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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

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Stars Align

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as age gap, manipulation, power imbalance, dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Steve Rogers was one of the biggest stars of Hollywood’s Golden Era. For years, his disappearance from the spotlight has been a mystery, that is until he walks right into your life. (Old Hollywood AU/1960s AU)

Characters: silverfox!Steve Rogers, reader is named 'Satyr' for clarity

Note: I enjoy older music and musicals. I tend to drift into this idea whenever I'm enjoying some and I finally said fuck it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

1965

Satyr

"Oh, Margie, can I get some of that lipstick?" The blonde with crystal blue eyes nudges the scarlet-headed vixen tracing her lips with a deep shade of crimson in the mirror crowded with women in sticking and short skirts.

"You should've thought ahead, Carla," the redhead pops her lips. "We're friends up until that curtain opens."

"Oh, boo. It's lipstick."

"It's mine," the other woman retorts and slides the lid on the tube with a smug smirk.

You overhear from the corner where you move your feet and try to recall the choreography. It's made more difficult with the cacophony of voices and the crush of bodies fogging the backstage with heat. Most are more concerned with the beading in their bodices or the curls across their brows.

You didn't think of any of that. You spent your scarce savings on the bus ticket and kept the change to eat for the day. You look down at yourself, wondering if you've missed something important. The advert said 'dancers needed' for an open audition. It didn't say anything about sequins or eyeliner.

The more you look around, the more it feels like a mistake. Your mother is right. It’s a pipe dream. You’ve spent all your money on coming to New York to embarrass yourself.

But no! This is your one chance at Broadway! Broadway! You still can’t believe it. All your life you dreamt of being on a stage, and somewhere deep down, a screen. Even if the very idea makes your stomach bubble. The singing, the dancing, the stories... you wanted to bring that same fantasy to girls like you.

There’s not much room on the silver screen for musicals anymore but the city is thriving. Or so you read in the magazines your mother calls rages.

“One minute, ladies,” the stage manager calls from the edge of the curtain, “shoes.”

The other women clamour, clicking and tapping around in their heels. You peek down and wiggle your toes in your soft-toed flats. They’re farm shoes. Scuffed from you dancing on the swept barn floor.

You line up in order of the numbers pasted to your chests. The paper curls at the corner from your previous stomping and the crinkle is slightly agitating. You are made even shorter as you’re the only auditioner without at least a few extra inches under her heels.

The stage manager blows a whistle and orders the first girl out, swirling his finger to herd you out like sheep. “Out, out, out. Line up. Don’t waste time.”

As you go to pass the dour man and his tin whistle, he stretches his arm out and you bounce off of it. You step back into the woman behind you. She grunts in surprise.

“You, where are your shoes?”

“Sir? I have shoes--”

“Heels,” he snaps his fingers in frustration, “those are not going on my stage. Take them off. Dance on your toes!”

You blink and your lip trembles. You’re mortified. He grabs your arms and yanks you of the way. “You got ten seconds to get those off and get in line.” He lets you go and points the other woman out, once more barking the same sentiment.

You don’t think. You just do. You tear off your flats and leave them forgotten on the floor. You slip in your stockings and stop again. You roll them down and kick them away, swiftly running out to find your place in line.

The woman next to you with the flaxen blonde hair with straight-cut bangs mutters something and laughs. You don’t pay her any mind as you dig down to recall the choreography. You got this. If you can remember Ginger Rogers famous Swing Time masterpiece, you can get this.

Judith, the black-haired, prim-lipped instructor who previously took you through the steps a grand total of once, comes to the front of the stage. The tin whistle blows and the chatter hushes. You peer between the bodies and see the panel of six sat along the front row. One of them must be the director, the rest you’re unsure.

As Judith raises her hand in a silent count down from five, you remember to get on your toes. Your bare feet are frozen in the airy theatre. This is it. You’re about to dance for your life.

As she closes her fist and the music begins to play from an old victrola, you fall into action. You elude the dancer next to you that goes to the left rather than the right and you focus on your posture. As you meld into the music, you disappear from the room and into your imaginary spotlight. You are back among the cattle and the sheep, watching you flail around in the moonlight.

You are only brought back by the squeal of another. Further ahead, a dancer is on the floor. The stage manager blows the whistle and promptly orders her away. She gets up, limping as her shoe dangles from her ankle, and scurries with her face covered.

You don’t stop. If you can ignore your father’s hammering and your mother’s hollering, you can get through this. Your eyes flick up as your body follows the recital in your head. There are two figures higher up, shrouded in shadow. You can’t make out more than their silhouettes. There sharp shoulders suggest two men, but why would they be sitting in on this?

More are picked away from the crowd for missteps and trips and some every break into tears and run off of their own volition. The chaos adds to the beating of your heart but you can’t stop. Every penny you have depends on this. Your pride, not that it’s very much, is hanging from this fraying thread.

As you continue along the progressions, one of the men in the back stands and his voice rolls through the music. The other remains and sits forward in his chair. The song plays on and your feet don’t stop. The steps feel more natural as the rows thin out around you.

The victrola quiets as you hit the final step. You’re breathless but enlivened. The man in the back stands and follows the other’s departure at a calmer pace.

Judith begins her countdown and the manager shouts, “again!”

Steve

Steve Rogers follows the pin-striped tails of his companion down the back hall. It’s been a while since he’s been in a theatre. Yet, it isn’t his last visit that plays in his head. It’s those early days, when he was a spindly little stagehand, brushing wigs, fluffing capes, and moving scenery. Before simplicity was so damned depressing.

Sam leads him along the back row as the stage stands empty ahead of them. His agent sits first before he can bring himself to do the same. It’s not just that creak in his knee, it’s the way it all feels so familiar but strange. It’s like going home and seeing a new family living in the same house you were raised in.

“Looks like we missed the preliminaries,” Sam mutters.

Steve puts his hands on his thighs as he pushes his shoulders wide. He squints. He can see the figures along the front row. Six of them; the usual, a director, the co-director, and the backers. He rubs his eyes as he tries to clear them and sighs.

“Don’t say a word,” Steve grumbles as he feels around his jacket and dips his hand beneath. He slips the hard leather-bound case from his pocket and opens it on its tight hinges. He unfolds the glasses he only wears at the typewriter.

Sam abides but not without a lingering look that makes him squirm. He’s already agitated. He’s not used to this yet. It should be like riding a bike, shouldn’t it? Ugh, this is a bad idea.

“Relax,” Sam says, sensing his uneasiness. “This is day one, alright? No pressure. We don’t have to find nobody today. This is just... putting our toes in the pond. See what’s out there. This doesn’t work out, we can see how well Frank’s kid can dance. She’s cute.”

“Sinatra? No way,” Steve growls. “I don’t want anyone famous. It’s the whole reason...” He trails off and shakes his head.

“Well, keep in mind, these are amateurs. You’re not gonna find Hayworth here. Or anywhere, these days.”

Steve glances over at his agent and sighs, “I was having dinner with Rita when you were still in diapers, kid,” he warns.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam waves him off as voices rise behind the curtain. “Looks like things are about to get interesting.”

Steve plants his elbow on the narrow armrest and shifts in the seat. He doesn’t remember them being so uncomfortable. He remembers sitting in them for hours; for premiers, for awards shows, just for the hell of it.

His chest flickers. He hasn’t felt that since the first time he faced a camera. It was different then. Things were still black and white. If Fred’s still got it, he must too.

Why is he doing this? Why couldn’t he just stay in that house and be, not happy, but alone. Unbothered. Why now? Why did the itch start until his skin felt ready to split? He’s gotta try. He’s Steve Damn Rogers and he always gets back, it just took a little longer this time.

A whistle blows and he crinkles his face. Ugh, the noise. That will be the hardest to get used to. When did he get so boring? Maybe when fun turned out to be so painful.

Women flow out in rows. They arrange themselves along the stage as a woman stands at the front with a black blunt haircut. She watches them fan over the space. There’s a pause before another follows the third line back. Then another skitters out with no shoes and inserts herself into the empty space left between the previous dancers.

He rests his chin on his fist curiously. He doesn’t miss the disarray that much. He remembers being behind those curtains and watching the hopefuls run off in tears. Sometimes, they took his handkerchief, other times they ran right past him.

Why are those times easier to remember? Why do the shining ones, the ones in bright Hollywood lights, not excite him? No, no, don’t think of that. It’s not gonna be that way this time. This time, it’s his rules. His script, his movie.

The music begins and his focus on the dozens of dancers. There’s almost too many to keep track of. Yet his eyes come back to that third row. The girl dancing on her toes in bare feat. She moves like silk or satin in the wind. So effortless. Yet everything else about her doesn’t belong. The way she moves is how one should onstage, but her beige dress and plain hair do nothing to make her stand out.

A woman near the front trips and lands on her knees. She cries out as she’s ushered off. His eyes flit back to that girl with no shoes. She doesn’t even wince.

“Ah, this is a wash,” Sam grumbles. “Look at them, a bunch of nobodies. Can’t even stay on tempo.”

“How would you know?” Steve mutters back.

“I got an eye for this stuff, don’t I? I represent the greatest actor in the world.”

“Funny,” Steve drawls dryly.

“I need a smoke. Let me know if anything interesting happens.” Sam stands and struts out.

Steve remains. He pushes his glasses closer to his eyes as he leans forward. The women fade, all but one, that one. The one in the bare feet. It’s like she’s in another world. As he watches her, he feels liek he is too.

The music stops. Her final pose is perfect. On beat, posture good, sharp. He rolls his tongue around. This could work. It could. He doesn’t need another... well, don’t worry about her. He needs someone to mold but not without substance. She can dance, that’s all he needs. The rest can be learned.

He stands with one last look and leaves, his feet weighed down as the music begins again. He stops in the hallway behind the theatre and faces the door. He could sit and watch her for hours. No, he needs to get Sam. They’re not doing this again. He knows it’s her. It has to be. He doesn’t feel so... itchy.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #old hollywood #1960s #captain america #marvel #mcu #avengers

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nayedoll · 5 months ago

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Baby came home

joost klein x fem!reader

rpf below, pls don’t read if you’re uncomfortable!!!

read part 2 here

summary: reader and joost used to be together but broke up. four years later they meet again, having realized their mistakes.

warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut (blowjob, unprotected p in v), angsty

word count: 6k

a/n: this is kiiiiind of based on the songs ‘baby came home’ and ‘baby came home 2/ valentines’ by the nbhd fyi if u want to listen to them!! also im sorry that im yapping sm in the first paragraphs i promise joost is gonna show up lol🥲. anyways enjoy!!!!!!

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You enter the bathroom, the deafening music from the club reducing to a muffled sound as the door behind you closes. Your hand immediately reaches for the sink and you look up to see your blurry reflection in the mirror. The dark red tint of your lipstick has faded by now and your eyes look tired under the bathroom lighting, lightly smudged with mascara.

You take a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut in order to get ahold of yourself. The floor underneath you is vibrating with the sound of the loud bass, mirroring the quick rhythm of your heartbeat as you open your eyes again, meeting your distressed gaze in the mirror. You feel lost, unable to recognize yourself under the layers of makeup as tears threaten to spill from your eyes.

Today wasn’t supposed to go like this. You expected it to be another long night of partying with your coworkers, the group of you sat in the fancy vip sofas as always, drinking champagne and gossiping. You never really liked them or their snobbish attitude, the only reason you always agreed to go out with them being your job — a stylist for one of New York’s biggest fashion magazines.

You had always wanted to be involved in fashion so naturally when you got the opportunity to work for such a prestigious magazine two years ago, you accepted every part of the job, the good and the bad. It was sort of an unspoken rule; if you wanted to go higher, you’d have to make compromises — and for you that compromise was to tolerate all the rich elites you worked with, pretend to be one of them.

You thought your plan had been working, especially with how your boss was treating you lately, even promising to give you the promotion you so badly wanted and deserved.

So naturally, when she announced another person as the art director today, you couldn’t help but protest, ask for an explanation from your boss who called you crazy in her usual patronizing tone. With the help of alcohol in your system, the complaints soon turned into a heated argument as you resigned, left the table and ended up… here.

Maybe I should have never left the Netherlands; this is the only thought going through your mind right now as you let out one last shaky breath and your tears gradually come to a stop, leaving a reddish blush on your cheeks as a confirmation that you have been crying. You slightly fix your makeup, clearing the smudged mascara under your eyes before leaving the bathroom.

The music gets progressively louder as you re-enter the large venue filled by people dancing.

You glance at the vip section one last time, easily spotting the people you unfortunately know so well, dressed in expensive designer clothes. They are chatting and laughing as if nothing has happened, the same fake smiles lingering on their faces. You scoff to yourself, all those years of working together and not one of them cares enough to check on you.

You don’t bother to stay any longer and make a turn for the exit door, as the music from the club gradually fades.

The familiar security guard opens the door for you and you smile subtly at him for what you hope will be the last time.

The air is cold and humid against your hot body, causing you to wince as you put on your lightweight jacket that doesn’t do much to warm you up.

You look around you, blinded by the vibrant lights reflecting off the windows of the tall buildings and restaurants. Despite how late it is, the city is still as busy as ever with numerous people walking by, going from club to club and the loud music from cars is booming at every corner.

You decide to rest on a wall a few meters away, seeing as your ride home was one of your coworkers but that scenario doesn’t seem very likely anymore.

You pull out a cigarette from your purse and your trembling fingers rush to light it, desperate to feel the addictive burn in your throat.

For the first time in a long while, you suddenly feel better, relieved as if a heavy weight has been lifted off your shoulders. It almost feels liberating to not work at that place anymore, knowing you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not, that this may be your chance to escape the toxic environment you’ve been living in and find your old self back.

“Y/n?” A familiar voice pulls you out of your thoughts as you instinctively whip your head to the direction you heard it come from, then pause. In front of you, is standing Joost.

Joost as in your ex boyfriend from the Netherlands.

You met him shortly after having moved to the country because of your dad’s job, both of you being just 17 without the experience of any previous partners and big feelings. It didn’t take long before you got into a relationship, the newfound passion of a first love quickly drawing you closer together and taking over your minds. It was the first time in your life that you had such strong feelings for someone, especially someone you had known for so little at that. You really thought you had found the perfect man, the one you would someday marry and start a life with, no matter the hardships.

But as time passed, the problems soon began to emerge in your relationship. The main issue lied with the fact that you both didn’t exactly know how to convey your feelings and emotions to one another; Joost opted to ignore them and move on, whereas you often came off as controlling and selfish in an attempt to show him just how much you cared.

You loved each other a lot — and you both knew that — but inevitably you broke up with him in the heat of an argument, the biggest one you’d had yet. In the following month, you barely talked and it was then that you made the impulsive decision to move back to New York, finding no reason in staying in Amsterdam anymore. You didn’t tell Joost but he found out eventually, leading to another big argument just one day before your flight and then another month of no contact.

At last, you did talk things through, him calling to apologize and try to make things right again as you cried over the phone because you knew it was too late for either of you to make up for all the problems.

It’s been 4 years since then in which you kept some sort of communication, mostly on your birthdays and on holidays or when he replied to your story sometimes and vice versa.

You stare up at him in shock. “Joost?” You blurt out, blinking repeatedly as if to make sure he is actually here.

He smiles, his dimples bringing back a bundle of memories and you get chills just at that.

“Hey,” He pulls you into a hug which you reluctantly return, careful to not burn him with your cigarette as you linger in his arms a moment longer, taking in the intoxicating smell of his cologne mixed with what seems to be cigarettes.

“How have you been?” You ask, eyeing him up and down.

He looks slightly different, having grown into his face through the years. His hair is still the same shade of blonde, though grown out as it sticks out under his hat and you notice the small trimmed mustache on his face. He’s just about the same height, maybe slightly taller as he towers over you even with your heels on.

“Good, everything’s good I guess,”

“Yeah? I heard your album did well last year,” Albino; It had popped up on your feed a few times but you hadn’t looked into it too much, in fear of undoing all your efforts to get over Joost.

“Are you stalking me?” His question coaxes a laugh out of you as you roll your eyes at him.

“Get over yourself,” You say playfully, “I saw Tantu post about it on Instagram,”

Joost grins and nods as a response. “How have you been?” He redirects your initial question to you.

You take a moment to respond as you awkwardly look away from him. If you were to be honest with him, you’d say you’re basically all alone, crying and second guessing yourself on the daily — also without a job from now on — but you find that it may be too direct of an answer for the situation.

Instead you say, “Not too bad either,” giving him a weak smile.

“Still in fashion?” He asks, his words unknowingly sting but you try your best to look okay.

“Mhm,” You nod, ��I uh- I work for a fashion magazine,” Or maybe worked would be a better word, you think to yourself.

“That’s awesome,”

“I guess so,” You can’t help but let a sigh fall from your lips, hinting at the insincerity of your words. Joost senses it because he furrows his eyebrows at you as if to ask you what’s wrong but you don’t let him.

“Want a cigarette?” You hold out your pack of cigarettes that’s almost empty, in hopes of changing the subject. Joost gets the message and takes a cigarette from the package, deciding not to bother you with any more questions. Besides, it isn’t exactly his business after so many years of barely any contact.

You light the cigarette that hangs from his lips as your eyes meet over the small orange flame and you stay silent, watching as he takes a long drag.

“By the way,” You utter “Why are you in New York?” Maybe it’s a dumb question as obviously a trip would be the reason, but frankly you’re more curious about who he is here with.

Joost goes on to explain, “Me and my friends booked this trip a while ago,” He exhales a thick plume of smoke.

“I don’t see anyone here,” You look around, searching for the familiar faces of his friends.

“They’re sitting at that bar over there,” He nods to the small building that is just a few meters away, the one you have passed by countless times after leaving the club. “I just came out here to make a few calls,” He adds.

“To your girlfriend?” You can’t help but ask him, the drinks you had earlier playing a part in your bluntness. You’re not drunk but definitely intoxicated enough to not feel embarrassed, especially when you see how Joost’s face lights up at your question.

“Nee, I don’t have one,” He gives you a cheeky smile, “Why? Are you curious?”

You shake your head, looking down to the concrete ground, “No, just… asking,” Your voice is weak as you shy away from your words.

“Alright,” You hear him chuckle, it makes you smile too for some reason.

“But I’m sure you have a boyfriend,” He says causing you to look back at him in confusion, “He must be waiting for you inside that club,” He points to the same building you were in just a few minutes ago.

“Where did you get that from?” You laugh in between your words, making it clear you do not in fact have a boyfriend.

“I don’t know,” He shrugs his shoulders, smiling down at you. “You’re pretty, why wouldn’t you have a boyfriend?” You bite the inside of your mouth, fighting back a smile but Joost sees you, secretly enjoying the effect his words still have on you.

“Haven’t found the right one yet,” Both of you know that’s not true. You had found the right one, in fact he’s standing right next to you but you both just had to ruin everything.

Joost knows you don’t mean that, but still, the thought that you have moved on from him stings even though it’s normal all these years later. He has matured, you both have and he often thinks how things would turn out if you got back together again, right now.

His silence doesn’t go unnoticed by you as you put out your cigarette with the sole of your shoe and turn to fully face him.

“Anyways,” You sigh, “I was going to leave soon,”

“Oh,” Joost takes one last puff of smoke before also putting out the cigarette on the ground, then he looks at you again. “Ja, I should probably head back inside too,” He says but none of you make a move that indicates you’re leaving.

You don’t want to say goodbye and possibly never see him again, knowing that once he’s gone you’ll sink back into the misery of your life. He’s currently the only person you feel comfortable talking to and you don’t want to lose that feeling just yet.

You say, “Joost?” Your voice soft and quiet.

“What?” He gives you a sweet smile.

“Do you want to… come to my place?” You’re reluctant in your words, trying not to make them sound suggestive because really, they aren’t.

“Sure,” He smiles, not having to think about it for long which leaves you satisfied. “I’ll just call Appie to let him know,” He adds, pulling out his phone.

You wait for him to end the call as Joost raises his voice ever so slightly, presumably because the music from the bar is too loud for Apson to hear. Your Dutch isn’t the best but you manage to make out most of what Joost is saying, catching your name in between sentences. You hear Apson yell something on the other line which makes Joost giggle and mumble shut up as you give him a weird look.

He hangs up the phone, “Should we go?” He asks, you nod as you walk with him to a taxi down the road and usher him inside.

The ride is quite long, given the inevitable city traffic as you pass by more tall buildings that are sparkling with light. You’re sitting next to Joost in the backseat as your shoulders lightly bump into one another every time the driver makes an abrupt turn. Joost whispers little jokes to you every now and then, making you laugh with his humor that has not changed one bit. It fills your heart with warmth, reminds you of the old times. You keep glancing at him as he looks out the window and the lights illuminate his face beautifully, bringing out the beauty mark under his lips or how blue his eyes really are. He catches you staring a few times, smiling to himself at your poor attempt to hide it and the pattern repeats itself until you reach your apartment complex.

Joost thanks the driver, quickly closing the car door behind him to catch up with you as you’re already at the old-looking entrance door of the building, unlocking it.

“Quick, quick!” You giggle as he jogs to you in his usual silly manner and you let him in.

You take the elevator and on the way up you lightly hold his hand, bringing it closer to see the tattoos on his knuckles.

He chuckles to himself, “You like them?”

“Mhm,” You nod, letting your thumb lightly graze his digits. Your eyes return to his, he’s much closer now and you feel your heart beating faster than ever with the way he looks down at you, a subtle smile on his lips.

Your faces get closer and closer as you let his hand fall from yours, forgetting all about his tattoo, then ding.

The elevator door opens, revealing the narrow dimly lit hallway your apartment is in and just like that, the moment ends as you both step back from each other and out of the elevator.

You hurry to the end of the cold hallway and unlock the door to your place, ushering Joost inside.

The lights reflecting off of the surrounding buildings come through the big windows of your apartment, illuminating the room with a faint brightness. The space is relatively small and simply decorated, the only luxurious thing about it being the view of the city.

“Do you want anything to drink?” You ask, already making your way into the kitchen. “There’s wine and tequila,” you say loudly.

“Tequila,” Joost responds quickly, taking off his puffy jacket and leaving it on the coat rack next to the door.

By the time you’re back to the living room, Joost is sat comfortably on the big couch and you notice he’s turned on the lamp next to him which now casts a warm yellow light in the room.

You hand Joost his shot placing the half empty tequila bottle on the table, then sit down next to him, maybe in closer proximity than truly needed.

“Cheers!” He grins as you both down the shots, the feeling of the hard liquor going down your throat momentarily giving you goosebumps. Joost drinks it like it’s water before slamming the glass on the table, a sight that makes you laugh in surprise as you remember how easily he used to get drunk when you first met him.

“I needed this,” You sigh, your words implying how shitty your night — or life in general — has been.

Joost narrows his eyes at you; he had already sensed that you’re not well from your previous implications but now he has to ask. Even after everything he still worries the same amount, hates seeing you unhappy.

“You okay?” You turn to look at him, smiling at his question. You can’t even remember the last time someone asked you that.

“Yeah,” You nod repeatedly in an attempt to convince Joost, not wanting to ruin his night with your seemingly unimportant problems but he sees right through you, his face making it clear he doesn’t believe you. “Or no,” you laugh to loosen the tension, covering your face with your hand in disappointment.

“What’s wrong?” Joost asks calmly while he caresses the small of your back.

“I don’t know, it’s just…” you mumble, “Sometimes I get the idea that I made the wrong choice returning here,”

You’re looking away from him, not used to oversharing like this. Usually, you would have stopped at the first sentence but the drinks from the club paired with the shot you just had, make it harder for you to shy away from sharing your feelings.

“Like what if I’m not good enough at this? Maybe this life isn’t for me after all,” Your voice becomes strained as you fight back tears, this being the first time you express your fears out loud.

“That’s not true,” Joost raises his voice ever so slightly, “You’re great with fashion, you’ve always been great. You even picked my outfits for me sometimes, remember?” He chuckles at his last words, the shared memory making you both giggle as you finally face him again.

Your eyes linger in his and you get the urge to kiss him, realizing that you may want this night to end differently.

He stands up straight in front of you and says, “Here,” smiling widely as you look up at him confused, “Judge my outfit,”

“Judge your outfit?” You repeat his words to him and laugh. Joost nods as he turns around, letting you see the full outfit and posing in between. You’re clearly amused, letting small chuckles slip from your lips every now and then, watching as Joost shows off his clothes one by one.

Your eyes can’t help but fall to his belt as he plays with it, the metallic letters that read Albino glowing in the darkness of the corner he’s standing at. Your body feels warmer at that as a sinister thought flashes through your mind which you quickly shake off.

“Models aren’t allowed to touch their clothes, you know?” You point out sarcastically, mimicking the tone that your boss usually had when she talked to the models.

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you,” He says in a half serious tone as you nod.

“So?” He asks, you’re assuming he’s waiting for you to judge his choice of clothing as you sit up straighter on the couch.

“Well…” You take a coy expression, holding back the smile on your lips, “It could use some changes, with my help,”

“You think?” Joost takes a look at his outfit, not directly understanding the true motivation behind your words. “Like what?”

“Come closer and I’ll show you,” Joost pauses for a second, a smirk grows on his lips as he starts to catch on to what exactly it is that you’re suggesting. He takes a few steps forward, so close to you that your face is practically aligned with his belt as you suck in a deep breath. You don’t really know where you’re going with this but the alcohol in your system doesn’t let you think of your choices thoroughly right now, instead you’re overcome with need, the desire to touch Joost in any way possible.

“I’m all ears,” He says, his voice low and raspy.

You bite back a smile, tugging on the soft material of his t-shirt. “This needs to go,” You say, masking your lust with an innocent voice.

“Do you want to style me or undress me?” Joost raises an eyebrow at you, clearly amused by your intentions.

“I need a clear canvas to work,” You respond coyly and once again pull on his shirt, coaxing him to take it off.

“Fair enough,” Joost pulls the shirt over his head, revealing the blonde hairs on his happy trail. His pants are hanging low on his stomach, making the waistband of his underwear stick out all the more, the letters supreme on it and you shamelessly take in the image of his bare chest.

Joost soon brings his hand to your chin, lifting your head up so that you can see his face clearly. Your body is practically aching with need by now, imagining how his fingers would feel in other parts of your body.

He silently leans down, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. You’re initially taken by surprise as it takes a few seconds for you to part your lips before you finally get to feel him against your tongue. He tastes like cigarettes and liquor but you don’t mind, it only serves as a reminder that this is actually happening.

Joost lowers his body, resting one knee on the couch to balance himself as he pushes you back into the big pillows. His lips wander off to your neck, peppering small kisses on it which later turn into gentle bites that are sure to leave marks on your skin.

“Do you like that?” He asks, noticing the small whimpers that escape your mouth. You hum in agreement, feeling yourself grow more wet under his continuous touch.

“It’s been so long,” He mutters in between more kisses distributed evenly across your neck and jaw. You wonder if he has missed this as much as you have, whether he has also been thinking of you every now and then, searching for you in every girl he has met since you left.

At this point you’re eager, unable to keep your composure any longer. You pull him away slightly, ignoring the confused expression on his face as you quickly shove him back against the couch, switching roles with him.

Your knees fall to the wooden floor, you bring both hands to his knees, looking up at him then towards his belt.

“Your pants are next,” You say, in reference to your previous conversation. Joost chuckles, mumbling some curse under his breath, he’s flustered and it’s because of you. He unbuckles his belt impatiently, shifting slightly to pull his pants down as you do the rest for him, tugging on the rough material of his pants to fully take them off.

His legs are also littered with tattoos, similarly to his arms and your fingers instinctively trail up his thigh until they reach his underwear. You can see the outline of his hardened cock as you gently press your palm on top of it, earning a stifled groan from him.

“These can stay on,” You decide to tease him, Joost laughs at that.

“Fuck off,” He says, earning a smile from you.

Gladly, you think to yourself as your fingers play with the elastic waistband of his boxers.

Your eyes shift to his face briefly, quietly asking for his consent to which he nods at. With a final pull, his cock springs free from his boxers, reminding you of its big size. The tip is leaky with precum as you lick it, making Joost hiss at the sensation.

You take him in your mouth eagerly until the tip reaches the back of your throat, causing you to wince ever so slightly.

“Easy there,” Joost coos, pushing your hair out of the way for you and keeps it in a gentle grip as you skillfully begin to suck his cock. The way your mouth stretches around him coaxes a mixture of groans and curses to fall from his lips, his hold on your hair tightening. He looks down at you, still in your fancy little dress and on your knees for him, the sight turning him on all the more.

The fact that you’ve gotten so good at this makes him think of all the men you’ve probably been with after him and he can’t help but feel a little jealous at that.

“Like that,” His voice is breathy as he mumbles different kinds of praises to you, sending a rush of heat through your core. He starts guiding your head with gentle force, careful not to hurt you, slowly pushing his cock until it nudges the back of your throat . Your face feels hot and despite Joost’s gentleness, there are tears in the corners of your eyes, most definitely smudging your mascara and the dark eyeshadow on your eyelid.

Joost is close but he doesn’t want to come just yet, opting to come inside of you later. He pulls your head back slightly, drawing his cock out of your mouth with one last breathy moan.

You’re breathing heavily as you lock eyes with him, your lips swollen and eyes glossy with tears. He caresses your cheek with his big tattooed fingers, a soft smile lingering on his lips.

“You wanna get undressed too, baby?” He says in a low tone.

“Sure,” You mumble softly, getting up from your knees that are red from how long you’ve been sitting on the floor.

You take off your black boots that end just below your knees, uncovering the rest of your black patterned tights. Your fingers impatiently reach for the zipper to the back, fumbling with it until you finally loosen the silk dress you’re wearing, letting it fall to the floor as you stay in nothing but your black lingerie adorned with tiny bows here and there. Joost’s eyes linger on your body and he swears this is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen, noticing how beautifully your body has grown over the years and how confidently you stand in front him now, more like a woman and less like a girl.

You can sense his infatuation with you with the way he’s looking up at you and it only fuels your ego, a sudden cockiness coming through you.

“Are you just gonna stare?” You taunt him, Joost smiles at that.

“As if you don’t enjoy it,” He says, you assume he’s right.

He reaches his hands out to your hips, pushing you closer in between his legs as you place your arms loosely around his neck. He massages the area of your ass, though the material of your tights is in the way, preventing him from fully feeling your skin against his palms.

“Let’s take these off, shall we?” You smile in agreement and give him a small nod as he begins to lower your tights inch by inch, exposing the soft skin of your legs. Once they’re off, he presses wet open-mouthed kisses on your thighs, making your pussy clench around nothing but solely the idea of his mouth in between your folds, tasting you with his tongue as it swirls around inside of you.

The momentary fantasy draws loud sighs from your lips, correspondingly to the kisses Joost places on your skin. He notices, unable to hide the cocky smile on his lips as he starts moving higher, towards your stomach.

“Your bra,” he mutters, continuing his work on your body, “Take it off,”

You do as he says, trembling fingers rushing to unhook your bra, all the while Joost keeps on kissing your stomach that is rising up and down from your intense breaths. You pull your bra off, tossing it to the floor where the rest of your clothes are as Joost stares at your breasts, your nipples hardened as a result of his previous touch on your skin.

“You’re beautiful,” His small compliment sends a warmth to your face, a sweet smile forming on your lips and you can’t help but caress the sides of his face with your thumb.

You place one knee on the surface of the couch as you come face to face with Joost, giving him better access to the upper half of your body. Now that you’re this close to him, you notice the small stain that your red lipstick left on his lips earlier, letting out a small laugh at that.

He smiles, kissing you deeply on the mouth, jaw, collarbones, then finally your breasts. The tingling of his tongue on your nipples makes you moan quietly as he takes one of your tits in his mouth, sucking on the sensitive skin.

The inside of your thighs is practically burning with anticipation now as more moans fall from your lips. “Joost please,” You breathe out in desperation as he hums against your boobs, “I can’t wait any longer,”

“I get it baby,” Joost withdraws from your chest, places a peck near your lips then nods to his side, “Come on, lie down,”

You lie down on your bare back, resting your head against one of the pillows to get a better view of your body. Joost turns to you, his hands slowly sliding up your stomach as he gazes down at your naked body, the only thing covering it being your panties.

“Alright, you ready?” He asks, his voice soft.

“You make it sound as if I’m being drafted into the military,” You say, causing him to giggle.

“Just asking,” He slightly puts his hands up in the air, “It’s been a while,” He says ever so softly as you both share a smile, silently expressing how much you want this. To anyone else, it would just look like a casual hook up but to you it’s so much more than that, layered with feelings and memories.

“Okay, you have my consent,” You say slowly, your voice close to a whisper. He nods satisfied, planting one last quick kiss on your lips before his fingers find the waistband of your black lace panties. His cock is hard, falling on your inner thigh, an image that only adds to the heat you’re experiencing.

You lift your ass, only a little so that Joost can slip your panties off of your legs, not bothering to tease you much about it. The air of the room feels cold against your wet pussy, causing it to twitch as Joost mumbles some curse in Dutch.

“So wet for me,” He coos as he collects the wetness from your folds with a quick stroke of his tip, making you gasp, your thighs closing at the sudden friction. He props one hand close to your face for balance and lines his cock with your entrance before starting to push into you slowly. The sensation of your walls clenching around him inevitably lets a shared moan fall from your lips as Joost bottoms out, then begins to thrust into you in a controlled manner that makes your head dizzy with pleasure.

“You’re so tight schatje,” The pet name is familiar, yet you still fight back a smile at the sound of it.

You stare up at him in adoration; his bare chest is glistening in sweat, his blonde hair is messy and his lips are slightly parted as soft grunts escape them. He was and is still the most beautiful man to you, despite all the insecurities that linger on his mind.

You notice he’s kind of tired because he’s struggling to stay propped up on his arms above you and you wrap your arms around his back, pulling him down to your chest. His body is heavier against yours but you don’t care, you embrace him while he continues his deep thrusts to your core that gradually become faster.

The way he fucks you is so perfect that it drives you wild. He knows your body so well, knows all the right places to touch as his tip keeps on hitting that one spot inside of you, pushing you closer to your climax.

Joost is close too, burying his head on the crook of your neck as you feel his hot breaths and the vibrations of his groans on your skin.

Your fingers dig into the sticky flesh of his shoulders, your breaths are shallow and you can’t suppress your loud moans given the frantic pace at which Joost is now slamming his shaft into you.

You try to tell him but it seems like the only words you can utter right now are continuous curses in between your uncontrollable whimpers.

“I’m- fuck,” Joost breathes, “I’m coming baby, I promise,”

Before you can respond in any way, you’re driven over the edge. Your vision becomes blurry, the only things you can hear are your embarrassingly loud moans and Joost’s own groans as you come on his cock.

Joost follows shortly after your orgasm, his warm release spilling inside of you while he sloppily fucks every part of you.

“Fuck,” He exhales and collapses on top of you. Your fingers graze his back, trying to soothe the red marks that your fingernails left on him earlier. Joost places his arm around your waist as you both let your deep breaths fill the silence of the room.

You stay like this for a minute or so, then he carefully pulls out of you as you hiss slightly at the feeling.

You’re the last one to take a shower and as you come back to your bedroom, you see Joost lying comfortably between the pillows and your stuffed animals, an image you wish you could see everyday. You climb atop the bed, also lying down as you cuddle him without hesitation and he’s quick to wrap an arm around you as well.

“When are you leaving New York?” You ask, hoping for the answer to be never, despite how unrealistic that sounds.

“In two days,” You nod against his chest but really, you want to break out into tears at the simple thought of losing him again and so soon.

You feel him take a deep breath, “Joost?” You say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Hm?”

“Can we spend the day together, tomorrow?”

He smiles even though you can’t see him, a bittersweet smile at that. He feels the same way as you, dreading the moment he’ll have to leave you, wanting to make up for the lost time. “Of course, liefste. Where do you wanna go?”

“I don’t know,” You mumble, “Oh! Maybe I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant, it’s not too far from here,”

“Okay, that sounds perfect,” His hands caress your hair and he leans down to place a reassuring peck on the top of your head.

You wish this moment would never end. If you could, you’d move with him back to the Netherlands tomorrow and start over, do everything right this time. But for now, all you can do is hold him tighter, make every moment count until he leaves. And then who knows? Maybe one day, you’ll be together again.

───────────────────────

thank you for reading !! <3

#joost klein #joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost x you #joost klein rpf #joost klein smut #nayedoll 💌

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kjupchurch-xx · 6 months ago

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💋 Sexiest Man Alive 💋

November 19th, 2008

New York City, New York

✨ Author's Note: In this one shot, for story purposes, Hugh is not married. We'll say he divorced from Deb recently to keep the flow of the story.

I double checked my appearance in the mirror before heading out. Today is the day I will be interviewing Hugh Jackman for his People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive crowning. The interview will be filmed and broadcasted live on national television. I decided to go business casual, wearing black capri slacks, a white and pink flowered cami tank top with black 6-inch heels. My dark brown hair was shoulder length and wavy. My makeup was flawless. To say nervous would be an understatement whenever you're interviewing someone that's been named the sexiest man alive.

Everything seemed perfect, so I rushed out to my 2008 Ford Mustang and sped off to our studio in downtown NYC. Traffic was hectic, but I managed to get there with 25 minutes to spare to go over the interview questions before our guest of honor arrives. One question in particular stood out to me, it was a question pertaining to his sexuality due to circulating rumors that he's gay. I'm normally shameless, but this would be an awkward thing to ask him.

"You ready?" My co-worker/camera man Justin asked, stepping in front of me.

I nodded, "As I'll ever be! Just going over some of the questions. 'How do you feel about the circulating rumors of you being gay?', 'What turns the sexiest man alive on?', Justin, what the hell are these questions?" I asked with a humorous horrified look spreading across my face.

He failed to contain his laughter, "I didn't write 'em, I just control the cameras."

I shuffled the cards, "This is going to be the weirdest interview. This dude is probably going to leave the set mid interview." I laughed.

Justin shook his head, "Hugh is a pretty good sport. He should take it in a humorous way. You should be good. He'll be here any minute, so get ready."

I nodded, "Alright."

I stood to double check the set and make sure the props were in their correct location, making sure the set was clean and presentable before sitting back down in my chair. I stood back up, hearing an Australian accent coming from the hallway, that must be Mr. Jackman.

"Glad to be here, mate. Thanks for havin' me." He said, shaking hands with our producer Mack, while walking into my view.

Mack smiled and pointed in my direction while walking Hugh up to me, "Mr. Jackman, this is Kaitlyn. She'll be doing your interview."

I smiled, extending my hand out to Hugh, "Hi, nice to meet you. I'm a huge fan and honored to be doing your interview today, Mr. Jackman."

He gave me a smile, shaking my hand, "Call me Hugh. Nice to meet ya, Sweetheart."

I can see why he was voted sexiest man alive now. No photoshop or CGI needed. This man was cut. He had the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen and did not look a day over 28 despite just turning 40 last month. He was wearing dark colored blue jeans with a white t-shirt adorned with a black blazer that made his biceps pop. I could swear the temperature in the room went up at least 20 degrees since he'd walked in.

As we sat down, I noticed him smiling at me and looking me up and down as if he were checking me out. I smiled back while grabbing the cue cards with the questions for the interview and looked towards Justin, who gave me a slight nod to let me know we were rolling,

I smiled from ear to ear as the camera zoomed in on only me, "Good afternoon, New York! Today's guest was just crowned People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive of the year. You can purchase his edition today in stores. Please allow me to welcome Mr. Hugh Jackman!"

The camera zoomed out showing Hugh and I both sitting in the chairs at the small table separating us. I looked over smiling in his direction, allowing him to speak.

He gave a huge smile towards the camera and then towards me, "Thank you for having me! How're you doing today?" He asked.

I smiled, "I'm great. How are you? How have things been since being named People's Sexiest Man Alive?"

"They've been quite interesting. I was told Brad Pitt wasn't available this year." He said with a cheeky laugh.

I failed to contain my laughter, "I believe a lot of people feel that you've earned the title, especially given your portrayal of Wolverine in Marvel's X-Men."

I could see him blushing, "Honestly, things have been great. I just finished up a movie with Nicole Kidman called Australia, which comes out next week. We're pretty pumped for that."

I shifted in my seat, "How was filming that with Nicole?"

He got serious for a moment, "It was great. She's a good friend of my ex wife's, so it was a bit awkward at first, but overall a great experience. Shooting the film back home in Australia was exciting."

I nodded, "We'll be sure to check that out next week once it premiers." I felt a slight smirk appear on my lips, "Okay, now for the good stuff you all have been waiting for. Juicy questions for the sexiest man alive. Are you ready for this, Hugh?" I asked with as much confidence as I could possibly muster.

He giggled, "Baby, I'm always ready. Let's go."

I took a dramatic deep breath for dramatic effect, "Alright, so given you're now the sexiest man alive, what are some of your turn-ons? What's something you find sexy in a woman?"

He chuckled, giving me a smirk, "Oh, getting a bit cheeky, are we? You waste no time." He noticed me trying to keep a straight face and continued, "What turns me on? I'd have to say confidence, a strong woman that can sometimes put me in my place. I also love a woman in summer clothing. I'm from Australia, I love the outdoors, I love the water. I feel like a woman comfortable in her own skin, enjoying herself on the beach is very attractive to me."

I smiled with a nod, shuffling the cards in my hands, "Good answer."

He smirked at me, shifting in his seat, "I have a question for you. When are we heading to the beach?"

I looked a bit flustered, "I didn't know we were! But I'm happy to go with you any time!" I said with a small laugh.

He chuckled, "Dually noted." He tapped his forehead as if he were retaining the information.

This man was gorgeous. I'm sure he's just being funny for the camera, but I'm still enjoying this.

Attempting to stop chuckling, I went with the next question, "So Hugh, what do you make of the circulating rumors of your sexuality?"

He shrugged, "I think they're funny. They don't really bother me."

I nodded, "What did your friends and family say after you broke the news of being the sexiest man of 2008?"

He laughed, "My mates found it funny. My kids think it's funny but also gross their father is being called sexy. My family also, but they were proud of the accomplishment."

"Given your recent divorce, the ladies would like to know, is Hugh Jackman on the market?" I asked curiously, with a slight giggle.

He looked at the camera, "Hugh Jackman is on the market, ladies." He turned to me, "Is my interviewer also on the market?"

I failed to hide the red blush appearing on my cheeks, "Is Hugh Jackman hitting on me?" I said to the camera acting as if I were in shock with a tilt of my head.

He laughed, "You didn't answer my question."

I smirked, "I'm the interviewer. I ask the questions."

He shook his head, "Feisty, are we?"

I chuckled, "Mr. Jackman, do you have a secret talent?"

He smiled, "I'm very well trained. Not toilet trained, but I'm trained in other things. Barbara Walters told me I give phenomenal lap dances."

I laughed, "Did she? Barb is a great judge, so I trust her judgment."

He immediately stepped up from his chair, looking towards Justin, "Do we have music? I'm going to demonstrate." Looking back towards me he continued, "I have to showcase my talent for you."

This has definitely been the most interesting interview of my two year career.

I looked at Justin as music began playing, "Oh? I'm getting a lap dance too?" I asked playfully throwing the cue cards across the room. "Forget the script."

Justin failing miserably to contain his laughter watched on as Hugh began swaying his hips, removing his blazer and stepping to me. I sat not knowing how to react or if this was some odd dream I was having. He was in front of me with both of my legs between his, while still swaying his hips in a seductive motion.

His voice now seductive shook me from the thought, "How're you feeling, love? Isn't this your best interview yet? C'mon, look at me, baby." His finger grasping my chin pulling it upwards to look at him with the cheekiest, sexiest smile on his face.

I nervously laughed, blushing, "Oh my god." Was all I could manage to say. His other hand gripping my shoulder as he moved closer, almost putting his crotch 2 feet from my face.

He immediately began dying laughing as he sank to the floor, placing both hands on my knees. "How was that?" He asked.

I shook my head with a smile, "That was... I mean, I've never had an interview leave me speechless."

I could hear the film crew failing to contain their laughter as Hugh reached up and hugged me, straddling my lap. This must be every woman's wet dream. His laughter piercing my ears as he hugged me.

"Job well done then." He said cockily. "Turn off those cameras. We're headed backstage." He managed to say through his laughter.

I squealed, dying of laughter, "And that concludes our interview with Mr. Hugh Jackman, ladies and gentlemen! Go pick up your issue of People's magazine's Sexiest Man Alive-" I struggled to grab the magazine but finally reaching it, holding it up towards the camera, "Today!"

The cameras immediately cut and Hugh hopped off of me, laughing at the crew's reaction as their laughter grew louder now that they didn't have to worry about the rolling cameras.

"Best interview of your life?" Hugh asked me with a knowing smile.

I laughed, shaking my head, "Definitely. I was not expecting my day at work to end with a lap dance from Wolverine."

He pulled me in for another hug, "Next interview I'll be giving you another lap dance."

I playfully rolled my eyes, hugging him back, "I'll be sure to remind you."

He got serious for a moment, "Would you like to grab lunch with me? I've got a bit before my next press."

I nodded, "Sure. I'd love to."

He gave me a smile, "Seriously though, are you on the market and when are we gonna go to the beach?"

I looked at him nervously, "I am on the market, and I'm available anytime after 3."

He grabbed my hand, leading me towards the hallway. "Great. All I needed to know. I'm looking forward to that next lap dance, beautiful." He said with a smirk.

#hugh jackman x reader #marvel #hugh jackman #fandom #fan fiction #fantasy #fanart #fem reader #oc art

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hotdaemondtargaryen · 7 months ago

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EWAN MITCHELL PHOTOGRAPHED AND INTERVIEWED FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES MAGAZINE.

ABOUT BEING RECOGNIZED

Like most people, Ewan Mitchell is accustomed to anonymity.

So during a recent trip to Manhattan, he was surprised by what a hotel doorman asked when he arrived: “You haven’t packed your eye patch?”

The actor is still getting used to strangers making the connection in public.

“I wouldn’t think people would recognize me, but they do.”

“I think it’s because of my strong chin.”

“When I’m dressed up as Aemond and catch myself in the mirror, he scares even me a little bit.”

When he’s not in character, Mitchell is soft-spoken and occasionally flashes a boyish grin, though he retains much of Aemond’s seriousness and quiet intensity.

He is also very private: He stays off social media and in the past has shied away from sharing much with the public.

“Once you lose the mystery, you can’t really get it back.”

HE KNOWS THAT AEMOND'S KEY ROLE IN S2 MEANS HE MUST ALSO EMBRACE THE SPOTLIGHT

“There is a point where you have to go, now’s the time to pull back the curtain.”

Like Aemond, Mitchell is a second son.

He grew up in Derby, an industrial town in the middle of England, and his parents expected him to follow his older brother’s footsteps and work at Rolls-Royce (the aerospace and industrial technology company, not the carmaker).

HIS INSPIRATIONS AND BECOME AN ACTOR

Inspired by films like “Citizen Kane” and “Taxi Driver,” Mitchell knew early on he wanted to become an actor.

When he was 13, his teacher asked each student in his class what they wanted to do when they grew up.

“Then it came to me, and I said, ‘I’m going to be an actor,’ and everyone laughed at me.”

His family could not afford tuition for drama school, so Mitchell attended a two-year vocational school, where he studied design and technology while working part-time at a restaurant and in customer service at a local soccer club.

Midway through the program, at 17, he was accepted into the Nottingham Television Workshop, a drama group that trains young people in acting.

Through the Workshop, Mitchell landed a leading role in a 2015 short film called “Fire,” about a young man who leaks fire from his hands.

Once the short was released, Mitchell downloaded it onto a dozen CDs, took the train to London and stopped by the offices of every agent he could find, handing them each a copy.

The one person who called back continues to represent Mitchell.

“By hook or by crook, I wanted to make sure that I was going to be in this business.”

ABOUT BEING CASTED AS AEMOND TARGARYEN

Aemond’s growing prominence in the show requires Mitchell to embrace the spotlight as well.

“There is a point where you have to go, now’s the time to pull back the curtain.”

But being cast as Aemond in “House of the Dragon” has been his biggest professional turning point by far.

“Since landing him, I feel like I’m able to now steer the course of my career.”

Mitchell had been rewatching the classic Hollywood adventure film “The Vikings” (1958) and musing about how he wanted to play a morally dark character similar to the one played by Kirk Douglas when he received an email inviting him to submit a taped audition for Aemond.

When he eventually auditioned in person, he left a lasting impression on Ryan Condal, the showrunner for “House of the Dragon.”

“When Ewan came into the room, he just had this presence to him that I can best describe as unsettling,” Condal said.

“It was kind of quietly terrifying the way he performed it, and it was totally different than everybody else. And then he thanked us very politely and left the room.”

Condal recalls asking Kate Rhodes James, the casting director, “Is he always like that?”

She replied, “Oh no, he’s just a very intense northern boy.”

To prepare for his role, Mitchell did not watch “Game of Thrones.” Instead, he read portions of “Fire & Blood,” the book by George R.R.

Martin that inspired the show, and studied the performances of Michael Fassbender in “Prometheus” and Peter O’Toole in “Lawrence of Arabia,” each playing a figure who wields power for his own ends.

ABOUT MATT SMITH AND DAEMON TARGARYEN

On his first day on set, Mitchell consulted with Condal and decided that he would avoid interacting with Matt Smith, who plays Aemond’s similarly menacing uncle and rival, Daemon, in order to heighten the tension between the two characters.

Mitchell had grown up admiring Smith’s performance in “Doctor Who.”

But on set Mitchell avoided any eye contact with him, keeping his distance until the climactic scene near the end of the first season when Aemond and Daemon finally face off.

“There’s this addictive kind of quality when you’re in the shoes of a character.”

“When you lose yourself for a moment, it’s almost like a dream.”

ABOUT HIS HOME AND HIS DOGS

When he isn’t acting, Mitchell still lives at his family home in Derby and spends time with his dogs, three whippets named Eva, Bella and Bonnie.

“Now that I’m on it.”

“I’ve just got to stay on the dragon.”

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yungistiny · 2 months ago

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Selfish Waltz ═ chapter three

[ J. YH + S. MG ]

chapter three: longing

╚═════════

summary: yunho had been love with y/n since he was sixteen, not mustering up the courage to tell her until seven years later, seven years too late because his best friend just beat him to the punch.

note: reader and the boys are not kpop idols in this

warning: smut, threesome, double penetration, big dick yungi, size kink, just lots of smut

pairings: yunho x female reader, mingi x female reader

genre: smut, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, romance, polyamory

word count: 2.6k

chapter two

chapter four

════════ ════════ ════════ ════════ ════════

“It’s only for a week.”

Mingi was packing a couple of suitcases for his trip to New York. He had gotten a modeling opportunity for Calvin Klein. He started modeling junior year of university, a manager from Paris scouted him out while him and Yunho had been shopping in a Burberry telling Mingi he had the perfect height, build and face for magazines and a runway. Yunho had teased him about it for days before y/n had been the one to convince him to call Hugo, the manager that has now worked with him for the last three years.

Y/N sat on Mingi’s bed, she could call it their bed at this point, watching him pack through his favorite floor length mirror in his room, it always gave the perfect view of his bed. Y/N had learned quickly after they first got together why Mingi loved that mirror so much.

“Look at you,” Mingi gripped her face making y/n look at their sinful reflection in the mirror. She clenched around him when she saw themselves, Mingi holding her up against him, her back against his chest, arm wrapped around her middle while he stared back at her through the glass, eyes dark, smirk on his lips whilst pounding into her oh so deliciously from behind.

“I’m gonna miss you.” Y/N pouted up at him, reaching for his shirt to pull him towards her. Mingi laughed, shaking his head at her as she slipped her hands up to the waistband of his sweatpants. “Miss me or miss my dick?” He joked.

Y/N smirked up at him as she pulled his sweats down.

“Both.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Yunho groaned from his gaming chair, headphones around his neck as he had paused his game, finally able to sit down and play Elden Ring, a game that was so rudely interrupted by the lewd noises coming from Mingi’s room. Yunho had left his bedroom door open seeing as it was only 8:30 at night and he certainly was not expecting his two best friends to go at it that loudly right now.

He heard them the second he pulled his headphones off to go pee. Now he would have to walk right past Mingi’s thankfully closed door where he could hear y/n start to moan, his door being open amplifying the sounds. “Fuck.” He took his headphones completely off, sitting them down on his gaming desk and quietly walked towards his door, eyes glued to Mingi’s.

He slipped out his door and quickly froze in his tracks at the sound of y/n voice.

“You…you feel so good inside me, baby.”

He gulped completely forgetting how to move all together when he heard Mingi.

“You take me so fucking good…. fucking perfect……. pussy was made for me”

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! Yunho darted down the hall to the bathroom as quickly as he could, stumbling a little through the door and lightly slamming it behind him. A shaky breath left him, knocking the back of his head against the door as he felt himself hardening in his pajama pants. FUCK! Do you know how hard it was to piss with your dick hard? And Yunho had to piss really bad. He had already been holding it for the last half hour.

“Shit” he hissed as he pulled himself out. The piss proved to be difficult but after only a splash on the tiled floor, that he was sure to clean up, he relieved himself with a sigh and hint of a moan.

Yunho decided a cold shower was a need in his predicament, thankful that the heat in the apartment was turned up high, therefore he wouldn’t exactly freeze to death. He’d hoped the two down the hall would be finished by the time he was done.

He stripped himself of his clothing, tossing them into the dirty clothes pile, they really needed to get a hamper. The shower head turned on, he sat the temperature to cool but not cold enough to leave him shaking before stepping in behind the sheer curtain.

A hiss left him, back muscles tensing as the cool water hit him. Yunho stood under the downpour of the shower head, letting it drown and soak him from head to toe. He had to get a grip. He couldn’t just keep getting turned on so easily by his best friends fucking.

He certainly couldn’t keep getting himself off to them either. His hand gripped himself, a moan coming from his parted lips. One stroke, he shuddered. Two strokes, he closed his eyes and moaned again. Three strokes, he saw her. Pictured y/n perfectly splayed out on his bed. Beautiful, naked and wanting for him.

“Sorry!”

Yunho’s movements stopped, eyes wide and quickly turning his back to the sheer curtain as y/n walked in. “Are you fucking kidding me” he hissed quietly. Why the fuck did he not lock the door? Why the fuck was she in there? Was Mingi not just ruining her in the best way down the hall? How long had he been in the shower? Shit! Thinking about them fucking had him growing harder. What is wrong with you? Yunho was losing his mind.

“Sorry” y/n apologized once again avoiding her gaze from the shower. “I just have to pee.”

Yunho sighed waiting for her to finish relieving herself before he snatched the curtain to hide himself, glaring at y/n. “Seriously?”

Y/N turned to him as she washed her hands. “I couldn’t hold it.” She apologized again, eyes catching the blurred sight of Yunho’s dick not so hidden behind the shower curtain as she dried her hands with a hand towel. She tried not to stare, she really did, and she certainly tried not to narrow her gaze to try and magically make the blur of the shower curtain disappear.

“Baby”

Mingi’s voice calling out from the living room now caused y/n to jump, avoiding her gaze. She turned around, yanking the bathroom door open, Mingi’s shirt she had thrown on getting tugged by the door knob.

Yunho clenched his jaw when the shirt rid up revealing her bare ass to him, the slight pink tint of a hand mark bared on it. He pulled back with a groan, shutting the curtain and letting the water run over him, adjusting the temperature as cold as it could get

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Mingi woke him up the next morning. Yunho sat up, eyes squinting at the sunlight pouring into his room from where forgot to close the curtains the night before. He had finished his shower and hurried back to his room where he played the game a few more hours before passing out atop his covers.

Mingi chuckled at Yunho’s disheveled hair and the way his cheeks and nose were tinted red from sleep, face a little puffy. “I’m leaving.” He studied his best friend who was still trying to wake from being awoken so suddenly. “I uh…” Mingi rubbed the back of his neck as he wasn’t sure how to approach Yunho with his request. “can you please just…. keep an eye on her for me?”

Yunho stared at him. Keep an eye on her? His girlfriend? His best friend? The bane of his tired hand? “Ok.” He shrugged growing a tad anxious at being left alone with y/n for a week seeing as how she practically lived there too now.

Mingi hugged him causing a grunt to leave Yunho as he squeezed him a little. “Don’t make a move while I’m gone.” He joked as he stood to leave, Yunho glaring at his back as he laughed and retreated out the room.

Yunho fell back into his bed, closing his eyes and sighing. It was gonna be a long week. Just him alone with y/n. He started his new job Monday so there was a slight escape, something to keep him distracted. It’s not that he wanted to avoid his best friend it’s just Yunho feared what he’d do if he were alone with her for too long.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Yunho had yet to see y/n all day seeing as how it was Saturday and Mingi had left hours ago and she was off work, he figured she was sleeping in. Jongho and Yeosang had showed up claiming they had to get out of their shared apartment with San as him and Chan had been all needy lately and were apparently being very loud. Yunho understood their annoyance well.

“I hate being single!” Jongho exclaimed as he watched Yunho and Yeosang go against each other in Mortal Kombat on the ps5. “You get it, right?” He looked at Yunho. “I bet y/n and Mingi never stop.”

Yunho clenched his jaw, hands tightening on the controller in his hand as he was determined to kill Yeosang’s Johnny Cage with his Scorpion.

“FATALITY”

“Damn” Jongho cringed as Yunho’s character split Yeosang’s character in half right as y/n walked into the room, hair disheveled and blinking sleep from her eyes. She looked at them with her lips puffy wondering when the hell Jongho and Yeosang had gotten there. “What time is it?” Her voice was scratchy from the deep throating she had given Mingi the night before, but they didn’t need to know that.

“Looks and sounds like Mingi hyung ruined you before he left.” Jongho sent her a knowing smirk, arching a brow at the deep purple and dark hickey visible on her neck. Y/N blushed, turning away from them and walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

Yunho glared at Jongho for openly stating the obvious but his best friends sex life was not something he had brought up and never planned to acknowledge until now since the youngest member of their friend group always loved to rile them up and y/n reaction had Jongho snickering as he stood.

“Come on, noona,” Jongho followed y/n. “I bet you and Mingi keep Yunho up all the time.”

Y/N caught Yunho’s hard stare over the rim of her glass of water. It was something Mingi kept mentioning since Yunho had gotten back.

“You have to be quiet.”

“He’ll hear us, baby, you have to calm down.”

Something about that always made y/n moan louder every time. She wanted Yunho to hear them.

“Shut up Jongho.” She rolled her eyes at him as she turned back around to refill her glass.

“Yunho,” Jongho spun around not missing the lingering gaze his hyung was sending y/n. “how loud do they get?”

“Shut up Jongho.” Yunho repeated y/n, turning his eyes back onto the tv that displayed the homescreen of the game.

“What are we playing?” Y/N changed the subject, gripping her glass of water and walking to sit between Yunho and Yeosang on the couch, her thigh brushing against Yunho’s hand as she still only had on Mingi’s oversized shirt but she had been mindful to pull on a pair of his boxers too.

“Here” Yeosang handed her the controller he had. “he’s been kicking my ass for the last hour.”

“Oh,” y/n smirked when she noticed it was her copy of Mortal Kombat they had been playing. “my favorite game.”

Yunho straightened himself up from the comfortable slouch he had been in as he was finally gonna get some actual competition in the game now. Y/N had always been an excellent opponent for him.

“KICK HIS ASS Y/N!” Jongho was yelling over everyone, over a good thirty minutes had passed with Yunho and her locked in, each struggling to beat the other especially since y/n picked the same character Yunho had but Scorpion was both their favorite.

“FINISH HIM”

“NO!” Yunho shouted as he watched his player stagger as the game waited for y/n to give the final blow.

“FATALITY”

Jongho and Yeosang cheered, happy to finally see Yunho get his ass handed to him in the game. “Seeing your defeat is a beautiful thing.” Jongho declared. Yunho turned to him, pushing him off the arm of the couch he had been sitting on next to him.

“Fuck, man!” Jongho groaned as he landed on his ass on the hardwood floor. If there’s one thing Yunho was, he’s competitive and doesn’t like to lose. Especially does not like to have it rubbed in his face that he lost which him losing a competition was very rare.

“Knock, knock!” Wooyoung let himself inside the apartment followed by his kind of sort of boyfriend Vernon. “Jongho, nice to see someone put you on your ass.” He smirked down at the younger man who was still on the floor but quickly found himself next to him as Jongho tripped him. “ASSHOLE!” He yelled, pouting.

“Children.” Y/N rolled her eyes at her brother and Jongho on the floor groaning. “And you’re a sore loser.” She smirked triumphantly at Yunho beside her. He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. “You always have to pick Scorpion, we can’t both go against each other with the same character every time!” This was normal for them, a little bit of bickering when it came to gaming. It was something that always happened when y/n and Yunho were on opposing teams.

“Like I said,” Y/N grinned, she loved riling him up. “sore loser.”

Tension suddenly grew between them, Yunho not being able to hide the glint in his eyes that clearly gave away that he found it hot when she antagonized him. Y/N was glad for her brother interrupting them as she suddenly felt nervous under her best friend’s gaze. The memory of his barely hidden dick last night haunting her lusciously. “There’s this new club in Itaewon, we’re going!” Wooyoung clapped his hands together after Vernon helped him up back to his feet.

“Last time we went to a club Mingi had to convince Lee Jeno to not kick your ass after you tried hitting on his boyfriend.” Y/N reminded him, Vernon looking at his boyfriend, arms folded across his chest. “Really?” He arched a brow considering last time they went to a club was only a few weeks ago. “That was before we were official and I was drunk.” Wooyoung tugged Vernon towards him, practically turning into like a cat as he cuddled into him.

Vernon rolled his eyes at his boyfriend. Clubbing wasn’t his thing but he’d go for Wooyoung.

“Count me out” Yeosang sighed as he stood up from his spot on the couch. “I have to go see my mom, convince her I’m not irresponsible and beg her to help me get my car back.” He had once again gotten his car towed.

“Me to.” Yunho stood up going to grab a canned soda from the fridge. “I’m in!” Y/N smirked, running a hair through her hair that was still tangled from Mingi’s grabby hands the night before. “It will give me an excuse to wear that dress Mingi got me from that Balmain gig.” He had surprised her, early Christmas gift he had said, with a designer dress. A Balmain original minidress with a painterly sky print, thin satin straps and a draping neckline. She didn’t really know much about fashion but the dress was probably the most pretty clothing she now owned.

Yunho popped open his soda with a groan to himself. Now he had to go. “I guess I could go.” Wooyoung barked out a laugh, glancing towards his sister who stared at Yunho, pausing her retreat back to Mingi’s, their bedroom, at his announcement.

“Of course you will.”

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tag list: @patchofblue @sungjin-spoon-hands @peachyyunhoe @oddin4ry

#jeong yunho #yunho #yunho smut #ateez yunho #yunho x reader #mingi #song mingi #mingi smut #mingi x reader #ateez mingi #yungi x reader #yungi #ateez fic #ateez

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tsaomengde · 21 days ago

Text

The Interview

Content warning for explicit descriptions and discussions of sexual assault. I am not fucking around. Do not read this if you're not in a place to handle that.

Unsurprisingly, my boss, Harold, does not know who Richard Colby is. He summarizes the situation in his typical brusque fashion. “Some genre writer’s getting me-tooed and his PR team wants a puff piece to remind everyone what a funny, awkward, approachable guy he actually is. Do you want it?”

I shrug, knowing that if I come across as too eager he might give it to someone else. Harold doesn’t like go-getters. He likes solid, reliable people who show up on time, write the things they’re told to, and don’t bother him with too many ideas of their own.

“Sure.”

“You’ll take an Uber to his house. It’s in upstate New York. He wants to do the interview there. Says it’ll make him feel more comfortable.”

“Got it.”

The day of, I go full femme mode. Shave my legs for the first time in years, makeup, product in my hair, a bra instead of a binder, a suit with a pencil skirt, pumps, and stockings. Looking at myself in the mirror makes me feel dysphoric, but I shove it off. Bigger fish.

It’s an hour’s ride in the Uber to Colby’s house. I know the magazine will cover it, so I decide fuck it and take an Uber Black. Pulling up to a mansion in a luxury car while dressed for the world’s sluttiest business meeting certainly is something else.

There’s no help, no hovering PR people or gofers. Colby answers the door himself. He looks rumpled, a small older man wearing an oversized Aran knit sweater and greying curly hair. “You must be Chris,” he says. His voice is mellow.

“You must be correct,” I tell him. “May I come in?”

He ushers me into a positively cavernous room that’s all white carpet, white leather couches, and giant windows looking out onto his landscaped garden. “Can I get you anything?” he asks. “Cup of tea?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I tell him. I pull out my phone, set it on the table, pull up my voice recording app, and make a show of pressing the red button. I also pull out my notepad and pen, sitting down on one of the couches and crossing my legs, barely remembering to hook one knee over the other instead of my usual ankle situation. I don’t wear skirts basically ever. “Ready to start?”

He hems and haws a little but eventually settles on the couch, a respectful enough distance away. There is a whole other couch on the other side of a big coffee table, though, so it was definitely a choice to plant himself on the same one as me. “So,” he says. “I suppose you’d like to discuss the current palaver in my personal life.”

I frown. “Palaver?”

He smiles thinly. “A whole lot of fuss over nothing, more or less.”

“Ah. So you’re denying the allegations brought against you?”

“Categorically. Are you certain you don’t need anything to drink?”

“Why, so you can drug it?”

Now he blinks, looking shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Right,” I tell him. “Sorry. That’s not your style. You prefer to take advantage of emotionally vulnerable and financially insecure people. Less money spent on drugs that way.”

His face clouds. “Miss –”

“No,” I tell him. “Not a woman.”

That definitely throws him. “I – but –”

“Oh, I know I look like one right now. But femininity is just a performance, after all. I can pick it up and put it down whenever I want.” I pitch my voice high and bubbly. “All it takes is a little practice.”

Now he’s beginning to look angry. “I think you ought to be going, now.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” I pull the last of my interview tools out of my suit jacket. He stops looking angry very abruptly and begins looking scared. This is a natural reaction to being confronted with a Walther PPK.

“Let me tell you what’s going to happen,” I continue. “If you get up from this couch, or try to move toward me in any way, I’m going to shoot you. Naturally police will get called, there’ll be a huge – what was that wonderful word you used – ah, yes, palaver. There’ll be a huge palaver and it’ll ultimately be your word against mine. After all, there are no witnesses. You let all of your staff go when things first started going sideways and it looked like money might start to actually get tight.” I gesture minutely with the gun. “Didn’t you, Richard?”

He doesn’t say or do anything.

“Not that it really matters if there were people around. Everyone you ever employed had to sign an NDA as part of their job. An NDA that threatened them with some frankly draconian consequences both legal and financial if they ever talked about you or your activities to the press.”

Silence.

“I expect you looked me up when you heard I was going to be your interviewer,” I say. “Here’s what I think happened. You started thinking about this interview, about having this little femme-ish person in your home – I mean, nonbinary people are just ‘women lite,’ right? – and filling my head with nice-sounding bullshit. Maybe you thought about how you would get a little closer to me as we talked, bit by bit, until you were able to touch me. Maybe a hand on my shoulder, or knee, or thigh? Just a little touch at first, but then you’d get more insistent.”

His face contorts in a rictus expression, but he still says nothing.

“Where did it go next?” I ask. “This fantasy version of me. Was I down? Or did I resist? Is it hotter when they say no, Richard?”

I see his Adam’s apple bob a little as he swallows. He still doesn’t say anything.

“Answer the question like a good boy,” I tell him. “Or I’ll shoot you anyway and things will go like I said.”

His eyes flick toward the phone.

“Oh, yes, it is recording,” I tell him. “But you know how it is, Richard. Things get deleted by mistake, or lost. Or, oops, silly little me, I forgot to press the button! This is why we kept women out of journalism for so long.”

“I don’t know how to answer your question,” he finally says.

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t do anything you just suggested. If my employees signed NDAs, it was my lawyers who made them do it. I certainly didn’t engage in lurid fantasizing about you before you arrived. And I let my staff go when this whole thing first started because I didn’t want them getting swept up in it, not because of financial concerns.”

“You didn’t want them talking to the press, you mean,” I tell him. “NDAs or no, you were paranoid about that. But I was able to interview one of them.”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Now now, Richard, they spoke to me under guarantee of anonymity. I’m an ethical journalist. I don’t reveal my sources.”

“The gun you’re using to threaten me would cast doubt on the credibility of your ethics, I must say.”

I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise. “A little bit of sass from the serial rapist. You love to see it.”

“I am not –”

“What is it about anal rape specifically that you like, Richard? The fact that it’s easier to make someone bleed from their ass, or the fact that the angle’s better when you’ve got them pinned on their stomach so you don’t have to see their face?” When he just sits there gaping at me, I continue, “Is it both? Neither? Oh, I forgot about the allegations that after you anally raped some of your victims you made them clean off your cock with their mouths. Do you just like making people eat their own shit, Richard? I’m sorry, I mean, ‘my Lord.’ That is what you insisted people call you, whether they wanted to or not.”

He still sits there and says nothing. He just stares at me. He doesn’t even look angry.

“The thing I keep seeing,” I tell him, “more than anything else, is the grief. Millions of people loved your work, Richard. We grew up with it. We drew comfort from it. We loved the way you insisted on depicting the stories of the marginalized. The unseen. People of color, women, queer folks, trans folks, immigrants, convicts. Victims of systemic discrimination, of assault. We saw ourselves in those stories, some of us for the first time. And you’re so outspoken, Richard. You’re so quick to call yourself a feminist. To tweet about hashtag believe women. To go to bat when famous dickheads go on a twitter rant about men wearing a dress so they can go into women’s restrooms and do vague sex crimes. You talked the talk so well, Richard, and for so long. It really was easy to believe that you were walking the walk.”

His mouth is pressed into a thin line. There are tears in his eyes.

“So, on the record, Richard. Are you sorry for what you’ve done?”

A tear runs down his cheek. “Yes.” His voice is hoarse.

“Do you regret it? If you could, would you go back and change it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a good boy,” I tell him. “And listen, I believe you. I believe that right now, in this moment, you feel like an absolute piece of shit and wish you’d never been born. Humans are extremely reference-dependent, Richard. When we’re in a hot state, when we’re angry or horny or high or some combination of all of them, we have a very hard time thinking about anything more than what we want to do right there in that moment. Regret happens when you look back with clear eyes and really objectively evaluate what you did.”

He nods, still weeping silently.

“So,” I continue. “We’ve established that you regret it, Richard. You regret all the terrible shit you did. You are, in fact, capable of feeling regret, is my point.” I raise my free hand palm up, fingers curled, in an inquiring gesture. “So my next question would be, why’d you keep doing it?”

Back to silence. He has nothing to say.

“We have sworn testimony from five or six women now, Richard. Over a period of years. Decades, even. One or two data points could be coincidence, mistakes, misunderstanding. But there’s a pattern here. And more people are coming forward. My point is, only you – maybe not even you, it’s been so long – know how many people you’ve sexually assaulted. So why, at no point, did you just… stop doing it? Why didn’t you say, I regret this and would like to change it if I could, so I’m not going to do it any more?”

The quiet from him is deafening. The gun is heavy in my hand, but I don’t let my aim waver.

“I’ve read a lot of think pieces about this,” I say. “A lot of very educated people holding forth on generational cycles of abuse and trauma begetting more abuse and trauma. People are talking about how your parents were part of a very wealthy, very powerful cult. About some of the stuff you were obviously subjected to as a kid. That kind of stuff fucks you up, I agree. You don’t live through trauma like that without the brain doing weird things to try to cope.”

I lean forward toward him, lowering my voice a little. His eyes stay fixed on the gun.

“But between you and me, Richard? I don’t care. Your brain isn’t you. Your traumas and triggers aren’t you. You’re you. At the end of the day, you’re the one who controls your actions. You might be predisposed to them, you might even find it overwhelmingly hard not to do them, but the bottom line is that the buck stops with you and no power or force in the universe can change that. You took advantage of people. You violated and hurt people. And you just kept doing it! And the whole time you kept getting up on your little soapbox and telling everyone how good of an ally you were!” I can hear my voice rising and getting shrill and at this point I’m beyond caring. “Fuck, I’m surprised no one twigged to your bullshit much earlier! It’s so obvious in retrospect!"

It is at this point, of course, that he decides to go for the gun. It’s only natural, after all. I’m getting closer to him, I’m agitated, I’m caught up in the moment and ranting. There will never be a better time, and he knows it. One hand seizes my wrist and twists, the other comes around in a solid blow to my jaw. I see stars and feel the weapon fall from my fingers.

When I can see and think again, only a couple seconds later, he is standing, pointing the gun at me, screaming, calling me a crazy bitch, et cetera. I massage my jaw. “Richard, that wasn’t very nice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” he says. “That wasn’t very nice of me? To disarm the psychotic cunt that came into my house with a gun to threaten me? I am so very sorry I hurt you! Is that what you wanted to hear? That I’m sorry your little parasocial fantasy relationship with me had its bubble burst when it turned out I’m just another disappointing fuckup?”

“It doesn’t hurt to hear that, no,” I say. “But no, honestly, what I wanted was to make you feel the way some of your victims did. To be paralyzed with fear and impotent rage as someone made you feel like a worthless bag of shit. Didn’t enjoy it, huh?”

“I don’t know how many times I need to explain to people that I’m sorry things went the way they did!” he shouts. “I’m not a comic book villain, I don’t have some evil master plan that I already executed thirty minutes before you got here. I’m just a man who has made bad decisions and wants to put them behind him! I didn’t kill anyone, for Christ’s sake!”

“It’s true,” I say. “You haven’t killed anyone. Yet.”

I make as though I’m going to spring at him. He screams and pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens, of course. There aren’t any bullets in the gun’s clip or chamber.

He stares at the weapon in shock for a long few seconds while I just sit there and go back to rubbing my aching jaw. That’s going to bruise for sure.

“No, it didn’t jam, it’s just not loaded,” I say, finally. “And look on the bright side, Richard. You only pulled the trigger once. You didn’t keep trying after the first time. That’s the difference between manslaughter and murder, right there.”

He drops the gun onto the floor. I lean over and pick it up, putting it back in my jacket. I also collect my phone, which is still recording. I press the red button again and turn that off.

“Naturally, none of this is going to be admissible in court,” I tell him, putting away my notepad and pen and starting to straighten out my outfit, which got rumpled in the tussle. “Confession under coercion, real or imagined, never is. But that was never the point, after all. I just came here to write a story.”

He stares at me with hollow eyes. “It sounded to me like you came here for more than that.”

“Catharsis is nice, sure, but it doesn’t pay the rent, Richard. But the waves this whole thing will make – the two weeks of discourse about whether what I did was okay, the yea-sayers and the nay-sayers fighting on twitter, the long screeds on Medium and WaPo about whether it’s morally justified to bully a bully, et cetera et cetera? It’s all going to add up, Richard. You can take some comfort in the idea that you really are being a good ally, finally, by helping get a queer writer’s career off the ground.”

His mouth quirks in a bitter smile. “So much for the moral high ground.”

“I never laid any claim to that, Richard.” I turn and head for the door.

But I can’t resist looking over my shoulder one more time. “Oh, but just to point out – if I had, I would still have it, because I haven’t raped a bunch of people and then made them sign NDAs to keep them from talking about it.”

He doesn’t say anything. I don’t look back at him again as I leave.

My Uber Black is still waiting for me in the driveway. The driver glances back at me in his rear-view mirror as I slide into the backseat. “That was fast,” he says. “I was expecting to be waiting out here for, like, at least an hour.”

I shrug. “We got to the heart of the matter pretty quickly.”

He nods, putting the car in drive and starting the trip back. “So,” he says. “Did he do all that stuff? Like, for real?”

“What do you think?” I ask him.

With a shrug, he replies, “Probably, yeah. But you know how this kind of thing goes. There’s a bunch of court stuff, a lot of people fighting on the Internet about it, and maybe he gets house arrest and a fine. Maybe. More likely they let him off. He’ll be back to writing stuff next year and talking about how he got unfairly canceled and now he’s trying to just come back and do his thing but the liberal media won’t let him.”

“Yeah, probably,” I say. I’m already drafting my statement for when my phone gets hacked and the recording gets leaked without my consent or knowledge. I also send my girlfriend a message confirming I’m still good to crash at her place for a while so I’m not home when the crazy people show up to threaten me in person after I get doxxed.

I know he’s right, though. Life isn’t story-shaped. There isn’t going to be a nice, fitting end for Richard Colby. He’s going to keep living a very comfortable life with his millions of dollars and he’ll die of old age in his sleep.

That’s what gets me, at the end of the day. That he’s the one who made me believe that life should be story-shaped. That, in the final account, the world should work the way it does in books and television. Bad guy gets caught, gets punished, happily ever after.

Fuck him for that. I’m so tired. I can’t even be angry.

I’m just disappointed.

#writing #my writing #neil gaiman #neil gaiman allegations #i'm not blazing this because it would never get approved #so if you read it and it speaks to you please give it a reblog #i'm so tired

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thesecondshow · 5 months ago

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your father's blood will be your blood until you're both rotting in the ground. when you stare in the mirror, his face will be glaring back at you with the utter disdain and disappointment only a father can truly have.

id in alt text, sources below

Sources:

Fall Out Boy's Patrick Stump Breaks Down Cinematic New Song "Church" / Franz Kafka’s letter to his father / Life Magazine February 3, 2006 / “American Made” – Fall Out Boy / Pete Wentz's blog - archived / myheartisbetweenmyknees June 22, 2006 / petewentz on instagram / “Love From the Other Side” – Fall Out Boy / Field of Dreams / myheartisbetweenmyknees May 17, 2006 / taylorstuck on Instagram / The Sun is Also a Star by Nicola Yoon / stagecoachesbecomepumpkins December 2006 / Ocean Vuong / “Family Tree (Intro)” - Ethel Cain / ��Origin Story” by Desireé Dallagiacomo / James Baldwin Reflects on ‘Go Tell It’ PBS Film in the New York Times / Pete Wentz interview with Rock Sound - archived

#fall out boy #pete wentz #webweaving #my post #pwentz #fob #edited 9/2 to add link to stagecoachesbecomepumpkins archive

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theognatster · 1 month ago

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how they met; m.s au

Matthew Sturniolo. You’d seen his name and his picture among the covers of magazines that you worked hard to see yourself on. The only reason he was in these magazines was to grab young buyers‘ attention to the stands to make the money roll in. His father knew the game he was playing..and he was winning.

Matt was on the set, it was uncommon for him to be there. The makeup artists, photographers, and designers were on edge. Of course they were, the son of the man who gave them their jobs was there. One wrong move, and off they go to the unemployment office. It was hard to come across taxis, even harder to come across jobs in New York, especially jobs in their department, the modeling department. If it was difficult for the technical and makeup crew to find jobs, it had to be harder for the actual models.

All of the girls on set fled to Matt, wanting their chance to shoot their shot. Each girl, forgetting what stage of preparation they were in,swarmed him like a bee to honey. Matt looked around him, he only saw girls in rollers, in unblended makeup, dresses unzipped, and only in white silk robes. There was no sense of a clear conversation, each girl trying to introduce themselves, flirt, or complement him. All of the words created a jumbled sentence that made no sense of its own, and could hardly be deciphered to match each girls’ conversation.

There you were, stuck in traffic for the third time this week. You stared out the rain glassed window of the taxi to the busy streets of downtown New York. You saw apartments, condos, and small homes fill the space, leaving but crowded sidewalks, and busy roads. You thought about buying a home here, ‘it’d be easier to get to work’ you thought as you were playing with the fringe of your plaid patterned scarf. “Is there any way to merge to a different street?” You ask the man with a fedora on who you learned was named: Caleb. “Nope..street’s jammed. Damn, construction.” Caleb spoke up, holding the steering wheel.

“Is there any way to merge with a 50 dollar bill in your possession?” You ask again, pulling out your red leather wallet, holding in your hand a crisp bill. “Hm..now that I think about it, there’s a free space right there..that can lead me to 5th.” Caleb smirked in the mirror above, and saw your amused face. “Get me there, and this bill has your name on it.” You chuckle softly, using the bill to seduce him. “Pleasure doing business with you..Miss?” Caleb smirked, waiting for your name. “You’ll know my name soon enough..get a Vogue magazine with this bill..and you’ll know who paid for it.” You smile softly, your blackberry juice colored lips lifted into a small smile.

50 dollars was good motivation, you made sure to keep that in mind. You handed Caleb your bill and rushed into the 79 level building covered in windows from the outside. As you entered the 52nd floor, you were met with the familiar feeling of work. The Crew rushed around with items to beautify the girls. You found your chair, and your stylist, Cherry. “You’re late.” Cherry scolded, removing your mulberry colored jacket. “I know..traffic was a bitch.” You sigh, removing your clips and jewelry. “What have I said about your lipstick, honey?” Cherry sighed. “That it washes me out.” You mock her tone. “Very good, at least your memory is up to par.” Cherry sighed, you chuckled. “What’s with all the chaos? It’s more than usual.” You ask, as Cherry started to split your hair into sections.

“Matthew Sturniolo is here.” Cherry whispered. “Matthew?!” You exclaim, definitely surprised. “Mhm..who knows what he wants. Last time he was here..ooh, it was horrid.” Cherry tsked. The last thing Matt was here, 30 workers lost their jobs, and 7 models had to find a new company. “I know..I heard. But..he can’t be that horrible.” You tried to look at the bright side, as Cherry started rolling your hair. “Sure honey..I’m glad to know that there's still positivity in the workplace.” Cherry cracked a joke.

“Conner!” A masculine voice rang out. You spotted a pair of hands grab at your mulberry coat that was hung up. “Excuse me.” You spoke up, not looking to see who grabbed it. Cherry smacked your shoulder, and you saw it was Matt who grabbed it. “Conner! Find out whose this is, and I need one in black immediately.” Matt commanded his assistant. “Yes sir..!” The ginger haired man, who you assumed was Conner, spoke up, writing down. “Excuse me, Mr. Sturniolo, that’s my coat. And I’d be willing to let you know where I bought it, if you treated the people you worked with, with a little respect.” You spoke in determination. Matt turned his head, and saw who was speaking to him in such a tone.

“And who are you?” He asked, slightly amused. “Y/N L/N, sir.” You spoke with confidence, even though you fret for your job. “Nice to meet you..doll.” He spoke with a nickname. “I’d introduce myself..but you know who I am.” He smirked, fixing his black suit. “Yes..I do.” You nodded, as Cherry continued to fix the rollers in your hair.

“Hm..well..I’ll have Conner set up an arrangement for me and you..and we’ll talk about where you found this coat.” He smirked, with insinuations coating his words like syrup coating pastries. “Okay then..sounds lovely.” You nodded. Matt smirked, and took you in one last time before walking off. You felt your heart race at the interaction, confused at whether it was the nerves of the interaction or if it beated this fast for a different reason, for a reason consisting of four letters.

“I’ve never seen him say that to anyone..and I’ve worked here for 7 years.” Cherry smiled, amused heavily by what she witnessed. “Maybe..he’s not so horrid.” You said, hoping your words were true.

divider creds: @anitalenia

#theognatster’s au #nat’s !model reader x !richboy matt #matt sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo headcanon #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo fluff #nerd matt #matthew sturniolo #new york

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mentally-ill-simp · 25 days ago

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okayyy hi how you doing??? hope your taking care of yourself! Anyways, Pedro Pascal and gn reader doing like a buzz feed quiz or vogue magazine type interview and being rlly cute and they have a lot of banter. The rest is up to you and your creative liberties.

Love you, stay safe 🫶

Heyy I am so sorry it's late and not very good either but i do hope you like it lol

They checked their hair in the mirror before walking out into the room where they would be doing the interview, today they would be doing an interview with their costar and secret crush, they fixed their outfit before sitting down on the ground beside their costar, they've had a crush on him for a while now speaking back and forth every once in a while on Instagram but now they were actually in a movie with him and they would be doing an interview with him. The pair would be doing the classic Buzzfeed interview with puppies everyone had seen, they smiled looking over at the man who adjusted his glasses and gave them a hug "oh my god (y/n) I've missed you so much" Pedro said with a happy look on his face, the man was always a touchy kind of guy but everytime he touched them they always got butterflies they smiled warmly at the man hugging him back he was warm and smelt of vanilla and a type of wood they loved it, the pair sat down talking for a little while talking about their days and catching up since they had last seen each other on set a couple of weeks ago. The camera eventually started rolling and the pair played with the puppies they laughed "oh it's just some sappy romcom nothing big" Pedro explains and they laugh "it's a huge deal everyone on the internet has been begging for this romcom" they explained holding a tiny pug in their arms petting it and Pedro shrugs "they may or may not have been begging me too but I also begged them to give me New Yorks best actor" he gestures to them and they laugh "I'm not the best actor that would be Pedro he's the one that pulled that whole movie through" they smiled at the man and he waved them off "no way honestly i think it was a team effort" Perdo grabbed thier hand gently causing them to blush and smile widely, they hoped the camera wouldn't pick up on that. A while went by and the pair had a good time laughing and playing with the dogs. The pair had finished filming the shoot "heyy it's always nice to see you" he smiled hugging them and they hugged back "um kind of awkward but would you want to get coffee sometime?" Pedro asked and they smiled "I would love to"

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #request

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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Thanks to razziecat for sending this 1900 home in Buffalo, New York. 4bds, 2.5ba, $379,900. Isn't that iron work beautiful? This home has been featured in the Heritage magazine for its exquisite craftsmanship and its status as the 1st home with electricity in the city of Buffalo, New York, so it has a lot of history.

Original door with beveled mirror glass and door knob.

So different, isn't it? Love the lamps on the carved newel posts.

The wood in this home is pristine. Corner fireplace and wainscoting is perfectly preserved.

In the front of the house, in the sitting room, is a wonderful built-in window seat.

I would imagine that the next room is the dining room b/c it has this fabulous original built-in cabinet. Amazing how well loved and taken care of this home is.

The kitchen looks like it was modernized around mid-century. Look at the MCM clock set into the wall. That certainly is a classic.

There's an everyday dining area.

Cute little pantry with hooks to hold your aprons. Wow, this piece in here is gorgeous.

Not sure, but I think that these steps are in the kitchen.

Guest powder room.

Here we are on the 2nd fl. I think that this may be the primary bedroom with a sunroom.

Bedroom #2. Beautiful floor.

Wish they hadn't done this to the bath.

This is interesting, it looks like a bedroom with a closet. The floor is 1950s tile, so it must have been redone back then.

This room also has 1950s tile.

Outside is a newer garage.

Plus a yard that a person with a green thumb can do a lot with.

#victorian homes #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour #submissions

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melancholicstation · 2 months ago

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I DON'T NEED YOU BUT I MISS YOU, COME HERE! - a john f. kennedy jr. one-shot

day 2 of melancholicstation! summary: After exchanging gifts with your boyfriend you both reach a haunting revelation. After a serious of miscommunications between the two of you in which the both of you thought the other had bought the round of gifts this year, you and John are forced to venture into the city on christmas eve in the search of a christmas present for your boyfriends mother. What could be more hellish than that? though your handsome boyfriend makes it more than tolerable...

taglist: @carly-rae-jean @h-l-vlovesvintage @inocennture @monturi @hisamericanmuse @passhun4w-blog @vile-harlot @bluelancergirl @jackiesgirl @fortheloveofjos @itgirlvirgo @starsprangledgirl @malkavared @remotewatch @salvatoresablondie @kimcrystal123 @vampyiricris @scaredlamb @dulcegal @strryhaze

warnings: nothing, just good all clean christmas eve fun...

words: 1,210

Light pitter-pattering of rain falls softly against wrought iron fire escape, a soft aroma of powder and flushed-skin spices laid a slight film upon the furnishings of your New York apartment which was a mix of strewn silk stockings, rugs and tapestries, and because it was Christmas: two delicately placed patchwork stockings made from dead stock fabric across an elegant carved walnut chimneypiece and an antique Christmas collage you'd scored in an auction down in the Cape.

But none of it, in all its curated charm, could compare to the beautiful boy who laid his head in the space of your lap. John's eyes closed resembled those in renaissance paintings when scrutinised too close, and was accompanied by a set of an annoyingly long lashes mirroring the color of ink that's been spilt from a fountain pen.

In all his dreary-faced glory: all tuckered out after a tranquil evening of dining on a mismatched array of foods completely incongruent with the present season such as 2 packs of lemon club sodas, a squash & burrata pizza, and a half picked at banana coconut muffin to share: foods that may or may not have been stolen from your head chef's storage pantry. In your defence the food would've had to go in the trash anyway... If you really thought about it you did them a favour in taking the food!

In service of both you and John's shared distain for the Christmas craze and chaoticness you'd both decided to give each other your presents on Christmas Eve instead of on the big day.

The very presents in question were as follows: John got you a beautiful perfume along with a first edition, signed 'Journals of Anaïs Nin hardcover.

In your case, you got John a limited edition cologne with the tagline "Wear En Plein Air if you want to smell like an unassuming art critic on his way to an orgy." Classy. To go along with the scent you got him this years Art Press magazine issue, lately he'd been talking a lot about possibly creating a magazine: you thought it was a terrific idea but he wasn't so sure it would land.

The gift-giving hour had long passed and before you knew it the both of you had ended up splayed out on top of each other on your bed: an early twentieth century opium bed with a pierced lattice panels. A statement piece in your bedroom that you were very proud of winning in an especially hard auction at Christie's Rockefeller plaza location.

The snacking continued from the floor of the kitchen to the bed, where John began shovelling crumbs of a coconut muffin with reckless abandon: defiling your freshly put-on winter goose-down duvet.

"C'mon John you know I just got this cleaned. You watched me buy it like last week!" you say jokingly, yet your movements betray otherwise: frantically moving the palm of your hands over the duvet trying to brush away the crumbs onto the hardwood floors—an almost unbelievable score for an apartment in the city.

"Baby you're way too tense, let the holiday cheer wash over you!" he says sarcastically with that kind of eat-shit grin he nearly always dons.

"Well i've decided to reject that holiday cheer, I'm too stressed out having to figure out your families fucked up dynamics on top of trying not to piss of your sister—making her hate me more than she already does"

Wiping away the coconut flakes from your chin with his fingers, to which he proceeds to place those same fingers in his mouth, making an almost comically suggestive motion: to which you giggle alongside him.

It's interesting how you can almost see the cogs turn in his mind—it's funny how the longer you get to know him you can almost predicate the exact moment a thought enters his head "Speaking of, I forgot to ask you what you got for my mother for when we go down to the cape tomorrow?"

"Wait I thought you were handling the presents for your family this year. I-I mean she is your mom after all John"

It's at this moment that you immediately understand that he did not have the Christmas presents handled in the slightest.

Oh, fuck.

So that is what transpired to have the two of you traipsing around New York City at a blistering 7 pm on Christmas Eve like total and utter idiots.

After the utter shock of not having organised a Christmas present the night before Christmas set in you both scrambled into action changing out of clothes you called "house clothes" into respectable "outdoor clothes".

You chose a practical uniform for the blistering cold raging outside: a slim-fit pair of indigo blue jeans, a silk porcelain turtleneck for layering purposes, and a camel cashmere belted overcoat.

The reason why you'd regard John as a man touched by a certain oddness, said with love of course, is no better exemplified than his chosen outfit for the blistering cold: a patterned cashmere and silk crewneck paired with some old gym shorts and a pair of uggs atop long cotton socks reaching his mid calf. Now, you wouldn't position yourself as a fashion icon but you won't pretend you didn't second guess his choice of fashion, though you did relent when you saw the bashful smile fixing its attention upon your being.

Initially you were mad at one another for dropping the ball on finding gifts but fighting never lasted all that long with you two now did it?

Now, with that being said: Bergdorf's at 7:31 pm on Christmas Eve was certainly the undiscovered 8th circle of hell that Dante's Inferno conveniently left out. You and John had been circling the aisles for about thirty minutes and still: Nothing. As you traipsed the aisles for what seemed to be no short of a few miles all you found were picked over shelves with cheesy Christmas sweaters made out of polyester and acrylic, and small cheese platters in tiny wicker trays.

And if you gathered anything from the few times you've met your boyfriend's mother: Jacqueline Kennedy, is that she has immaculate taste. And known for having a severe emotional intolerance for synthetic fibres and cheap butter.

So safe to say both products left would absolutely not suffice or bode well with her.

By 7:51 pm you're both defeated but as if an angel sent from the gods themselves decided to take pity on you John spots and item: beckoning you over holding his hand out. The item comes into your view: a 18" silver amphora vase detailed with dragon head handles—a little ornate for your taste but from the look on John's face the vase is a winner.

Delighted to be able to get out of this place you both move to the register, slightly surprised that there's not an outrageously long line before you. You're both quiet for a few minutes while waiting, you're broken out of that silence when you feel John's hand pick up yours and bring it to his lips: kissing each of your fingers wrapped in his hand individually.

Okay, maybe Bergdorf's at 7pm wasn't exactly as bad as Dante's inferno but safe to say you will be getting everyone gifts in November next year to avoid this very situation in the future.

i feel like this is my worst one-shot to date (and it hasn't been edited) but I hope u enjoy regardless p.s all the furniture written about was just an excuse to basically show you my christie's wish list items bisous!!!!!!

#12 days of melancholicstation #jfk jr x you #jfk jr x reader #jfk jr x orignal female characters #jfk jr fanfic #jfk jr fanfiction #kennedy fanfiction #kennedy fanfic #political rpf #rpf political #kennedy rpf #rpf fanfiction #rpf #SoundCloud

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venus-haze · 2 years ago

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What's Your Pleasure? (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: Joining Vought’s newly announced superhero team Payback could be the big break you’re looking for. When it comes down to you and Crimson Countess for the last spot on the team, you’re shocked to hear Soldier Boy will be conducting your final interview. You shouldn’t be shocked at what it involves.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. I wanted to reflect the goofy ass superhero names that older supes had, so you’re Galaxy Girl. This takes place in the late 70s. Inspired by the Jessie Ware song. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo or ED content.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: Casting couch situation. Sexually explicit content that involves coercion, power imbalance, some spanking, mentions of masturbation and oral sex. Drug and alcohol use by both characters. Reader is a horny dumbass. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

The scrap of paper that sat on your vanity had a hastily scribbled address and time that you’d practically memorized since you got the call from Vought International. You recognized the address right away, one of the nightclubs in the city that was favored by supes. As one of Vought’s affiliate superheroes, you’d been there a few times for events they held, whether to schmooze with their investors or party with other supes. It was, however, an odd place to hold an interview to join a superhero team.

Your competition was fierce, though. The last coveted spot in Payback had Vought executives in a deadlock as to whether you or Crimson Countess would be the best addition to the team. Countess was a powerful supe who you respected, unlike some of the other self-important clowns who ran around making a mess of Manhattan. Not to mention, the both of you had overwhelmingly positive approval ratings across most demographics. Unfortunately, you heard through the grapevine that fucking Swatto had already gotten a spot on Payback, and suddenly your slight edge of being able to fly was no more.

As you applied your signature makeup in the mirror of your vanity, you tried hyping yourself before the night that would make or break your career. You were Galaxy Girl, for fuck’s sake. Your powers allowed you to harness the sun and moon’s energy to create and control meteor showers. Sure, sometimes your aim would be a little off, and you’d accidentally rain flaming rocks into a person’s car or take out a backyard every now and then, but it was for the greater good.

Glancing at the worn photo of Soldier Boy taped to your mirror, one you’d cut out of a magazine when you were a kid, you felt a wave of anxiety crashing over you despite your best efforts. After looking up to him for years and getting into the hero business because of him, you weren’t sure if you could handle the rejection from him, no matter how much he might sugar coat it if he went with Countess instead of you.

Not being chosen to join Payback wouldn’t mean the immediate end of your career, but it’d flatline into obscurity inevitably. You’d heard the argument that supes were mostly in the hero game for the attention, and you couldn’t disagree as far as you were personally concerned. You sure as hell didn’t hate the fanfare and special treatment you got.

At a quarter to eight, you made your way out to the balcony of your apartment, taking off from there and flying in the direction of the club. Flying calmed your nerves the way going on long walks helped most people clear their heads. It was freeing and refreshing, and in a city like New York, you could fly at all hours of the night and see everything clear as day.

When you landed in front of the club, the crowd of people surrounding the bouncer parted momentarily, only to crowd you in a frenzy of people asking for your autograph. You obliged as best as you could before being pulled inside, nearly stumbling directly into the host. He was saying something to you as he led you to the tables that surrounded the dancefloor, but you could hardly hear over how loudly the DJ was playing Donna Summer. He stopped abruptly in his tracks, shouting that he was going to let Soldier Boy know you’d arrived.

You chewed on your lip as your gaze followed the host to the large booth that faced the raging dancefloor. There he was, in all of his glory, Soldier Boy. On paper, he was almost sixty years old, having been in his twenties during World War II. Being a supe had certainly done him well, because he didn’t look a day over forty.

For a moment, you felt like your legs were going to give out from under you when he looked in your direction, the slightest smirk on his face. After what felt like an eternity, the host returned to usher you over to Soldier Boy's table. You were reminded how slow and inconvenient walking was, wishing you could just fly over to him instead of snaking through the crowd of people.

Soldier Boy smiled when you stood in front of him. “Galaxy Girl, right on time.”

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting, Soldier Boy–sir,” you said, quickly adding, “You can call me GG, by the way. If you want to, of course.”

“No, I like GG. It’s sexy,” he said, and you felt yourself smile despite yourself. “Take a seat.”

You nodded, sitting down next to him in the booth, but leaving a bit of space between you. Seeing the glass next to him calmed your nerves, and you knew after a drink you’d loosen up a bit. Sitting next to your hero, the prospect of working on his team sent a rush through you. Before you could say anything else, he shocked you with a compliment.

“You know, I saw that meteor shower you did for Vought’s investor gala last summer, pretty impressive,” he said.

“Thank you so much,” you said, trying to keep yourself from smiling too wide. “That’s so ceremonial, though. With my powers, I can—“

“I know what you can do, sweetheart. That’s why you’re here.”

“Right.”

“C’mere, why don’t we relax a little bit, get to know each other?” he said. “What’re you having?”

Almost as soon as he lifted his hand, a waiter practically materialized at the end of the table, pen and paper in hand to take down your drink order. Soldier Boy leaned over, effectively eliminating any space between the two of you. His body heat practically radiated onto you, and you caught the scent of a typical, masculine cologne and what you could’ve sworn was cinnamon.

The one drink was enough to lower your inhibitions and allow him to practically pull you onto his lap, his strong arms around your waist as his fingers brushed up and down the thin spandex material of your purple, iridescent costume. In all honesty, it felt less like an interview and more like a first date. He’d lean in close to talk to you, the club’s loud music a good excuse, though you tried not to stare at the face you’d only seen in movies, posters, and your own dreams.

He’d been in the middle of ordering more drinks when you heard your own, altered voice booming through the club. Galaxy Girl Groove, a disco single that Vought ordered to boost your youthful appeal. You didn’t do very much of your own singing on it, but that didn’t seem to matter to the DJs that had it spinning on their turntables from New York to Europe. It was something you were proud of in any other situation, but sitting next to your idol, it just felt corny.

Flying through the galaxy All this love for you and me Can you feel it? Can you feel it?

“Oh my god, I swear I didn’t plan this.”

He shook his head, to your relief. “No, this is a good song. You looked great when you sang it on Solid Gold, but damn, color TV doesn’t do your ass justice.”

“I—thank you,” you gasped, feeling him grope your ass through the thin layer of elastic fabric.

Your head was spinning from the confidence boost. Walking into the club earlier that night, you never expected your long-time supe crush to find you attractive, let alone hot. He, on the other hand, knew he was attractive, from the way he carried himself and acted around you. The conversation shifted by drink three, when you decided to call it as far as anything remotely alcoholic went.

“What got you into the supe business?” he asked.

You hid your face in your hands, giggling at his question. “I’m going to sound like such a kiss ass if I say it.”

“Now I gotta hear it.”

“You did—Don’t look at me like that, it’s true! Oh my god I drove my parents crazy talking about you when I was growing up. Your D-Day speech from ‘The Soldier Boy Story’ was my senior yearbook quote.”

He licked his lips, “Yeah? Was I the first guy you got yourself off to?”

“Sorry?”

“C’mon, you don’t get voted America’s sexiest supe two decades running without being finger-banging material. So what was it? Poster on the ceiling? Magazine under the pillowcase?”

“Poster on the ceiling,” you answered quietly, the lightness you’d felt in his presence suddenly feeling oppressively dark as he nearly gave you whiplash at how quickly he shifted the tone of the conversation.

“Which one?”

“You’re standing on a tank, and the tank gun is sticking out between your legs—“

“That one’s a classic. You’ve got great taste, GG.”

“I’m sorry, what does this have to do with Payback?”

“Everything. I mean, it’s my team. Wouldn’t wanna work with someone who doesn’t like me,” he said, as if asking a prospective hire about their masturbatory history was normal. “I need people on my team who respect me and know how to take orders. No second guessing when the going gets tough.”

His intense gaze made you feel six inches tall, looking up at the looming symbol of American heroism. You may as well have been standing at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial, trying to scale your way up Honest Abe with your bare hands. The implication of his words weren’t what caused your sudden feelings of discomfort, but rather frustration at your own naivete for going into this so-called interview without considering this would happen. Stars were born under pressure, you knew as much from your powers, but figuratively, it’s how things worked in Hollywood too. Thinking Vought would be an exception to the rule was laughably short-sighted.

Even if you didn’t get into Payback, you’d already admitted your long-standing infatuation to his face. You’d fantasized about him, imagined he’d be every bit of the all-American dream man, and the place in your heart that was still filled with mushy nostalgia for the world’s first superhero hardened to stone before you could blink. Turning him down would be weak posturing at best and surely get you on Vought’s shit list at worst. You did want to fuck him, but you would’ve preferred different circumstances.

“I’m a team player. I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said.

“Why don’t we take this somewhere a little more private, then?”

“Lead the way.”

Though you slid off of his lap, he kept his arm around your waist as the two of you got out of the booth. He led you back through the club, past the dancefloor and the maze of occupied tables that broke into whispers at the sight of the two of you together. The realization hit you, he wanted them to see you leaving with him, purposely took the long way to the elevator that was guarded by a bouncer, who immediately moved out of the way for Soldier Boy.

The elevator ride was short yet tense. You were locked in on his profile while he looked straight ahead, his only acknowledgement of your presence the gentle squeeze of your hip. The elevator doors opened far too soon but not soon enough, and you walked with him down the dimly lit hallway. He stopped in front of the door, pulling a key from his pocket and unlocked it. You didn’t even know this club had private suites, but then again, you weren’t important enough to have one.

The suite had a sophisticated sleaze that only money could buy, from the generous animal prints to the abundant reflective surfaces in the room. The bed on the far side of the room was bigger than any other you’d seen in your life, and you began to wonder how the hell it even fit through the door in the first place until you heard a loud sniff come from behind you.

Turning around, you saw Soldier Boy wiping his nose, two lines of coke left on the coffee table that he sat in front of. He wasn’t the first person you’d ever met who took drugs, hell, you did too, but he was the one with his face plastered on anti-drug PSAs.

“You want any? It’ll calm your nerves,” he offered.

“I’m not nervous,” you said.

He hummed in response. “No?”

You shook your head, though you knew he could see right through you. He stood up, staring you down for a moment before making his way over to you. Your confidence waned with each step he took, an amused expression on his face as your facade crumbled until you let out a shaky breath when his lips were hardly an inch from yours.

He kissed you, full of the aggression and experience you’d always imagined him having. His full lips were soft against yours. Even then, your fantasies paled in comparison to the feeling of his tongue in your mouth as you let him take you as he wanted. You liked that he was so cocky and sure of himself, not feeling the least bit embarrassed that you played right into his hands.

Though he moved to pull away, you weren’t about to let the kiss end just yet, gently nipping at his bottom lip. A growl rumbled deep in his chest as he obliged your unspoken desire.

“Why don’t you take this off for me,” he ordered softly, tugging at your costume.

He made himself comfortable on the edge of the large bed. Even if he wanted some kind of strip tease, you weren’t sure if you could manage something like that gracefully with how your costume hugged your body. It made you look and feel incredible, but it was a pain to take off. Fuck it. If the way you undressed was a dealbreaker for him, you could live.

To your relief, the opposite seemed true. He palmed his crotch through his own costume as you shimmied out of yours, shedding your platform boots and gloves. Keeping his earlier comment about your ass in mind, you turned around when you pulled off your spandex leggings, making a show of bending over.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groaned under his breath.

You turned around to unzip your top, the last of your costume that you were still wearing, letting it fall to the ground. You, on the other hand, floated a few inches above your discarded costume, pride pumping through your veins as Soldier Boy stared in awe.

Flying the short distance across the room, you landed in front of him, your feet barely touching the ground before he grabbed you. You’d nearly forgotten how strong he was, but he almost knocked the wind out of you with how he pulled you onto the bed with him, pinning you to the silk sheets.

He kissed you again, though you moaned into his mouth as he rutted his clothed cock against your bare pussy, the rough material brushing against your clit. You dug your nails into his shoulders, lifting your hips to get more of the burning friction that felt good despite the discomfort. You couldn’t believe you’d been so unimaginative in your fantasies of him, all so soft and serene, as if you were afraid to truly confront the wanton desire you had for him.

He let out what you could only describe as a growl before he flipped you over, landing a harsh smack to your ass. “All fours, sweetheart.”

As soon as you pushed yourself onto your hands and knees, he rutted his clothed cock against your ass, his fingers playing with your clit. Digging your fingers into the sheets, you pressed yourself closer to him. Who cared if he thought you were desperate? You were desperate after fantasizing about him for so long. There was no guarantee it’d happen again, anyway.

He slapped each of your ass cheeks, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at the force he used. Your skin stung, and you let out a shaky breath when you heard him unzipping his fly. It wasn’t taking him that long to undress, but you were antsy and curious, turning your head to sneak a glimpse of him naked. Your breath hitched at the size of his cock. His bravado sure as hell wasn’t compensating for anything.

He spanked you again, harder than before. “Did I say you could look?”

“No.”

You dug your teeth into your lower lip when he slapped you again.

“No, what?”

“No, sir,” you whimpered, turning to face the headboard again.

“That’s better.”

A moment later, he slipped his hand between your legs, his fingers feeling how wet you’d become at his manhandling your body.

“Fuck, you’re soaked. You like it rough, huh?” he asked, his voice teasing as he rubbed circles on your clit.

“Yes, sir.”

His cock pushed between your folds, slowly filling you before he began to thrust, nearly knocking you flat on your face. His pace was rough and relentless. He clearly had no intention of going easy on you, landing smacks to your ass as he pounded into you. The pain was intense, raw and unfamiliar, but you wanted more, even if it meant you wouldn’t be able to sit for the next few days.

The sound filling the space was nothing short of obscene between the slapping of skin and your pained moans. Throwing your head back, you could barely make out with your blurred vision the distorted reflection of you and Soldier Boy from the mirror on the ceiling. You clenched around him at the thought of how primal and exploitative it was, his cock claiming your pussy just so you’d have a chance at a spot on his team. You moaned, unabashedly turned on by the fucked up situation.

“You close, baby? You gonna cum for me?”

“I—fuck—yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he growled.

With another thrust that made you feel like your arms were going to give out from under you, you came, tears clouding your vision as all you could feel was pleasure and his hot cum pumping inside you. You’d grabbed the sheets beneath you, squeezing them in your fists as you rode out your orgasm. A tingling sensation in your fingertips was followed by a slight burning smell. Fuck. You burned through his sheets.

As soon as he pulled out, you collapsed onto your back, a hand on your chest as you tried to catch your breath. The bed shifted as he moved to sit next to you, his tongue darting out from between his lips.

“I was just gonna have you suck my cock, but I’ve only had better fucks at Herogasm.”

“Yeah?” you asked, a teasing smile on your face.

He kissed you again, his strong hands squeezing your thighs. “How about you? Nothing like the real thing, huh?”

You could only manage a breathless ‘yes’ in response as you sat up, which was good enough for him. He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a joint and a lighter. This time, you accepted his offer when he held out the joint to you. Though, instead of handing it over, he put his arm around your shoulders, bringing his hand to your lips. The action felt oddly intimate as you inhaled.

You closed your eyes for a few seconds before looking at him again. “Well, now I’m gonna fail a drug test if I get the job.”

He snickered as he toked, coughing a bit. “If Vought drug tested supes, they would’ve dropped my ass years ago.”

“Sorry about the sheets, by the way,” you said.

“The what—“ He looked over, seeing the holes scorched in the sheets you’d been clinging to. “Shit, that’s actually kinda hot.”

After a few silent moments, you spoke again. “When will I know? If I got the spot in Payback, I mean.”

He shrugged noncommittally. “You’ll get a call in a few days.”

A few days. At least you had some idea of when you’d hear back. Reluctantly, you got up from the comfortable bed, feeling a bit of a chill from the absence of his body heat. You got dressed, glancing at yourself in a mirror on the wall. Your lipstick was smeared, mascara smudged, and the glitter on your cheeks had spread all over your face. At least you wouldn’t have to do any kind of walk of shame out of the place.

“Mind if I leave from here?” you asked, pointing to the window.

He grinned. “Go for it.”

“Have a good night, Soldier Boy.”

“You too, GG.”

Opening the window, you pushed off from the ledge and into the air, soaring above the traffic below. Some of the people standing around and walking down the street recognized you, pointing you out to those around them. Hiding in a place like New York was almost impossible for a supe, and you never bothered with a secret identity like some of your peers did. Besides, you wanted to be recognized, for the city to know who Galaxy Girl was, so you indulged the onlookers with waves and a big smile as you flew by.

As soon as you landed on your apartment’s balcony, you felt a rush of conflicting emotions. There was a little bit of disappointment in being that desperate for a spot on Payback, but mostly, you felt excited disbelief. Despite the circumstances, you and Soldier Boy fucked, something you’d admitted to his face that you spent years resigning to the confines of your most intimate fantasies. Even if you didn’t get chosen for the team, you could live with coming out of the whole thing with nothing more than knowing he was a good lay.

The next few days passed with an anticipation that turned your stomach sour. You stopped a few crimes, did a publicity appearance at a new club, and hoped to god you wouldn’t run into Crimson Countess at some point. You had no idea if her interview went similarly to yours, though you could only assume it did. That didn’t bother you, but you didn’t want her to potentially end up being the bearer of bad news.

Every time you left your apartment, you worried that the phone would ring while you were gone, and you’d miss the most important call of your career. Just after you woke up one morning, the phone rang, and as you’d done since you left the club that night, you rushed into the kitchen to answer it.

“Hello, is this Galaxy Girl?”

“Speaking.”

“I’m calling on behalf of Vought International. A decision has been made on the last position in Payback, and the board would like to extend a formal offer to you as the newest member of—“

The phone fell from your hand, knocking against the wall as it swung back and forth on the chord. You could hardly process the confused, muffled voice on the other end of the line asking if you were still there. The next hour went by in a blur, as you got yourself together and flew over to Vought Tower.

You walked into the conference room to find that the only available seat was next to Soldier Boy, who was sitting among the Vought executives. The board members gave you their congratulations, a lawyer explained what you needed to sign and where, and a photographer started snapping pictures almost as soon as you picked up the pen.

“Look alive, Galaxy Girl! C’mon, you’re making history here!” the photographer exclaimed.

“Don’t overthink it, GG. You more than earned this,” Soldier Boy said with a charming smile. He gave your knee a friendly pat before resting his hand on it, slowly bringing his hand up to your thigh and squeezing.

You managed to give him the most genuine smile you could muster up in return. He was right, after all. You had earned it that night, gave that final push to make yourself stand out, and you hadn’t hated it either. With a deep breath, you signed your life away to join Payback, just like you wanted.

#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x female reader #the boys x reader #soldier boy x you #the boys soldier boy #soldier boy the boys #the boys imagine #soldier boy imagine #soldier boy smut #the boys tv #the boys amazon #the boys

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runa-falls · 2 years ago

Text

cat and mouse - 2

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Supervillain(?)!Reader

Warnings: kissy kissy :3, mention of alcohol, you're broke. sorry.

a/n: i wrote this out today (what is now a few days ago) because i couldn't work on the other fic until i got this out of my system :) if there are plot holes its because i vomited out this chapter and threw it out like a dumbass. idk what Black-Cat's personality is like so i made it kinda mirror cat woman from the harley quinn show.

Summary: Every time you try to convince people it was an accident, you immediately get ratted out to the Spider. But really, it was! You don't know why you're being hunted, you didn't even do anything wrong. Yet.

w/c: 2.6k

part 1 part 3 part 4

masterlist

----

Nueva York’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, as he, and the world, likes to call him, is your official nemesis, or at least that’s what the city thinks.

You crumple up the half-soaked People magazine, filled with ‘juicy gossip about our favorite Spider and the new villain-of-the-week: Blaze’. Seriously, you might just become a villain if they keep calling you that.

You briefly forgot you swiped the news story off of a nearby food and entertainment stand (that’s barely holding up in the downpour) until you hear:

“Hey! You gotta pay for that!”

You don’t.

In your defense, it was only a dollar-fifty. And either way, it’s technically the Spider’s fault that you didn’t have a penny on you!

Honestly, if it were your choice, you’d never see his stupidly broad shoulders again. He truly is the bane of your existence and a major pain in your ass. You genuinely don’t understand why he even pays you any mind, it’s not like you are plotting to take over the city. You just want enough money to get some fries and a Koka Soda, and maybe a couple more black articles of clothing that aren’t covered in clawed-out stripes.

Spider-Man? More like Cat-Man.

You would say you’ve been “fighting” this man for weeks like the magazines insinuate, but it’s less violence than it is just you squirming out of his clutches and running away. You swear the Spider is a bloodhound. No matter where you are, or what you’re wearing, he always finds you. And you always get away. It’s actually quite pathetic.

He goes: “It’s you again.”

You say: “No it’s not.”

Then he has to say: “Blaze.” Like you’re some ultra-nemesis that has ruined his life.

And you can’t help but: “Stop fucking calling me that, dude.” Before you make a run for it.

He catches up, obviously, either has you on the ground, against the wall, or holds you up so you can’t escape, but then you do. Every time. And he lets you.

So really, it’s just fucking annoying. What a waste of a great plan and an excellently executed silent break-in!

You never asked for any of this. The fact you don’t have a flashy-ass elastic suit should be proof enough: You’re not a supervillain.

But, when the opportunity to make a little more cash comes around, you can’t just say no. In your mind, the bigger the heist, the longer you can stay out of the public and away from him.

And if the one girl on the team wants to make you a suit, how can you resist? The Spider has ruined all the other clothes you’ve worn (and not in a good way).

You saw your new suit a few hours before you needed to meet up with the team. Felicia, or Black Cat as the rest of the group refers to her, is probably the most elegant and badass woman you’ve ever met.

She has voluminous silver-blonde curls and sharp green eyes that match the deadliness of her talon-like retractable claws (which actually kinda remind you of someone…). Though she doesn’t have explosive energy inside of her as you do, her cat-like senses and martial art skills are almost as deadly.

Felicia was happy to invite you over to her multi-million dollar penthouse to get ready and hang out a little before you needed to leave.

She’s filing her nails into perfectly deadly points as you sit on her plush ultra-white couch next to the new suit, hands fiddling nervously together as you watch her pamper herself with extreme precision. There are two glasses of high-grade champagne in front of you on the glass coffee table. Yours is barely touched. Hers has been drained and refilled a couple of times throughout the hour.

“You know, usually I’d work this job alone, but it’s a lot easier to get away when you leave a few maggots to distract the Spider. That’s what men are for. Us girls need to stick together, right?”

Even her voice is elegant.

“Yeah.” You croak out. You prefer to listen to her talk than say something dumb and non-villain-like. And yeah, you’ll admit you’re a tiny bit scared of her, but sometimes that’s something you have to go through when making friends. Right?

“Alright, we’ve got like 20 minutes. Go on, babe, try it on.” She loosely gestures to the suit, “Bathroom is in the hallway, first door to the left.” You stand promptly and shuffle over to her bathroom, taking a second to look back to send a grateful smile at her before you close the door.

It almost resembles the one you saw on her the first day you met. The only difference is that yours is completely black and has a high collar neckline in contrast to her more provocative V-shaped suit.

There’s no fur-lining or silver details, just an invisible zipper that creates the illusion that this suit is painted onto your body. Felicia also provided a simple mask that you can pull over your head when you tie back your hair and some silver hair spray so you’re less recognizable to the general public.

You stare in the mirror and smooth out any wrinkles down your torso with your gloved fingers. Alright. Now you look like a supervillain.

Or at least a super-something.

She makes you do a little spin. “You look lovely, darling.” A smirk pulled at her charming lips. “Absolutely, perfect.”

—

Fuck.

So here you are, trying to break out of a bank that shut down around you as soon as you walked in. The two guys, who you never took the time to learn the names of, are freaking out, banging harshly against the metal doors that slammed shut in front of the exits.

Felicia, on the other hand, is as cool as a cucumber, checking her nails like there isn’t a blaring siren and pulsing lights around her.

So what now? You could probably blast the doors open with whatever comes out of your hands (you’re still not sure as you try to use your powers as a last resort). But that would leave a bunch of evidence that you were there and you didn’t come to knock down a whole building.

You walk over to her, trying to hide the anxiety that’s starting to bubble up inside of you. “What should we do?” She looks up from her manicured nails and looks at you. Then at the guys.

“Well, the boys seem a bit preoccupied,” As if to prove her point, one of them starts kicking the door, as if it would magically open up for him if he were to hit it harder and make more noise. She sighs, “I guess we could use the air duct that leads to the roof.”

“Ok.”

So you follow her to one of the main offices in the building, watching as she easily rips off the cover of the vent and uses the desk for leverage to hoist her into the surprisingly spacious air duct.

The chill evening breeze of Nueva York has never felt so good. Well, it has smelt better, but if garbage and crime-filled air meant you’re not going back to jail, you’ll take it.

“Well, that could’ve gone better.” The Black Cat runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it back and out of her face. Of course, it falls perfectly over her shoulders. “So…I’ll see you later, yeah?” She’s leaving?

“Uh, yeah, sure. I’d love to!”

“Great.” She walks to the edge of the roof and scales down the back of the building like it’s nothing. Look, it’s not that tall of a building, but still, you weren’t about to follow her down. You watch as her black-suited figure lands on the concrete ground, barely making a sound, before she sashays into the shadows of the city, disappearing into the night. God, she’s so cool.

And then it’s just you.

You sit yourself down and finally take a breath. Your first job as a villain and you didn’t even get to see the money. What are you getting yourself into?

You pull slightly at the elastic holding your hair together, regretting the tight pony that’s now giving you a major headache. Maybe this life isn’t for you. With, probably an overdramatic, sigh you push yourself up. Now to figure out how you’re getting out of here.

–

Turns out you didn’t have too many options. As soon as you were about to take a serious ‘leap of faith’ and try to scale down the building, you were ambushed by a series of fwp, fwp, fwp’s and lifted from the ground. That probably saved your life now that you’re thinking back on it.

So, he found you. Big surprise. He’s practically stalking you at this point.

He takes you for a ride, holding you close as he swings from building to building, barely breaking a sweat. You’re actually surprised that you didn’t hurl all over his stupidly firm shoulder. You should have.

You don’t know why he brought you to the top of a half-constructed building, but you’re assuming he’s just trying to be dramatic again. Superheroes, right?

You struggle against restraints when you’re finally set down, at least trying to lay in a more comfortable position as Spider-man stands over you. Not only are you fully wrapped in red webs, but your arms are also tied behind your back.

The Spider kneels down, watching you continue to struggle, “Alright, Hardy, give it up.” Hardy? Shit, he must think you’re Felicia. The black suit, the silver hair. Dammit.

He takes off your mask before you can say anything, pulling out your loose hair tie with it, and boy, is he surprised to see it’s you.

“Wh–Blaze?” He takes off his mask like he can’t believe his fabric-covered eyes. His scarlet gaze not so subtly takes in your new look. A big change from the usual getup you wear. “What, uh,” When he finally meets your eyes, one of his gloved hands raises to rub at the back of his neck. Is he nervous? He briefly looks away from you, “What did you do to your hair?”

“Who cares! Let me out of these!” You glower at him, arms tugging at the luminous webs, “And you know I hate that stupid-ass name.”

“What the hell were you doing here? Why are you suddenly hanging out with a bunch of criminals?”

You give him a deadpan expression, “I’m a villain, remember.”

“Ah,” He slices through a couple of the overlapping webs that fit snugly over your stomach. “Finally giving into the narrative, hm?” Then the ones around your arms.

“S’not like I have much of a choice.” The red webs start to loosen until they unravel completely and pool on the floor. “So, you’re…letting me go?” You rub at your sore wrists, feeling the ache dissipate almost immediately. He shrugs like it’s no big deal for him.

“It’s expected, isn't it?” He’s at the edge of the roof staring at the buildings around him, a soft breeze sweeps through his hair, and the lights of ‘the city that never sleeps’ soak over his suited figure from below.

“Just like that?”

“...Just like that.” He says. But he says it more to himself than you. With that, he swiftly puts his mask back on, hiding the wonderfully serene expression he once held, but you never got to see in full.

Spider-man is confusing. He treats you like you’re some sort of catch-and-release criminal. Acting like a push-over parent that reprimands their child even when they know they’ll do it again. You don’t get it.

And the way he looks at you sometimes. Like he’s having fun. You see it when he’s chasing you, webbing you to the wall, or holding you under his claws. There’s a glowing heat that pulses in his eyes and you can almost see the barest gleam of his fangs. You can’t even wrap your head around how he can both infuriate and draw you in at the same time. And then he lets you go.

And now he’s leaving you.

So you take your chance.

“Wait.” He stills but doesn’t turn back to look at you. He just stays there, merely stopping to listen to whatever you have to say. But you want him to look at you. You need to see those simmering red eyes that are hidden behind the mask. “I-” You stop yourself. You’re not actually sure what you were going to say. All you know is you just weren’t ready for him to leave yet. “I, um, never caught your name!” It blurts out of your lips before you realize what you’re saying.

Then silence.

How awkward.

You were sure he was going to leave you there. No sane superhero would reveal his secret identity, dumbass! Especially to a girl like you.

But then his hand comes up, slips off his mask again, hair slightly ruffled from the action, and he finally turns. Before you know it he’s approaching you, fast. And you can’t do anything but stand there, watching as his looming form starts to take up more and more of your vision until he’s standing right in front of you, head tilted downwards and red eyes low.

Two warm palms cradle your jaw and you lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. Just as your eyes start to open again, his head is dipping toward yours. Then his lips meet yours.

And it’s perfect. His soft plush lips move against yours, occasionally nipping and sucking on your bottom lip until it was satisfyingly plump. The warm, masculine smell surrounding you makes your knees weak as his hands drop from your face to your waist in an effort to pull you toward him.

Your body melts against him as he starts to softly lick into your mouth, thoroughly seeking out the taste of you. He pushes you gently against the unfinished concrete wall behind you, eliminating any space that was left between your thinly suited bodies. You swear you’re about to melt when you feel his broken groan against your lightly suited-chest.

And then you separate, heavy breaths and intense gazes floating between you. “Miguel.” He looks down at the way he’s holding you, the size of his palm against your smaller body. And then the ridiculous suit that was tailored specifically for the heist, but looks more like something you’d wear for a BDSM session. He clears his throat and looks back up, “Miguel O’Hara.”

“Miguel…” His hand on your waist clenches at the sound of your hoarse voice and you can tell he’s tempted to pull you back in.

“You’re one of the few who know.”

Now, you’re curious. You hum, “Who else knows?” His eyes glance at your hair and his hand drops. Suddenly, you feel cold. He steps away from you, not unkindly, but it’s clear he’s trying to create space.

He brushes it off, “No one important.” And then he’s walking away. Back to the same spot he was going to leave you from. Cool.

“Well,” You take a few steps closer, eyes roaming over his muscled back, “I promise not to tell anyone.”

“I know.” His mask is back on, and this time you know there’s no stopping him this time. “Catch you later, Little Red.” He jumps.

Little Red?

#miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #spider man 2099 #spider man: across the spider verse #cat and mouse

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