Brother,” he grunts with another curl, “Or step-brother?”

At that, your jaw drops, and you don’t miss the way Kyle’s eyes go wide the next time he hits the flash. When he turns to Soap, he’s got a hand clapped over his mouth, stifling howling laughter. If you weren’t so shocked, you might have been laughing just as hard.

“Neither,” you grimace, shaking your head, “God, Soap…you’re disgusting.”

“Tell that to the girl I had last night,” he chuckles, laughter transforming into a low groan with another rep. Instantly, a small chorus of joking gags resounds around your small group, the loudest of all being Gaz, who ambles over to Soap with his hands on his hips.

“Trust me,” Kyle shakes his head, “I fuckin’ heard. Wouldn’t be surprised if the entire barracks could hear it last night,” he snags his shirt off of the bench, walking behind Soap to whip the fabric across his back like a horse crop. Soap shocks forward at the feeling of it, nearly dropping his weight in the process. While you hide your giggles behind your hand, Johnny only frowns into the streaky mirror.

“Wasn’t that loud…” he pouts. His voice is much lower than before.

“‘Wasn’t that loud?’” Gaz deadpans, “It was bouncin’ off the fucking walls, mate—and you were moanin’ louder than she was!!”

Instantly, laughter overcomes every gym goer within earshot, and instantly, Johnny has to drop his dumbbells just to process what Kyle had just said to him. You would have noticed the cold shadow enveloping you from behind if you weren’t so busy wheezing at the look on Johnny’s face.

“Ay—you lot quiet down,” Ghost barks from his position behind you, “Can barely hear my own fuckin’ thoughts.”

“Yeah,” Gaz smirks, “That’s about how loud it was last night.”

“Now yer just takin’ the piss, Gaz,” Soap gripes loudly.

“Soap,” Ghost barks, instantly shutting down the conversation, “Stop exposing your porn history in the gym. Swear to god,” he shakes his head, “Everything I fuckin’ know about you’s been against my will.”

“Hate me that much, sir?” Soap grunts.

“Depends,” Ghost cocks his head, steely eyes pointed resolutely at Soap, “How badly do you wanna get written up, sergeant?”

Idly, you purse your lips, watching the drama unfold with nothing more than a bat of your sweat-slick eyelashes. For a moment, the silence continues, a simmering tension filling the air between the two officers. Weirdly, you can’t help but think that it’s something of a bastardized stand-off—like two bulls locking horns in a stalemate. However, as much as you love Soap, you had to admit he was barking up the wrong tree. Beneath the towering lieutenant, Soap looked more like a fledgling puppy than the grisly wolf he hoped he was, and unfortunately for him, the Alpha male didn’t have a problem with biting though a few throats just to get a couple minutes of peace and quiet.

At the mental image, you snort.

Men, you muse, craning your neck to look at where Ghost stands behind you, Always manage to turn everything into a pissing contest.

“No, sir, LT,” Soap submits, voice lowering.

“Good,” Ghost sighs behind you, ambling back towards the machine he’d been working on, “Too hot for this shite anyway…”

With that, the four of you ease back into a comfortable silence, nothing more than the ambient music and the clacking of steel to fill the air. Soap continues with his set, Kyle fiddles with his earbuds, and Ghost hunkers back down on his bench. Your eyebrows raise when you hear how the leather squeaks under his weight.

God, you muse, inconspicuously watching him crack his neck, Just how big was that man?

You’d been in the 141 for a few years now, but even so, the initial officers’ meeting was anything but a forgotten memory. That day, you’d been sitting in the conference room waiting for your contract offer, sweating under the collar of your pressed uniform, leg bouncing so violently that you were sure your kneecap would be swollen by the end of it.

You’d been expecting some white-haired officer to meet you in the conference room. That, or some young secretary whose whole job was to send emails and peruse their Amazon shopping cart when they were on the clock. However, when two thirty-something, dressed down operators walked into the room—t-shirts clinging to their swollen biceps like they’d just walked off the cover of a magazine—it was safe to say you were entirely speechless.

You’d shaken their hands with clammy palms, practically trembling beneath their steely gazes and baritone voices. Price—whose mustache you were silently marveling at the entire meeting—eased your nerves without breaking a sweat. Naturally homely and charming, it wasn’t long before your jitters disappeared around him altogether.

However, the man at his side, darkened eyes hidden within the shadows of a skull mask, had had your nerves singing like a church choir for months on end.

For the first few days, you’d almost thought it was coincidence, the way he’d show up around every corner and turn, barricading your path with his barrel chest and veiny arms. The first time you’d ran into him in the hallway, you’d practically whimpered when you nearly ran into the broad expanse of his shoulders, barely able to muster a stuttered apology before you were running off, hiding behind your manila files just so you wouldn’t have to stare into those alarmingly pretty eyes any longer.

How was it fair, you’d lamented the first time you ran into him, That a guy who was as scary as that had eyes the color of a sparkling ocean?

It just didn’t make any sense. And for weeks, you’d walked the halls in constant fear of both his attention and his praise, shrinking into your uniform any time he so much as looked in your direction. Perhaps it was a fawn response (it had to be), but something inside of you heart yearned for his wordless stares and rejected them all the same, like a seed that your body just refused to take.

It was only after he’d cornered you one day that your ill-fated game of hide and seek had come screeching to a halt.

You’d been exiting the conference room, trying to hustle back to the barracks before Ghost could catch the timid expression on your face, only for the door to slam shut in front of you before you could even reach the handle. Ghost had stepped in front of you, cocking his head in a gesture that was so backbreaking you actually released a small squeak at the sight of him in front of you.

“Um—LT?” You’d asked him, voice barely audible.

“Are you scared of me?”

Dumbly, you’d blinked blankly, staring at his collarbones like the answer to all of your problems could be found therein (because you still couldn’t look him in the eye without feeling like your entire skeleton was shuddering in terror at the sensation). And as you stood there, biting your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood, you’d only had the brain power to dazedly admit that he had beautiful collarbones.

They peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt, the fabric wrinkled in the middle of the chest from the wrought plains of muscle across his torso. In the center, the hem of the collar dipped from the strain of his muscle mass on the shirt, and just underneath the glinting metal of his dog tags, you could see the defined lines of his collarbones—skin smooth and scarred, shining with a few droplets of dew.

Idly, you’d imagined that’s where he sprayed his cologne when he got ready in the morning, and yet, standing so close to him like this, the notes of his scent were delightfully complex. From the acrid, lingering traces of tobacco, to the clean smell of his shampoo, only the barest hint of fragrance remained, buried beneath the heady musk and sweat of a man on the job.

It was something icy, virile, and so, so dreadfully intoxicating.

Seconds had passed. He’d cleared his throat. But with your head spinning, lost in the daze of his misplaced male pride, there was only one thought that crossed your mind: He’s wearing Polo Black. Definitely.

Needless to say, when you’d finally managed to find your words, he had been woefully unimpressed.

“What…?” You’d mustered, unblinking.

“Are you scared of me or something? It seems like every time I need to talk to you you go scurrying off somewhere. So tell me, sergeant, you got a problem or something?” He’d pressed, unconsciously crossing his arms.

And after that, his words might as well have gone in one ear and straight out the other, because your attention was focused anywhere but on his moving mouth. No, your eyes were centered straight on where the edge of his wrist bones cut into the plush muscle of his pecs. The indents they made were looked soft to the touch, like a cushion just waiting to be squeezed. And while his voice slowly transformed into TV static inside of your mind, yet another unwitting thought went speeding through your brain.

I wouldn’t mind using him as a pillow, your mind croons, practically batting your lashes.

And eventually, when the pillowy surface of his chest had been adequately committed to your memory, your eyes had fallen to his arms.

God, his biceps.

You could have started purring just at the sight of them. Throughout your enlistment, you’d been surrounded by no shortage of well-built men. If anything, there was an overabundance of them. The boys practically grew on trees at this point, and once you’d grown out of basic, you’d quickly stopped fawning over veiny forearms and bulging muscles.

Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate, per se. On one hand, the majority of the men you worked with looked like they could pick up a car barehanded, and once everyone achieved that feat, it therefore ceased to be one altogether. And yet…there was something about how soft hard earned muscle became when it was bare and flushed, when it was sweaty and panting, whispering low words in your ears between each and every thrust.

Absently, you’d felt heat climb into your cheeks, heart beat racing.

Maybe it was the fact that you’d just taken this position—a position on a squad that had never had a female recruit until you came around—that you feel this way. Between the missions, the training, the briefs, paperwork and coffee runs, there wasn’t much to do aside from collapse into your bunk and wait for morning to come. The walls were thin and privacy was scarce. Hell, with the lack of estrogen on base, the female locker rooms and showers were decidedly cramped, and the only “personal time” you’d been able to snag had been in a bathroom stall with the gusset of your training suit pulled to the side.

Yeah.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe that’s why you could practically imagine it, the slick swipe of his skin over yours, fingers tracing each and every vein of those mysterious tattoos, while he put those sweat-slick muscles to work in between your spread thighs.

His voice would be raspy and deep, low and barely noticeable. But maybe if you hooked your legs around his waist, maybe if you managed to look him in the eye for once, he’d all but crumble inside of your embrace. Warm skin, beating heart, darkened eyes—everything. As much as they terrified you, you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining them in a different light—a light in which they were wholly and utterly yours. That skin, bare and shining, from his thick neck to those criminally slim hips, moving against your own. That pulse racing against your chest, hitching with every move of his pelvis. And those eyes, locked onto your bouncing tits and burning flesh, lost in just as much of a trance as you found yourself in right now.

Does he drink protein powder?

You couldn’t help but wonder. After all, how did someone get that big unless they were packing on protein like it was going out of fashion? He must eat like a horse. A very big, very muscle-y, very well endowed—

“Sergeant? Are you listening?” His voice had shocked you out of your reverie, and your head had begun to spin when your feet finally hit the ground.

“Um—yes?” You’d asked him, inconspicuously shifting on your feet to ease the wet ache between your thighs.

“So what is it then?” He’d huffed, voice stiff—almost as if he were pouting, “Is there a problem or no?”

“There’s…” you take a deep breath, swallowing as you tried valiantly to stop your eyes from slipping back onto his covetable muscles, “There’s no—no problem.”

“So,” he’d shook his head, almost as if he was perplexed by your answer, “There’s no problem? None at all?”

He’d leaned down then, looking at you with all the blue eyes and wispy blonde lashed your midnight fantasies ever could have conjured. Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for the tiny squeak you’d released when it’d happened.

“Nope,” you’d answered dumbly, looking over his shoulder just so you wouldn’t stare down his shirt instead.

“Good,” he’d stepped back, pulling open the door, “Then I’ll see you for tea tomorrow morning?”

“Tea?” You’d blanked.

“Yeah…” he’d scrunched his brows so hard you could see it even beneath the mask, “It’s just…” he'd pursed his lips, and his pupils had dragged over you from head to toe, lingering just a little too long on where the buttons of your shirt stretch around your bra, “Figured you and I should get to know each other. One on one. Just to communicate effectively in the workplace, y'know?”

“Oh—” you’d faked understanding, nodding your head like it’d do something, “Oh, yeah, definitely. See you tomorrow morning then.”

“See ‘ya.”

And when the door had slowly closed behind him, you would be lying if your stare didn’t drop straight to his backside as he walked away. Deadpan, you’d leant up against the wall, rubbing your thighs together to gauge how wet your panties were.

Fuck.

Of course he had to have a nice ass, too.

And like that, you find yourself staring into space once more, unconsciously lifting your water bottle to your lips like you hadn’t drank the last few drops ten minutes ago. When a low noise emits to your left, however, you finally find the sense of mind to ground yourself, looking down at yourself in a daze.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, eyeing the glistening spots of sweat underneath your arms. Idly, you walk over towards the weight rack, snagging your towel off it to wipe over your face.

God, the boys might be going stir crazy without any recent assignments, but they were definitely right about one thing: it was dreadfully hot in here. The air conditioner on base always got a bit finicky around the summer months, but it’d never been this bad before. Maybe all those years of strain had finally taken their toll. You sigh as you rub the towel against your hands, lifting it to your face next to wash the sweat out of your eyelashes.

However, the second your vision is covered, another low noise bellows from the side.

“Fuck, it’s too goddamn hot in here.”

You drop the towel.

You nearly go blind with what you see next.

Ghost, chest rising and falling with every harsh pant he makes, pants dangerously low around his hips and shirt curled around two of his fingers, just barely exposing a pair of defined hipbones that disappear into the waistband of his joggers. Without even noticing, saliva begins to collect on your tongue, especially when you spot the blonde trail of hair that sinks into the hem of his trousers.

Fuck, you curse without thinking, eyes unwittingly drawn to the spectacle when he yanks his T-shirt over his head.

And within an instant, it’s revealed to you.

The promised land, you’re sure.

Because his chest is just as soft and plush as you thought it would be, all but dripping with sweat, and when a single droplet makes it down the valley of his pecs, leaving slick lines all the way down the velvety expanse of his abs, you would be lying if you said your mouth wasn’t going dry.

Without even blinking, you clumsily raise your water bottle to your lips, trying desperately to summon even a single ounce of liquid to cure the blazing heat that overcomes your body at the sight of him.

With another crack of his neck, Simon sits back down on the bench, leaning comfortably into the backrest. And when he sits down—a tiny grunt emitting from his covered mouth—any hope of hiding your shock is erased within a single second. Because, just like any other man, he spreads his legs around the leather, giving you an uninterrupted view of the heavy bulge between his thighs.

Unconsciously, you drop your bottle, unable to tear you eyes away—especially when he reaches for his waistband to readjust it.

His stomach flexes as he straightens up, the veins in his biceps and hands shifting as he carefully shuffles the band down a bit further around his hips, exposing the black, sweat-drenched boxer band beneath his pants. He sighs, and the fabric snaps back to his body. But when he reaches between his legs to pick up the first dumbbell, the side of his palm just barely brushes over the front of his pants.

You bite through the skin on your lips, crossing your arms to watch as he heaves two gigantic dumbbells into his arms. He lifts them like they’re nothing more than paperweights, something he could throw around without even breaking a sweat.

But that’s not the whole truth of it. It’s not. Because he is breaking a sweat. And, god, if he didn’t look good coated in a glistening layer of it, smelling like every bit of the hardworking man that he was.

Dazed, you lean to place your hand on the rack, having to steady yourself on your feet when you miss it on the first try. You watch as he shifts into an incline chest press.

With every push of the weight, the muscles of his chest jump and twitch, flexing with the practiced motion, like the rippling waves on an icy sea.

Up and down.

The dumbbells are so big they nearly overshadow the length of his forearms in their entirety. But, somehow, you find another way to get your fill.

His stomach.

His happy trail.

His hips, biceps, and pecs.

Fuck.

His chest is heaving with every thrust now, hips jumping against the seat—all too similar to how you imagine he looks when he’s laid up in the barracks, hand beneath his waistband, chasing a high that even the gym couldn’t gratify.

And, god, that opens a whole new can of worms, one that your mind doesn’t hesitate to run free with.

What did Ghost look like when he touched himself?

You bite your lip, vision blurring.

He’d look just like he does on the bench, the lines of his abs disappearing and reappearing with every gasping breath. Small groans—not unlike the raspy moans that escape his mouth on the next rep—muffled under his mask while he looked at what he was doing to himself, at how his body was reacting to his own stimuli.

And in your heart—in the very depths of your soul—you just know that it’s big. The bulge between his legs didn’t hide any secrets, and when his thighs jump at the strain, you swear you can see the way his flesh moves beneath the shoddy fabric.

For possibly the hundredth time in the past minute alone, your eyes drag down the blonde hair on his stomach. Down, down, down. All the way down to where it leads into his boxer band, just barely out of view.

It’s matted to his stomach with sweat, shiny and golden. And yet, your mind doesn’t fail to twist even that mundane detail into something else entirely.

What did it look like when he was stroking himself, body heaving with pent up energy and testosterone, precum leaking down onto his swollen balls, signaling his impending release?

What did it look like when he finally got there, abs clenched in an unforgiving knot when he finally spilled over his own two hands, the droplets sticking to his sweaty chest and thighs?

What did it look like flecked with his own semen, his gruff moans the crescendo of the scene?

God, you lament, feeling yourself begin to leak in your panties. You should look away. You should gather your things and head back into the locker room. You should go back to your room and dig that dildo out of your pack, if only so that you could stop yourself from having such indecent thoughts about a close friend—one who just so happened to be your CO, as well.

However, when Simon drops the weight with a heavy clunk, sitting up against the bench, any thought of looking away goes flying out your mind.

Because then, his sore chest is exposed to you in all of its glistening glory. The muscles are pumped and flush with heat, reddened against the pale set of his skin tone from the exertion. Sparse hair—so blonde you would have seen right through it—decorates his skin, thinning into a small trail that leads from his sternum all the way down to his pants.

But what steals the show is the way they flex when he sits up, the way they squish between his arms when he picks up his water bottle once more. Not for the first time, you find yourself wondering just how soft they really are. If you pressed your fingers into them, would there be indents left? Would his skin carry the memory of your touch for even a single fleeting second?

It’s a heady thought, one that’s only made worse when he begins to drink from the water bottle, a small cascade of water mixing with the sweat on his chest.

Fuck, you think, looking down at your breasts. You looked good in this bra—Soap definitely had no problem telling you that—and for all intents and purposes, you had no reason to be dissatisfied with your own chest before.

But looking at Ghost like that, body swollen from adrenaline and exhaustion, the jokes just make themselves.

Fuck, you laugh in your mind, He’d probably need a bigger bra than me.

Forget about asses, Ghost might have the best rack on the team.

Somehow, you hope he realizes that. Lost in the color of his skin and sweat, you forget yourself, oblivious to everything aside from the slick collecting in your panties and the delicious redness on his pale skin.

That is, until his voice calls out for you gently—almost as if he didn’t want the others to hear.

“You good, sergeant?” He asks softly, cocking his head, “Looked like something caught your eye there for a minute…”

Instantly, your stomach drops and you fumble with your water bottle. You look down at the floor, trying to ignore the way your cunt clenches in between your legs.

“No, it’s—it’s nothing, LT,” you reply, shaking your head, “Just…at the rate you’re going, you’ll have the biggest boobs on the team soon.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, but the smile he wears isn’t joking. No, it’s…insistent. Impatient. Teasing, “Worried I’ll take you out of first place?”

“Honestly?” This time, you purposefully look him over, heat rushing through your cheeks, “I think you’re running a close second. But don’t worry, LT,” you joke, smiling, “I’m not all that competitive. We can share the podium.”

“Hm,” he huffs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, “Bloody shame, that.”

At that, you furrow your brows, confused.

“Why?” You ask.

“Nothin’ just…” his eyes flick up to meet your own, so dangerously dark you could drown in their depths, “Thought you might wanna compare. Y’know, just to make sure we’re both telling the truth. I mean…”

His gaze drops to your chest then, biting his cheek when he sees how droplets of sweat collect in the valley between your breasts.

“I dunno what you look like beneath that bra, sweetheart,” he comments, “Ain’t it a little unfair? That you know what I look like without a shirt, but I’ve never seen you without one?”

At his words, your jaw drops. Once again, just like that day in the conference room all those years ago, you find yourself speechless, all but helpless to watch as he stands and comes closer. With every heavy step, the sheer mass of his muscles makes itself known. And when he stops just in front of you, the musk of his perspiration—a badge of his hard work in and of itself—envelops you like a fiery hug.

In a haze, you look up at him, feeling your core pulse when he pointedly dips his chin, looking down at the slopes of your breasts.

“Sure you wanna give up that easily?” He whispers, and his voice paints shivers up your spine. His head lolls the other direction, and at his side, he lifts one burly hand.

However, before he can touch you, your entire body is consumed with nerves. Without even thinking, you slap your hands down on his bare chest—a sound that (thankfully) Kyle and Johnny can’t hear over their own conversation—stopping him before the heat inside of your body can devour you once and for all.

“That’s—I’m really not that competitive. I mean, I—” your ramble breaks into a flustered giggle, and you step away from him awkwardly, “This bra—it’s…I’m pretty sweaty. It’s hot in here, isn’t it? God, the air conditioner must have broken or something.”

Your laughter is obnoxiously tense. So tense you swear you can see the confusion in his eyes.

“Just—I’m just gonna head to the locker room, and….change my clothes,” you huff, already walking away, “Uh—good job on your PR, LT. If you keep lifting like that—well…”

You snap you jaw shut before you can repeat Soap’s horrible line from earlier. At that, Simon’s hand drops lazily back to his side, head cocked—this time, in utter confusion.

“That wasn’t a PR,” he calls after you, but you’re already walking away, slamming the locker room door shut behind you before his horrible, stupid, delicious voice can follow you any longer.

For once, you thank the universe that there aren’t more women on base. Because the instant you burst through the doors, you have the locker room all to yourself. Panting, you collapse onto a bench, gripping the wooden seat like it might stop you from doing something you might regret.

Yet, your brain remains outside, back in the gym, with your bare hands against his naked chest, his body heat warming your palms like a hearth. And suddenly, it’s impossible to contain yourself any longer. Before you can stop yourself—before you can even think about what’s right and decent—you spread your legs on the bench, swiping a hand up against your clothed cunt.

And just like you suspected, your slick has already leaked through your panties and leggings, a barely noticeable dark spot over the front of your pants. Just at that singular touch, your body sings and your pussy aches for more. For something purposeful. For something harder. Thicker. Longer.

Your brain is overwhelmed with your own needs.

Water.

Touch.

Heat.

Love.

Him.

“God…” you curse, plunging your hands into your pants when it all becomes to much. Instantly upon spreading your folds, you find an unabashed swipe of slick. It paints over your knuckles from front to back, and your fingers barely have the grip to spread yourself long enough to circle your fingers around your clit.

“Fuck,” you moan quietly, but in the stark silence, each and every breath sounds like a bomb dropping.

Blood rushes straight to your core, and just when you finally manage to get a good rhythm, something hollow and aching cries out within you—something baser, something that was so innate it was only a part of your biology, not your person.

And it cries out for something more. For something to fill you—for him to fill you—if only so that the horrible emptiness in your cunt would fade back into the recesses of your body.

And yet, it doesn’t. It nags on your mind. Tugs on your heart. It screams and begs until rubbing at your clit feels pointless—until you relent with a bitten mewl, shoving two fingers inside of your dripping hole before you can think better of it.

At the sudden intrusion—however small and unsatisfying it may be—your body calms just the slightest bit. It’s just enough for you to shakily rest your heels on the edge of the bench, chin dropping to look down at where you brazenly touch yourself in the middle of the locker room. Slowly, you push in and out of yourself, watching your hand move beneath the soaked black fabric.

Just a bit more, you tell yourself with every push, Just enough to tie me over until I get back to the room.

But the longer you watch, the longer you sit there and try to fulfill a fantasy that’s impossible for only a single person to realize, the more desperate you become. And before you know it, tears spring to your eyes, frustration welling up inside of you.

Your fingers aren’t gonna cut it.

Whimpering, you bite your lip. The toy you kept in your room might do it. It wouldn’t be the same. No, it couldn’t even compare to a living, breathing person, but it was the best you were going to get. Hurriedly, you tug your hands out of your pants, swiping your fingers over your leggings in a haphazard attempt at cleaning them. You grab your things, making a beeline for the door.

—only to slam straight into a firm chest the minute you step outside the locker room.

Once again, you’re enveloped in that scent.

Tobacco.

Body wash.

Sweat.

Musk.

Man.

And before you can think better of it, you shakily raise your eyes, unable to hide the way your body thrums with discomfort and need when he overshadows you like this. Again, you’re swallowed up in everything that he is. His proximity, attention, and intensity. And mercilessly, he comes closer, sweat drying against his skin.

The gym is empty and quiet now.

It’s just the two of you, and the silence could not weigh heavier.

With a single look, he knows.

He knows what you need.

In the back of his throat, he makes a deep noise, one that reverberates in the very chambers of your heart. Before you can even stop him, he reaches out and delicately takes your hand into his. Experimentally, he brushes his thumbs over your knuckles, looking down at them intently.

“Is this sweat?” He says lowly, “Or something else?”

Your heart rate spikes when you look down at where he holds you—at where the few remaining lines of your own slick stain his fingertips. Useless, you struggle for your words, but your jaw can only open and close stupidly, completely inarticulate.

Watching the pitiful sight, a smirk overcomes his lips.

He drops your hands.

He plants his palm against the flat of your chest, right above your hardened nipples.

And when he slowly backs you up into the locker room once again, you can’t find it in yourself to push him away—especially not when he hooks his finger under the hem of your bra, tugging it down over your cleavage. He licks his lips when he sees the obscene way that the fabric indents the fat of your tits.

“Just need to make sure,” he tells you.

Notes:

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