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leezlelatch · 1 year

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Two Star Crossed Lovers

Copia x F!Reader - Forget about this? I hope not! Welcome back. I finally managed to pull up my britches and finish this. This was my first foray into Ghost fanfiction, and not only did it introduce me to a lovely community of writers, but helped me connect with and inspire many of you. I hope this is a worthy finish. And I hope you stick around to see what I do in the future. Thank you. Enjoy.

The wood of your bedroom desk is hard as you rest your chin against it. A sigh escapes your lips known only to aching hearts. You almost kissed Copia. Cardinal Copia. There, so brazenly upon his desk, his biretta on your head. And you think, perhaps, he was going to kiss you too. His utterance to be gentle with his heart echoes through your mind, and you want nothing more than to race back to his office and tell him yes! Yes, you will cradle his heart in the space next to your own because he deserves to be so sweetly and tenderly loved; your silly, beautiful Cardinal.

“What am I supposed to do, Portobello?” You ask your rat companion.

Portobello looks up from his very special pillow resting on the desktop and squeaks in your direction as if the answer is right in front of you. You roll your eyes and rest your cheek on a fist, grabbing a delicate morsel for your favorite boy to nibble on. Portobello rubs his little head against your fingers before snatching the small nut as if it were his first meal in hours, devouring it quickly before huffing in your direction for another.

“You’re right after all,” you say, handing him another. “I can’t just…stay away, and I can’t pretend like nothing happened either.”

Portobello rolls off his pillow to perch before you, standing back on his little legs in a T-Rex pose that makes you giggle. His little hands work to clean off his face, needing to look presentable for the grand speech cooking within his small mind about love, and loss, and birth, and death, and joy, and sorrow. An incredible feat of rodent thinking to get his beloved mother to confess her undying devotion to his father. Here it comes, Portobello Mephistopheles Cosimo Copia is ready.

“Squeak!”

You smile at your baby and scratch his little head. You wonder what it would sound like if rat noises were detectable to the human ear. Either way, there is a level of communication between you that you think is special.

“I know, I know. I already told him that I would come see him today.”

You pick up your phone and click on your most recent text with Copia, smiling softly in amusement:

You glance out the window at the dreary winter day, the tree which stands so proudly outside devoid of life as its branches flutter in the chill. Copia is going on tour soon, you think with a despondent sigh. You need to talk about what happened, you promised him you would, and yet a part of you fears that the heated moment in his office was just that...a moment. Nothing in his text betrays that he is nervous to see you, or is thinking about your almost kiss. You get up and begin to pace, Portobello's little head swiveling left and right as he watches you move.

You know your Copia better than anyone. It's the mantra in your head. You imagine him in his office, picking up his phone and then sitting it back down, the wood of his chair creaking as he fidgets, a hand coming up to run trembling fingers through his hair before falling into his customary nervous tick, forefinger and thumb rubbing anxiously together, the leather of his glove worn and discolored at the tips as he awaits your reply. And then the sigh of relief, the tension leaving his shoulders as he drops his head to the desk surface once you have agreed to lunch.

You stop your pacing to giggle softly, hand to your mouth as you grin around your knuckles. What would it be like? To be Copia's. You do not crave the light, you yearn for the cool, and gentle darkness found in the depths of his eyes. You ache for his embrace, all encompassing, like a blanket of stars across the night sky. His kiss that can snuff out any candle and drive out the hypocrisy of a false God. Darkness is not frightening, or bad...it is a companion. The Dark says you are not lost. You are found. Copia found you.

Resolved, you throw on a sweater and some warm socks, sufficient for walking across the courtyard from the residency to the offices. Portobello is tucked into the neck of your sweater, his head peeking out as you close and lock your door behind you. You live on the third floor in the northwest corner of the building which not only holds the dormitories, but also a recreational facility remodeled on the whim that Papa Emeritus III needed to maintain his "strong physique." But the add-on turned out to be beneficial for everyone not wanting to be caught outside in the Swedish cold.

The kitchens and mess hall are also found within the residency hall, convenient for anyone - Copia and yourself - to sneak out of bed for a midnight snack. But your personal favorite is the library, more specifically, the plush chair in front of the sprawling granite fireplace. The mantle is often decorated with a garland of herbs picked from the gardens to promote a cleansed space for study, thought, and escape into the fantasy realm of books.

The building which houses the clergy offices and classrooms is but a short distance away from the residency hall, their rooves nearly touching. Overall, the grounds form an unfinished rectangle with the church completing the furthest side. The abbey looks like it's falling apart on a good day although it maintains a quaint and reverential charm. Gardens full of vegetables, herbs, and the sweetest flowers pepper the landscape, affording a beautiful and tranquil walk between buildings. The church looms over it all with grotesques of Lucifer and his princes gazing out on the horizon, not the congregation; a reminder of their infernal presence, and deference to free will.

"Off we go, baby boy," you whisper to your rat as you make your way down the mustard runner which stretches down the expanse of the corridor.

The walls haven't been painted in years, and you're almost sure they were white once. A potted plant that is probably fake sits on a chipped console table splattered with pop culture magazines. A couple feet down, a green rotary phone lays off the hook on a wooden desk next to a phone book and a chair that has seen its fair share of booty calls. Slowly, things around the Ministry are improving the more money is made by the Ghost Project, like the recreational facility. Right now, there are just...more important things to attend to first before tackling the quite outdated Sibling dormitories. You find a warmth to the off-70s look, like a home that has been well-lived in, and well-loved.

The trip downstairs is quick, polite hellos not usually required once people see the very large rat poking out of your striped sweater, and you quickly make it to the bottom floor, pushing open the creaking doors to the crisp air outside. It's a little chillier than you anticipate, goosebumps erupting across your skin, the wind whipping through your hair. You hold Portobello a little closer. Your eyes are on the prize, the door to the offices opening and closing as Siblings and Clergy alike walk in and out bundled in coats and scarves. You weave around sleeping hedges and soil thirsty for spring, the fountain which captivated your attention the previous day looking just as chilled as you feel.

"Hej!" A voice calls to you as you pass one of the moving puffy coats.

Spinning around, you shiver, squinting a little as you are slow to recognize the Brother that greets you by name. Sandy hair hidden under a toboggan, grey eyes looking you over behind black framed glasses. Oh, he's from my Latin class, you think down at Portobello, sure your child can read your thoughts. It is your bond.

"Hi. What's up?" It sounds as awkward as you feel saying it. Lucifer, it's cold. Did you make a face? He's looking at you funny.

"Aren't you cold?" He asks, his eyes narrowing in on the lump that is Portobello, now hiding his face into the warmth of your skin.

"I'm good." I'm suffering.

"Okay...well, I was just wondering..."

****

Copia takes a sip of his coffee, a startled “Ai!” jumping from his throat as the scalding liquid coats his lips and mustache. He blots his mouth with a napkin, grumbling about shaving the damnable thing off before staring distastefully down at the brown liquid in his mug, Portobello’s little face printed onto the side of the white porcelain.

“Still hot…” he mutters, pushing back from his chair to move over to the little coffee station he keeps on a small table in the corner.

He has a pot, a couple mugs (although he hasn’t used any except this one you bought for him since), and his favorite dark roast placed next to little packets of hot chocolate he keeps especially for you. Kneeling with a groan, Copia opens the mini fridge under the table to pull out a container of milk, generously pouring it into his coffee. He tests the now pale liquid with a tentative sip, smacking his lips in satisfaction before rising.

Copia slowly steps through his office, patting his belly in a soothing gesture as he walks past the front of his desk, his eyes glancing over the many ledgers which require his attention this morning. He moves close to the window which overlooks the courtyard of the abbey. Frost lingers on the old panes, poor insulation allowing freezing cold air to hit his skin. He shivers a little and takes a sip of his coffee, sighing softly while watching the movement of the unholy congregation as they chat and scurry between buildings.

He holds the cup of coffee with both hands in an attempt to warm them with what little heat the drink has left. Copia hasn't stopped thinking about you, and to be perfectly honest, you are the only thing his mind is able to conjure these days. Every night he lays his weary body into bed, wondering what it would be like to draw you close to him, whispering sweet nothings as you fall asleep in each other's embrace. Perhaps sometimes he wakes from a blissful dream, his arms wrapped around a pillow, to face the painful realization that you are not there with him.

Last night was particularly difficult.

Your almost-kiss. Copia could strangle Terzo for interrupting the very moment he has yearned for since your midnight meeting in the kitchens some months ago. You felt so right in his arms, so entirely his as a blush crossed your cheeks and you smiled at him, that special smile which told him that you were willing to carry the burden of his old heart. Copia touches his fingertips to his lips, closing his eyes as if he can still feel your breath against them. He smiles sweetly, humming with the thought of you.

His eyes snap over to find the clock, and they inadvertently follow a trail from the wall to his desk to his cellphone sitting atop it, the black brick of a thing silent, but carrying your messages from this morning. How Copia agonized over texting you for lunch today, unsure of your response after the previous night. Should he have mentioned it? No, that's a conversation best held face-to-face. Copia wants you to feel safe and comfortable in his presence, and whether or not you choose to pursue a conversation about last night's activities is entirely up to you. He can wait. He will wait. And if you never return his affections, he will be glad to hold even a modicum of your attention.

As his gaze returns to the window, Copia makes a small harumph while taking in the frost on the ground. It’s supposed to be a cold winter, more so than usual, and the annual fight to keep the fireplaces going in these drafty corridors will begin anew. Copia leans a little closer to the window, his breath fogging the glass as he tries to make out a figure below near the fountain. He swipes at the glass with his sleeve, grumbling in annoyance, his eyebrow arching.

“Who in Lucifer’s name isn’t wearing a coat in this weather?” He murmurs to himself, trying to squint. It’s with a sickening drop of his heart into his gut as he realizes it’s you. You turn just enough that he can make out your features as you speak to…who is that? Copia leans so far into the window, his nose smashes into it, the cold shocking him back. Your image is blurred by the outline of his nose, and entirely fed up, Copia opens the window, practically hanging out of it as he peers down at you and the boy with narrowed eyes, his pupil nearly nonexistent in the expanse of white.

The boy stands close to you, too close, head tilted down to speak to you as you gaze up at him with that perfect innocence, that - well, actually you look fairly annoyed. The Cardinal huffs out a laugh as he watches your brow furrow, your feet shifting as you scoot a little farther away. Ah, my precious, The Cardinal thinks. What he does not like, at all, is how you’re shivering. He can practically see how red your sweet nose is from here.

Copia is gone from the window and out of his office door in the span of a few moments once he has gathered his thoughts, has reigned in the raging jealousy burning in his heart and lungs. There were more important things to attend to. That being, dragging his piccolina inside and getting her warm. Oh, you’ll hear it. The last thing he was going to do was let your health be disregarded so. Also, the Cardinal scowls, the boy should know better than to keep you out in the cold for an insipid conversation.

Siblings quickly move out of the way as the Cardinal, red cassock like a slash of blood against a winter’s day, glides through the doors to the courtyard. His eyes are on you like a hawk, his step firm as he approaches you from behind. His lips twist in satisfaction as the boy’s expression drops when his eyes find the advancing Cardinal, even going so far as to take a very big step away from you.

****

You watch with burgeoning fascination as fear flickers across your classmate’s face, and he moves swiftly away from you, throwing out a quick goodbye as he heads toward the residency. You tilt your head to the side, momentarily thrown off, watching his retreating back with barely contained relief.

“Sibling.”

Copia’s voice has you whipping around so fast, you feel Portobello slip down your sweater. Your hands come up to instinctually cup the lump underneath, and you watch Copia’s eyes flicker down to it with amusement before sharpening as they return to your face. You’re wracked with shivers from head to toe, eyes widening at the Cardinal’s rapidly hardening features.

“I believe we had an appointment,” the Cardinal continues, motioning with his head to follow him before he turns and heads back inside, not even looking to see if you’re following. You know better than not to, and make your way after his rapidly retreating figure. The warmth of the office building is a relief to your chilled skin, however your hands begin to burn, red and dry from the cold. You adjust Portobello, returning him to the neck of your sweater, his little feet resting under the lip of your bra. Copia doesn’t stop until he reaches his office, opening the door and gesturing inside with cool politeness as clergy members alike walk back and forth down the corridor.

You enter with trepidation, unsure of what to expect, your eyes falling on his half-filled cup of coffee sitting on the desk next to your Cardinal’s mountains of paperwork. You feel bad that he had to run all the way outside to fetch you, but your brow furrows with mirth when you notice the nose shaped smudge on the window. Was Copia watching you? Your cheeks heat. Was he jealous you were speaking to the guy from your class? Your heart gives a little pitter patter at the thought, and you have to school your features as you turn on your heel to face Copia. He closes his office door behind him, and then his hard expression drops in an instant.

The man is on you in a second, his gloved hands gripping your shoulders as he practically lifts you from the floor to deposit you by the fireplace. “Mio tesoro prezioso, dov'è la tua giacca!?” He frets. Copia falters for a moment, his hands out and fingers wiggling as he looks about the room for something, anything to wrap around your shoulders. With a determined frown, Copia hastily begins to remove his cassock, ripping the fascia off his waist to tangle on the floor in order to reach the buttons.

“Copia, this isn’t necessary,” you try to say, looking slightly alarmed with the ferocity in which he pulls the blood red material from his back to wrap around you.

“What isn’t necessary, amore mio, is your insistence to walk around outside without any coverings! You could freeze. Oh, your povere mani,” he groans, voice cracking as he reaches out to cradle your hands in his own, thumbs trying to work at your red skin to create friction. “What if you get frostbite, eh? What will your Cardinal do then?”

“...I’d imagine you wouldn’t be happy,” you murmur, eyes fixated on your hands.

“Certo.”

Copia pulls off his gloves, the leather looking stretched and wrinkled when not tight against his large, beautiful hands. You admire the dark hair on the backs of them, a small smile flitting over your features that broadens as he slides the gloves onto your own. The leather is so warm, wrapped around your hands like a hug, albeit a loose one that makes the both of you smile. Your eyes meet Copia’s and his expression is soft, freckled cheeks tinted pink as he gazes down at your hands, a slow smile creeping across his lips. He appears almost entranced by the sight of his gloves on you, his own fingers squeezing the material and trying to ensure they are on as tight as possible.

Copia catches your eye and blushes harder, clearing his throat, although he doesn’t let go of your hands. “Why were you outside, huh?” He murmurs, angling you a little closer to the fire. His eyes take in your entire form as if looking for any injuries brought on by the frigid weather. You can’t help but admire him in his black slacks and clergy collar, a sight you’re not very used to seeing. Copia is very rarely not pristinely dressed in his vestments when working, and when he isn’t, he prefers soft lounge clothes. Out of the hundred things you imagined was under his cassock, the black business casual outfit was farthest down the list. Although the hint of suspenders underneath is doing more for you than the fire.

“I was coming to see you, like we planned, but then that guy from my Latin class-,”

“Ah, he is a classmate? What eh…what did he want?” Copia interrupts you, his eyes falling to the crackling flames as his lips twist in displeasure. It makes you smirk, an eyebrow raising as you take in the tense set of his shoulders.

“He was asking me out,” you say as casually as possible.

“Che cosa!?” Copia’s head snaps back to attention so fast you’re worried it’ll fall off his neck, and you even put your hands up in surprise. His eyes are wide, the white nearly narrowing into a slit. This all happens in a matter of a moment before his expression melts, the circles under his eyes deepening as all color drains from his face and his gaze drops to the floor. “Forgive me. I…shouldn’t question what you do in your personal life. That is…eh, not cool.”

“Copia, I’m joking. He asked for class notes. That’s all,” you soothe, fingers coming up to gently touch his cheek. His lips part in a small gasp and his eyes flick to your fingers and then to your face.

“Hmm, not a nice joke,” he says softly, although there’s a small smile playing on his lips.

“No, it isn’t,” you agree.

There’s a beat of a moment between the two of you, your gloved fingers gently sliding across his cheek, rough with age and very warm. You notice a few flyaway hairs and brush them back behind his ear. Copia closes his eyes, blowing out a long breath through his nose. His hands cup yours and bring them to his chest, his fingers squeezing the leather wrapped so lovingly around them.

“We need to talk,” he whispers, his eyes opening, reflecting a heady desperation within the green and white depths. “But I am afraid, topolino.”

“What are you afraid of?” Your voice is equally quiet, your body gravitating closer to his. You reflect on the past several months. From meeting Copia in the Ministry kitchens to saving the rat who chooses this moment to climb from your shirt and settle on your shoulder. Copia chuckles softly, scratching Portobello fondly behind the ears.

“I’m afraid of losing this. I’m afraid of being alone again. I’m afraid of another decade roaming these halls at night like a wraith because I can’t be alone with my thoughts. I’m afraid of being cold again,” Copia sucks in a breath, blinking away the tears that are rapidly filling his eyes. “I’m afraid of losing my love.”

“Hmm,” you let out a small laugh, feeling the burn of tears behind your own eyes. “So all those ‘amores’ were real.” You give him a wobbly smile as he laughs a little, tears finally dropping and sliding down his cheeks.

“Sì, sì. I am not too subtle, eh?”

You take a steadying breath, your fingers gently wiping away his tears which sit on his gloves like rain droplets. “Copia, you could never lose me.” Your voice breaks slightly. “Knowing you has been the most beautiful experience of my life. And I want more of it. I want…,” you trail off, and turn to look at the rat on your shoulder, a smile brightening your features. “What do you say, ‘Bello? Should I kiss your daddy?” You hear Copia make a noise between a gasp and a squeak as Portobello’s little paws come up to clean his face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You turn and wrap your arms around Copia’s neck, drawing very close to him. His hands flail at your sides for a moment before settling at your waist, his eyes as wide as dinner plates as he blinks down at you. “What do you say?” You whisper to him, your lips inches apart, breaths intermingling. “Amore?”

Copia smiles. Wide and crooked and radiant. He’s practically shaking in your grasp, and laughs a little incredulously before his eyes flutter closed, long lashes kissing his cheeks. “I say,” he murmurs, accent heavy and deep. “Ti amo cosi tanto.” And then his lips descend on yours.

His hands slide around your back and he crushes you to him, chests flush as he thoroughly kisses you with deep, long strokes of his tongue. He explores your mouth as if he is trying to imprint your taste onto his tongue. Months of pent up frustration breaking in a moment of unbridled passion on a cold winter’s day. Copia whimpers softly into your mouth, and at this point you can’t tell if the tears on your cheeks are his or yours.

You break away with a gasp, but Copia needs you close, unable to truly pull away just yet and cradles you against his body, his hand along your jaw as he presses little kisses to your cheeks, your chin, your neck. Anywhere his wandering lips can reach. He whispers sweet things to you, words you can’t understand but know all the same. Copia smooths your hair from your face and just gazes down at you with complete adoration, his head tilting to kiss your lips softly again - once, twice, a third time.

You giggle softly in a dreamy state that makes him smile that smile again, the one that reaches his paints. “Have something to say, piccolina?” He says softly.

“I’m pretty speechless…”

“That would be a first, hmm?”

He kisses you again as you begin to roll your eyes, and you sigh into the bliss of it all. His thumbs rub circles into your cheeks, his kiss unhurried and lingering. You press a hand to his chest and push lightly, and you pull away with a smacking noise as a confused frown crosses his features.

“I nearly forgot!” You say, smiling up at him. You take a deep breath, the next words from your mouth feeling so easy and so right, and something you should have done a long time ago. “Copia, I love you too.”

Copia’s arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you with him as he brings the both of you to the floor, his arms and legs locking you into a hug. His nose nuzzles at your cheek as he holds you so incredibly close, a boyishness to the older man as he radiates joy and warmth. “Ti amo, ti amo, I love you,” he whispers over and over again into your ear, his mustache tickling you. “You have given me everything. Oh, my world is so bright. Ah, my heart.”

Your fingers slide up his back, and you lean into his embrace, closing your eyes and enjoying the glory of your newfound love. Everything, finally, is going to be okay. Your life is going to be okay…no, it’s going to be more than that. It is going to be glorious. Happy. Full of love. Full of Copia.

There’s a sliding sound and Copia’s paperwork goes crashing to the floor in a small explosion of paper. You both look up, Portobello having at some point during the last few minutes left your shoulder and made his way to Copia’s desk. He sits in the center of the desk, looking innocent as can be.

“We should have another one,” you say, smirking as you look at your outraged Cardinal. He gives you a withering glare. “I’m just saying, he might-...” Copia cuts you off with a kiss.

And you definitely recommend co-parenting a rat.

#the band ghost #the band ghost fanfiction #Cardinal Copia #cardinal copia x female reader #cardinal copia fanfiction #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus iv fanfic #ghost #ghost bc #copia #papa iv #poorly translated italian #portobello the rat #cardinal copia x reader #copia x reader

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amhrosina · 2 years

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Wherever You Go, I Go (Frank Castle x Reader)

MASTERLIST // TAG LIST REQUEST

A/N: Requested by a nonnie! I love writing readers that give Frank an attitude when he's being a dumbass, so here's that lol

Request: “wherever you go, i go” with frank pls🥺? maybe a hurt/comfort where he tries to push the reader away to protect them but they’re adamant about staying by his side? of course pls disregard this if it doesn’t inspire you <3 have the best day 🌷💝

Summary: Frank hasn't spoken to reader in two weeks and then shows up battered and bloody on their doorstep. Reader accidentally reveals their feelings in a fit of anger.

(Warnings: all the normal Frank things, so like blood, descriptions of stitches, wounds, etc. also, lots of cursing, soft!frank, idiotboy!frank, loml!frank)

Frank Castle was a mystery to most people, but you thought you’d cracked the code in understanding him; key word – thought. It had been two weeks since you’d seen him last, and the idea that Frank had lost interest or abandoned you gnawed at your stomach at all hours of the day. He wouldn’t just leave, would he?

It wasn’t like you were officially together or anything, but after the months of long nights sewing up cuts and whispering secrets into each other’s skin inbetween teeth clashes and hair pulling, you couldn’t really call Frank just a friend of yours. He’d made that clear every time you were anywhere near him. The familiar weight of his hands on your waist, the way he knew exactly where to press his lips on your neck to make you moan, the soft kisses he’d press into your hair when he left way too early in the morning.

You weren’t crazy for thinking he cared about you – you knew that – but his lack of contact for two entire weeks was a growing concern. Was he hurt? Dead? Did he meet someone new? More interesting? You were losing focus in your day-to-day tasks, and it was all his fault. Your boss had sent you home early and told you to get some sleep because it was clear that you needed it, but it was now past midnight, and you were beyond sleep at this point.

A loud thump against your front door startled you out of your haze. You grabbed the pistol Frank had left for your protection and inched towards the door. Your apartment wasn’t in the safest part of the city, but you’d never had to use a gun on someone before. Frank’s words had been clear when he was teaching you how to shoot it: “Safety off, cock it, aim, and unload the entire clip in the bastard’s face.”

You repeated his steps like a mantra as you peeked through the peep hole. You stared into your dim hallway, searching for the source of the noise, and found nothing. You grunted in annoyance. Dumb kids being dumb, you supposed. You went to move away from the door, already over the disturbance, when your eye caught a tiny bit of movement towards the bottom of the peep hole.

It was a subtle movement, one you would’ve missed if you blinked, but it was there, and you recognized those god damned boots. You set the gun down, swiftly unlatching the deadbolt and swinging the door open. Frank laid in a crumpled heap at your feet, a low groan emitting from his throat. He’d been leaning against the door when you opened it, so he had landed flat on his back in your haste to open the door.

A gasp caught in your throat when you finally took him in. Frank was covered in blood. You could just barely make out Frank’s dark eyes looking up at you. His nose was crooked and bleeding, definitely broken, and you could see a cut across his chest that was flowing more blood than you knew a human could have in their body.

“Oh my god, Frank!” Your voice finally came back to you in a hushed whisper.

You curled your arms under his shoulders, tugging him far enough into your apartment that you could shut the door. Frank was tall and muscular, so you knew he’d be heavy, but his dead weight was almost impossible for you to move. You ended up falling backwards, landing on your tailbone. Frank’s head rested in your lap; face pulled in a painful grimace.

You cradled his head, tears welling up in your eyes.

“Where have you been, you fucking asshole?”

The way you were softly stroking his cheeks juxtaposed the anger laced in your words. Frank’s eyes were half lidded – he was barely conscious, but still breathing. You crawled out from under Frank’s weight and ran to the bathroom, grabbing at anything and everything that could help.

Frank was struggling to move when you dropped down next to him, pushing him back towards the floor.

“Stop, stop, stop. Don’t move.” You mumbled, tugging his jacket off. His shirt was being held together by a few strands of fabric across the collar, so tearing it off him wasn’t difficult. The hard part was having to peel the sections of fabric that were so coated in blood that they were stuck to the gaping wounds. Frank’s breathing stuttered as you started putting pressure on the wound across his chest.

Blood was bubbling out of the cut, falling down his sides and onto your freshly mopped floor. Your Christmas pajamas were coated in red, but you weren’t worried about any of that. The more pressure you put on Frank’s chest, the more his eyes widened, and he needed to stay conscious.

Once the bleeding slowed, you began to sew stitches into the gash. Frank’s eyes followed your movements. It was a slow and painful process, but it gave you enough time to figure out what you wanted to say to him.

“You’ve been gone.” You mutter, pushing the needle through his skin. “You’ve been gone, for weeks, and then you show up half dead and bleeding all over my floor. Where were you?”

“’m sorry, baby.” Frank’s rough voice had a direct line to your heart, which ached in response to the two weeks of radio silence.

“I thought-” He gritted his teeth as you pushed the needled through his skin again, “I thought you’d be safe if I wasn’t around. I thought you’d be happier.”

You rolled your eyes, glancing over at him and then back down at the stitch you were working on. “If you really thought that, then you’re an idiot.”

“I never said I was smart.” The smirk on his lips reminded you of the rage you had swallowed down earlier.

“You. Left. Me.” You spit. “You couldn’t even say goodbye? You just fucking left me and thought I’d be happier? Fuck you, Frank. You should know by now that wherever you go, I go. If you really thought that leaving was a good idea, then you’re either blind or I’m a fucking idiot for falling in love with you.”

You freeze, squeezing your eyes closed. Your planned speech had been thrown out the window the minute you’d let yourself feel just how angry you were at him for abandoning you, and you’d just accidentally said the L-word to Frank fucking Castle.

Frank’s hands hover over yours, still mid stitch. You didn’t want to open your eyes and see the rejection written on Frank’s stupid face.

“No. No. I didn’t mean to say that. Forget it.” You shook your head and focused your gaze on the chest wound that was almost completely stitched up.

Frank’s hands wrap around yours, halting any more movement from you. You didn’t want to look, refused to, even. Frank mumbles your name, slightly squeezing your hands.

You finally look up, meeting his gaze. His expression was mostly neutral, but his lips rested in a small smile.

“You love me?” he asks, nonchalantly running his thumbs over your hands.

You let your head bob in a single nod.

“I lo-” You cut him off.

“Don’t say it unless you mean it. And don’t say it if you’re going to leave again.” You plead with him. He lifts one bloody hand to cup your cheek and shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, sweetheart. I love you. And I left because that scared me. Everyone I’ve ever loved has been taken from me. I know it was stupid to leave, and I’m sorry.”

His words weakened the fire in your blood. Your eyes softened and you leaned into his hand, still cupping your cheek.

“I thought you were dead.” You whisper into his palm, pressing a soft kiss into his skin.

“’m sorry. I’ll never leave you again.”

The weight of his promise sits on your chest for a moment.

“Okay.” You respond, nodding your head. Your attention returns to his chest, a comforting silence overtaking the apartment as you finish stitching up the cut. You slowly make your way down Frank’s body, searching for and patching up any injuries you come across.

You help pull Frank to his feet. You’re both thoroughly covered in his blood, and you’re almost positive you won’t be getting your security deposit back on account of the giant puddle of it on your floor.

“Are you staying?” You ask, warily glancing between him and the door.

Frank cups your jaw and pulls you into a searing kiss. You stumble into his hold as he wraps his arms around you in a tight hug.

“I’ll stay forever if that’s what you want.” He mumbles against your lips.

“That’s what I want.” Your voice is breathy, seductive, even.

“Okay.” His tone is final as he nods and kisses you again.

“Okay.” You respond, smiling into the kiss. He pushes you backwards towards your bedroom, but you stop him. “We both reek. Shower, then fun, okay? And only if your cut doesn’t hurt too bad.”

“Got it, boss.” He chuckles, pulling you toward the bathroom.

After your shower, you walk into the bedroom, fully intent on ravishing Frank whole when you notice his sleeping form. He’s already in a deep sleep, arms resting behind his head on the pillow. You knew the adrenaline from the night would eventually catch up to him. You crawl into bed next to him and rest your head on his chest, carefully avoiding the cut you’d covered in gauze after your shared shower.

Frank turns, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer to him.

“Mmmm, love you.” He mumbles, still mostly asleep.

“I love you, Frankie.” You whisper, content to spend the rest of your life wrapped in his arms. Frank Castle is a mystery to most people, but not to you, you decide as you drift off to sleep, not to you.

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seikkoi · 1 year

Text

ᴏᴄᴛᴏʙᴇʀ | ᴛᴏɴʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

18+ ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ

content/warnings: named reader, explicit sexual content (very end), alcohol consumption, mentions of financial issues, employer/employee relations, explicit mentions of mental health issues (reader has the anxieties™), mentions of physical injuries, set in canon universe before aou.

genre: mostly angst ngl, sm*t at the very very end

word count: 7,463 im sorry

a/n: lightly inspired by the song 'october' by rothstein

dedicated to: the lovely @alessandraavengers

"Maybe you should worry about yourself, Stark. I've been doing just fine before you decided to make my job your business." Tony's jaw clenches, and a shaky hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. “My business is your job."

I won't complain,

I will be decent,

though it will be freezing,

I welcome the rain.

The hands of the clock on the wall ticked silently, a sign of the building’s expense. You clutched a leather binder filled with papers in your lap as you sat. Everything you had to show for the last seven years of your life. Countless awards, certificates, recommendations—the expensive bachelor's and the bank account-draining master’s. Your leg bounced on the dark mahogany, steadily increasing frequency as seconds turned into minutes.

Ironically, this would also be interview number seven. For the job you were least qualified for. You applied for close to twenty at this point, all well below your skill, but you were desperate. You had barely a year of experience—quitting your first job one year out of school after one-too-many sixty hour work weeks. The moment you turned in your resignation, dread and regret over your choice in profession filled you. It held you down, sleeping and rotting the days away. Eventually, reality set in, pulled you out of bed and back into the corporate world.

Turns out, lack of experience and ‘quitting with notice’ is less than ideal.

You hoped a step down in prestige would result in less stress. All your fantasies of a top floor corner office and luxury disappeared like ash under a light rain. You always held expensive tastes that you couldn’t sustain unemployed. But the stress wasn’t worth it. All you needed now was to pay the bills. Too quickly ‘over-qualified’ or ‘under-experienced’ became your least favorite words. You had to fight back the dread every time you checked your email.

Just when you’d started pondering entry-level positions, a notification came through for a new vacancy ‘Fit for your skillset!’. To your dismay, the description sounded no different than the job you left. More grueling expectations and personal sacrifice. On top of that, you still were under-experienced by their requirements. Not to mention who it was for. Overworked employees typically miss most current events, but far too much has been going on with this company to make even you pay attention. Working for such a high-profile, drama-ridden company might be even worse. But after weeks and not so much as an offer letter, you had to try anything. On the plus side, at least it paid well.

Three days later, you found yourself inside of Stark Tower, wishing the silent clock would move faster.

Square breathes, internal mantras—nothing worked. Your heels still made a gentle clack against the floor. Thankfully, the general noise of the front lobby kept it from being a nuisance.

What you swear is eons later, your ears prick up to a similar click growing near you. You turn your head as a tall blonde approaches the small waiting area. She stops at the front desk a moment, making your heart skip a beat when the receptionist points to you.

‘Just relax, you know what to say.’ you thought to yourself. ‘They won’t hire you if you’re a nervous wreck.’

You manage to muster what little confidence you had left after weeks of rejection to stand and straighten your dress as she greets you. Thankfully, the smile she extends is friendly enough. The hand you feel is soft and manicured too— acute tells of an easy life.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Ms. Potts, I’ll be bringing you up to meet Mr. Stark.” she says, turning and heading further into the lobby.

‘Maybe this won’t be too hard. Maybe this job won’t be like the last.’

During the entire elevator ride to Mr. Stark’s office, Ms. Potts spews out factoids about Stark Industries but you’re too busy rethinking your entire interview strategy. Something about a cave, Obadiah Stane and a wormhole whizzes through your ear to no reaction. It was nothing you hadn’t already read in the weekly papers, nor did it ease you one bit.

You were even more taken aback when you realize you’re descending, and the silver doors open to a spacious garage. The faint sound of movement echoes, source unseen. You turn to Miss Potts, who only gives another pleasant smile and gestures into the concrete space.

Sure, the whole world knew Tony Stark was a bit eccentric. You knew that well enough when you applied. Hell, it probably explained the vacancy. Maybe this was some type of strategy, or just his nature. Either way, something was screaming at you to tell Miss Potts you had changed your mind, go home and apply for anything else.

Then, you remembered how badly you wanted success. You couldn’t accept anything less.

The elevator closed quietly behind you as you exited, looking for the source of the noise. There’s cars (some ridiculously new and some pathetically old), studded workbenches, and chaotic piles of robotics and machinery strewn about. You have to round the corner to find him, behind a small bar tucked away from the metal mess everywhere else.

He’s turned away from you, seated at the bar with eyes glued on a few papers before him. An ornate pen signs away without pause. You’re certain the sound of your heels against the floor gave you away, but you’re sure to clear your throat to not shock him.

Mr. Stark, clad in a grease-stained white tee and dark denim, shifts in the barstool slightly to give you a cursory look. You can tell immediately his mind is lightyears away from the present situation, focused elsewhere. On a lighter note, you notice how much kinder he looks in person. All the magazines and op-eds made his face harsh, never smiling.

“You’re the one who applied for assistant thingy right? Miss…” Stark trails off, scanning back through the papers in front of him. There’s a slight slur in his speech, one that forces you to remember the early hour.

“Cassian.” you interrupt his search and he laughs, abandoning the papers for a shiny glass on the counter.

He brings the amber liquid to his lips before he speaks again.

“Right, Cassian, look—” The glass finds its way back to the solid surface despite his sway. He stands once it does, facing you with a wide smile. “You’re hired!”

With that, you’re left more dumbfounded, staring at the billionaire as he sauntered over to one of the cluttered workbenches.

“I’m sorry, sir, I really don’t understand—” You turn towards him as he walks by, not sparing you another glance.

When he reaches the middle of the garage, he lets out an exhausted sigh. The familiar regret seeps in, turning your nerves up another notch.

“The woman that probably brought you here—Pepper, she used to be my assistant, and handle all the tabloid bullsuit.” he mutters, fiddling with a wrench from the bench.

“After the whole ‘tower nearly blowing up’ situation, she’s taken a step uh-out of my life. For better or worse. I didn’t wanna hire anyone else, she’s convinced I can’t manage my own life— we compromised.”

You start to speak, trying to formulate the right words to say. Stark pays it no mind, tossing the wrench back down gently.

He pivots towards you, and you see the stress in his eyes. You can see why she’d quit-hell you were starting to wish you never applied. The name ‘Stark’ proliferated in the papers these days.

“Offer letter is signed, on the bar, job’s there if you want it.” With that, he walks across the garage, past you into the elevator.

The electronic ding! sounds, leaving you in the garage alone without another word. You’re convinced this is a terrible idea- even before whatever that just was.

Something sparks your curiosity to look at the signed papers, and put a dollar amount to this madness. You walk back to the bar, grabbing the stack of papers with a faint ring of water in the corner.

You’re certain you’re dreaming when you count the number of zeros.

THREE WEEKS LATER

You were ready for retirement at the ripe age of twenty-six.

This was a new type of demand. Running nearly every aspect of Tony Stark’s life didn’t eat your soul, but it ate at your mind. You could spin embezzlement or drunk-driving into a heartwarming story- alien attacks and Hydra were a whole new ballpark.

It was almost refreshing. Spinning stories for shitty people and tailoring public statements for the goal of maximum human exploitation never quite sat right with you. Handling Stark’s life just felt like defending someone who deserved it. It felt more honorable working for him than a greedy tech firm. (There are some questionable times when he doesn’t, but you don’t bother with those).

The righteousness helped the uncharted territory be more than manageable. Still, making Stark’s technology enterprise mesh well with his role as Iron Man felt like a hero’s feat on its own. The media would come up with any number of wild conspiracies about Iron Man, most of them disparaging to his image.

Stark was legitimately aiming for good things in the world. The weariness in your bones kept you craving more simplicity and ease, nonetheless.

You sunk down into the leather couch of the conference room, watching as the board members filed out in quick order. The room was filled with the golden ray of sunset— soon to turn pitch black.

Officially done with the day’s meetings, you forgo any workplace formalities and kick off your heels, despite your boss’s presence.

A light chuckle at your exhaustion breaks the silence, Stark slumping into the empty space beside you. You raise an eyebrow when he wriggles at the lavish tie around his neck, tossing the garment to the floor next to your heels.

“What, you can kick back but I can’t?” he jests, undoing the top two buttons of his black dress shirt.

You give a ‘fair enough’ shrug, leaning back to start mentally processing the last ten hours.

You found yourself staring at his exposed neck as your mind trailed off, his head leaned back, eyes shut. His jaw is tight, forehead pinch in a now-familiar focus. Stark looked nearly as drained as you, still you knew better than to try and equate things. Honestly, you considered yourself semi-lucky to only have to make things look nice for the cameras and not be present for them. In the evening glow, though, he looks close to ethereal.

You shift your eyes at the thought.

You two sit in comfortable silence as the sun moves behind the New York city skyline.

You’re doing mental math on how soon you can retire when he fills the void with a question.

“Regret taking the job?” he asks, unmoving.

You add ‘potential mind reader’ to his list of skills.

“Some parts are better than others.” It’s as honest of an answer you can give without sounding ungrateful for the opportunity (or thinking about the alluring glow on his skin).

He laughs again, turning to meet your eyes. This would mark the first time you’re under a heat lamp from his gaze, irises tired and alluring.

“Seriously,”

Clearly your answer isn’t convincing, because he turns to his side on the couch to fully face you.

“You aren’t regretting this? Because lately you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.” he says with a lazy grin.

You thought you were doing a good job of burying your issues beneath walls of smiles. Hearing otherwise hurts your resolve a bit, especially from Stark. He had enough on his plate without worrying about you.

“It’s just…a lot,”

Despite how you felt, you couldn’t lie about it, not to his face.

“But it’s not your fault, it’s not you.” you swiftly add upon seeing his somber grin fade away.

“Ha, isn’t it though?” A dramatic sigh escapes his mouth like a deflated balloon, running his hands through messy brown locks. “This..rollercoaster I’ve put myself on.”

“Rollercoasters can be fun.”

“You hate it.” Stark faces you once more, propping his arm up on the back of the couch.

“Wouldn’t blame you if you quit.”

The suggestion pulls a laugh of your own. “I don’t think that’s an option.”

Stark makes a genuinely puzzled face, to which you spend the next minute or two explaining why you quit your first job, the weeks you spent rotting away after. You had hoped to never recount such a sad time outloud, but you couldn’t stand him feeling at fault for your lack of enthusiasm.

Ease passes through you when it seems to comfort him a bit.

“Maybe I hire you for something else, maybe pay you to not deal with this shit.” he says, laughing.

You brush off his joke with another short laugh. “Wouldn’t that be something? Really, it’s fine. Just need a long hot shower.”

You start to stand, but are stopped when a hand graces your thigh.

“No jokes, I know what it’s like to get more than you signed up for. If money’s all that’s keeping you here, trust me that’s not an issue.”

You give a flustered smile, trying not to focus on how warm his hand was.

“It’s not all that’s keeping me here.”

TWO MONTHS LATER

“You know it’s just a dinner, right? Like just food, maybe music, high probability of dessert?” Stark taunts, noticing your trembling leg from behind his phone screen.

The car seems like it’s moving way too fast, even though you can very clearly see the speedometer under 25 miles per hour.

“Yes, I know what dinner is.”

You let out a deep sigh, trying to regain the ground under your feet. The part Stark conveniently forgets is that it is a very large gala he’s dragged you along to, and not just a normal dinner. You can do normal dinner, not a one hundred plus person dinner with reporters and red carpet. He’s also not considering the part where he didn’t tell you about it until two hours ago.

“Oh, that’s a relief, thought you might jump out the window.” he pockets his phone, turning to you. “I can just have Happy take you home, you know.”

“No, no, this is…excitement. I’m excited. Totally ready.” you’re really trying to convince yourself, but it only makes Tony snicker.

“These things are really boring, promise. That’s why you’re here, keep me from falling asleep.”

Out the window, the street lights start to turn back into normal orbs instead of blurry splotches. The car pulls up the curb with enough ease for you to take in the venue. It's a marble hall, one you feel suddenly underdressed for. You make a mental note to tell Stark never to give you this little notice again. Perhaps you should save yourself the trouble and head home.

Stark could behave himself, right?

The black window tinting your view disappears when the door is pulled open. You hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t beside you anymore, now holding the door and gesturing to the entrance. You get your first good look at the suit he’s wearing, tailored and jet-black. The flattering seams are a decent enough distraction to join him on the sidewalk.

Stark places both hands on either of your shoulders, giving you a playful shake.

“You look amazing, I look amazing, please stop worrying. It’s starting to spread and I can’t eat on an upset stomach.” he forces himself into your gaze, searching your face for the supposed ‘excitement’.

A deep breath, then a second passes through you, staring at Stark's eyes until you can manage a curt nod and still legs.

“See, you’re gonna be just fine.” he exclaims, dropping the hands from your shoulders and already smiling for the line of photographers waiting by the door.

You follow unsteadily, praying this is a speedy event. You could do this for an hour, maybe two. Stark takes notice of your delay, turning back to you just before reaching the first nerdy cameraman.

“Hey, what’s the issue with this? If your not comfortable with the cameras, you know we can just go around—”

“It’s not that,” you interrupt, gripping your clutch with sweaty palms.

“Then what?” he asks sympathetically.

“There’s like a hundred people in there, Stark.” you admit with a long sigh.

“And I’m one of them, what’s the worst that can happen if you're with me?” He turns and props his arm out towards you. “Miss Cassian?” he says, dragging out your name.

You want to roll your eyes at his constant unserious nature, but instead you take another deep breath, loop your arm through his, letting your fingers wrap around the satiny fabric on his bicep before taking slow steps forward.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

Bright bulbs of light flickering in blinding succession. In every direction, microphones with human mouthpieces spew their hurried questions. Your boss answers in his typical Stark way, earning only more adoration and curiosity. You come to humor yourself with the questions they ask. Always seemingly random, from his favorite brand of whiskey to his opinion on migrant detainment in the Mediterranean.

You stand to the right as he smiles and poses for them. You almost hate how good he looks in the cold wind, face most definitely beaming behind designer snow-white frames. Outside of that, you admire his patience, knowing this winter vacation (where he didn’t have to be Iron Man for once) was leaked and now semi-ruined.

It would’ve been a well needed break for you as well. Three months of non-stop press releases, conferences, and meetings were wearing you ragged. Late nights were occupied with drafting memos and wishing you chose a career with less work. While you hated the time work took away, you unfortunately began to admire the work you did. Working for Stark turned out to be more desirable than you thought. You imagined dealing with another frustrating, reckless CEO- not a charming, witty superhero. Regardless of the long hours and chaos, you loved helping put more good into the world.

Finally, as snow starts to fall, he answers a final question on if he’ll change the color of his suit before turning to enter the cabin.

“Mr. Stark— Iron Man, won’t be taking any more questions, excuse me, thank you.”

You tried to squeeze past incessant reporters and fans, barely making it through the hotel front door if it weren’t for security. The commotion outdoors gets muffled by the tall wooden doors. You sigh and lean against them, shutting your eyes for a moment.

“Feeling alright, Cassie?”

Stark’s voice makes you open your eyes to see him standing in the foyer. This would be the fourth time you feel his eyes burning through your skin. You expected him not to be upstairs in bed, asleep already, not in front of you, eyeing you with his hands buried in his pockets.

The place he chose spared little expense, clearly for starlets like Stark looking for a lush, woodsy escape. Wooden walls covered every inch, adorned with fancy art and a modern fireplace in the living room. The color reminds you of the tower lobby, a deep mahogany.

“Yeah, just remind me why I’m here and not at home in my heated apartment.” You keep your voice light as you hang your coat on the rack by the door.

Stark gives a playful scoff, too used to your sarcasm to take offense.

“A certain former assistant thinks I need a babysitter on my own vacation.” He turns on his heels, heading towards the kitchen with a renewed energy (surely only now remembering he’s supposed to be relaxing).

“She’s not wrong.” you agree only because Stark re-emerges from the kitchen with a tall amber colored bottle and two glasses.

You can’t help rolling your eyes at his stiffened jazz hands, tossing yourself onto the plush armchair by the fireplace. The cold seemed to wrap itself around you, not leaving despite your proximity to the fire. Stark chose to sit on the side table next to you, rather than the wide array of more comfortable seating options. You’d gotten used to him entering your personal space since your talk in the conference room. You took it as a sign of his narcissism more than anything.

“Not sure I’m meant to be a drunk babysitter, Mr. Stark, ” you quip as he starts pouring.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he winks, offering you one. “And come on with the ‘mister’—making me feel old over here.”

It’s bothersome how little he has to say to change your mood. Something about being with just him, away from press, deadlines or state secrets, pulled you in and kept you coming to work everyday. In this moment, however, his solitary presence made you anxious. You’d have to get through this sabbatical without the chaos of the world bringing you back to reality. The real world, littered with expectations.

Free of any reason to decline, you take the glass. You and Tony do a lazy toast, clicking the glasses together before taking a sip. The peaceful quiet envelopes the cabin, save for the crackle of the fireplace.

“You okay?” you ask upon seeing the weariness in his face, contrasting the grin he held.

“Better than okay,” he finishes the rest of his drink, pouring another faster than you take a second sip. “Happy to be away from everything, ‘get in touch with the great outdoors!’ as they say.”

You laugh at the dramatic mocking tone he uses, extending your arm out when he makes a gesture at your empty glass.

“I hope your atleast being slightly genuine, Mr. Stark.” you say once the glass is full once more.

“When am I ever not, Miss Cassian.” he draws on your name with the same mocking pitch as before.

You fake a wince at the taste of your own medicine, which amuses the hell of the already tipsy Stark.

“I see what you mean, felt fifteen years added on instantly with that,” you admit, chuckling at his demeanor.

“Hence why I’m such a nice guy and call you Cassie like a normal person,” he states smugly, taking another sip from his glass.

“Oh really, Tony? ‘Cause you only gave me that nickname after I explicitly told you no one ever calls me that.” you laugh.

“Yes and that was a great loss to the universe that I fixed,” Tony turns his head to meet your gaze, eyes sparkling (you tell yourself it’s just the alcohol and nothing else).

The both of you stay there silent, eyes locked for what quickly becomes far too long and the awkwardness makes your attention back to your drink. You finish the contents, hoping that the liquid would cool your now burning skin.

You internally remind yourself that this is just how he is- a playboy philanthropist turned charming hero, nothing else.

“Sorry, I know this isn’t really much of a vacation for you. ‘Know you wanna be at home, away from Stark Industries,” he deflates a bit, pouring a third drink.

“No, it’s not like that,” you interject, speaking softly, “I really don’t mind being here, and it’s still a good break from meetings and all that other tedious shit.”

He takes a sip, seemingly mulling over your words. “Give any more thought to my offer?”

You let out a small laugh, thrown off by his sudden mention of it. You were certain then that he wasn’t being anything near serious.

“What, you paying me to not be here? I didn’t think that was you being serious.”

“It’s a win-win, no? You get a salary, I don’t have to drag you along for this rollercoaster, Pepper doesn’t worry, everyone’s happy.”

Clearly you’re left silent for too long, because Tony stands before he speaks again. He seems conflicted, running his hands over his face and through his hair.

“Look, I don’t need to see you miserable, I guess.”

“What, who said I was miserable?”

“Anyone would be dealing with me.”

TWO DAYS LATER

After a few days, an air of melancholy had hung over you. Two days of nothing turned into endless overthinking about your life. Every decision made seemed to rattle in your bones, looking for a place to be. You tried to tell yourself it was normal to feel lost, to feel as though everything you’ve ever done was pointless. This was the first time you’d had room to think, of course everything would be overwhelming.

That didn’t help, but whatever red wine Tony brought did.

You found it on night two, cracking open the second bottle when Tony comes downstairs. You gave a sluggish hey that gave away your state immediately, but you were too absorbed in your thoughts to meet his eyes.

“Didn’t take you for a wine connoisseur.” he mutters, sitting in the chair across from you.

You don’t bother with a response. In fact, you wished that he’d go away. Seeing Tony lately just reminded you more of the life you were sure you wouldn’t have. You were certain you made all the wrong choices, took all the wrong paths.

“Cassian?” he leans forward, forcing his face into your point of view. “Kinda' freaking me out here.”

“You ever think about what your life would be like if you weren’t,” you trail off for a moment, slurring slightly. “I don’t know—you?”

He laughs and it feels infectious, closing your eyes to hopefully shut up the twist in your stomach.

“Me, specifically? Who knows? Maybe I’d be a pilot, or own a hotdog stand.” he goes silent at your lack of reaction to his joke, resting his chin against his hands.

“Why, thinking about faking your death and adopting a new identity?”

The red liquid in your glass coats your dry throat. You’d love to start over. Go back and see what the other paths held. Then, the deep pit of your stomach turns, remembering how different and worthwhile working for Stark made you feel.

“What if I did everything wrong?” you ask quietly.

If you did, a small part of the anxiety in your gut assures you that it was worth it to find your way to him.

“Define ‘wrong’.”

“Not what I imagined, I guess”

To help someone who wanted to do so much to help the world.

“Well, what do you want from life?”

You go silent again. “I don’t know.”

TWO WEEKS LATER

With nothing to prove you,

and if I should lose you

—It won't be in vain.

On the last day at the cabin, you feel a genuine sense of sadness at the thought of leaving.

Fourteen days with no reminder of the outside world had you the most relaxed in years. Bliss was all you felt waking up each morning to no phone calls, no emergencies, and no meetings. You forgot what it was like to just exist, to not have your thoughts bogged down by deadlines. You had even forgotten the benefits of good company. The demanding nature of your job meant little social life, and you didn’t realize until nearly two days in that you had been craving it. What surprised you more was that you received that good company in the form of your boss. Tony seemed to go out of his way to fill any voids of silence with quips and self-deprecating jokes to make you laugh. Clearly to spare himself the awkwardness of your dissatisfaction.

Nothing changed about personality, but removing the dark shadow of responsibility made him visibly less wound up. It must have done the same for you, because you spent most of these last two weeks laughing (or catching up on well-needed sleep). You tried to avoid him lately, not wanting to add fuel to the fire you could feel growing for him. Opting for weeks of solitude with him was possibly not the wisest route.

Retroactively, if you had all this sudden free time at home alone, you probably would’ve gone a little crazy.

You must be wearing your solace on your face, because that night, during dinner, Stark asks if something is wrong.

“Is it a bad thing if I don't want to go back to New York?” you chuckle at your own absurdity, scraping the last bits of food into the trash.

“Is it worse if I agree?” he smiles, looking up from his own plate.

“Not excited to go back to being an Avenger?” you ask honestly, sitting back down at the kitchen table, next to him.

“Ha, excited’s the wrong word.” he sits back in his chair, letting out a sigh. “You’re not jumping to get back out there either.”

You give an agreeing nod, resting your head in your hands when you start mentally going through all the tasks waiting for you tomorrow.

“You don’t have to go back like I do. You can get away from all this.”

When you look up, Tony’s eyes are glued to the floor.

“You know, you can just fire me if it’s that much of a bother to you.” you say sharply.

Truthfully, it was starting to come off as a subtle hint to leave rather than concern. It muddied whatever imaginary connection you maybe thought you’d fostered over these last few weeks. All the little touches and extra concern bounced around in the back of your head like a live grenade. You didn’t know how much of it was aimed towards you, or just his charismatic nature. Maybe there was never any charisma, and he was the same as any other CEO.

“Cassie, that’s the last thing I want.” he says, like he’s offended, and you want to laugh at the audacity.

“Could’ve fooled me.” you retort, standing to exit the kitchen.

Tony intercepts you at the doorway, however, clearly scrambling for words to ease the newly-created tension. All it really does is annoy you more, seeing those brown eyes pleading silently. Either way, you can’t get past.

“I—This is too much for anyone to handle. I can barely handle it and that’s because you do so much behind-the-scenes for me. A lot of people have reached their wits end with me and I don’t want that with you.”

It sounds painful for him to say, and despite his soft tone, it’s the most serious you’ve ever heard him be.

“I think you’re worried a bit too—”

“I’d rather not be the reason you spend weeks in bed, okay?”

Frozen in the doorway, your anger still boils. It felt like the thing you were most ashamed about being thrown in your face. You want to go back to that conference room and never tell him a thing. It’d save you the confusion, save you from all the mixed signals. He couldn’t mean it. You remember the way he reluctantly submitted to Pepper and hired you. Tony didn’t care, he never wanted you here in the first place. You felt stupid for thinking anything else.

"Maybe you should worry about yourself, Stark. I've been doing just fine before you decided to make my job your business."

Tony's jaw clenches, and a shaky hand through his hair, his frustration palpable.

“My business is your job, can’t you see I’m trying to be supportive?”

You almost start to regret your words, but you can’t stand the way he looks at you like some fragile thing.

For the fifth time, you're hot under his gaze, but it does nothing besides flare your anger more.

“I don’t need your support, stop acting like you have any idea what’s best for me.” you snap, taking a step closer.

To your surprise, Tony closes the remaining distance, and you have to look up to maintain your glare. Tony's expression shifts from concern to frustration, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Clearly, you don’t even know what’s best for you. Forgive me for giving a damn.” he scoffs.

You roll your eyes, deciding to just put an end to this conversation. In his frustration, Tony left a wide enough gap for you to try and snake through. Your heated exit must’ve been obvious, because he steps back to keep you in front of him.

“Seriously?” your fists clench at your sides, heat spreading up your arms to your cheeks.

“Why are you still here?” he softens a bit, but not entirely folding his arms over his chest.

It’s not enough though— your irritation is unchanging even under his tender gaze. It was easier to stay angry and pretend like he wasn’t the only thing keeping you. To not admit that you didn’t want to abandon him.

“Why’d you bring me here?” you retort through gritted teeth, motioning at the logged walls around you.

“Damn it, I thought it’d help, Cassie!”

The severity of his words leaves you speechless. You never heard him really raise his voice, let alone come close to yelling.

“But, clearly, I shouldn’t have bothered.” Tony moves from the doorway, taking fast steps past you towards the main door before you can say anything.

In an effort to keep him from storming out, you reach out for his arm as he brushes by. Instantly, he pulls away as if you're made of open flames. You try to show the hurt on your face, but now that your anger has started to dissipate, you notice a similar transformation in Tony. To your benefit, though, it keeps his feet firmly planted.

“I’m not some broken person you need to protect.” you admit, avoiding the potential anger still in his eyes.

“Wow, really? Didn’t know.”

Always with the jokes and sarcasm. You lift your head to Tony’s expectant gaze, causing you to sigh heavily.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he states dryly, leaning back against the kitchen table. “Why are you still here?”

“You keep assuming I hate my life.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes, rather dramatically in your opinion.

“Could’ve fooled me.” he responds, mocking your words from earlier. “You avoid me like the plague lately, and I don’t know how you expect me to just see you unhappy and say nothing”

“That has nothing to do with work-”

“Then what is it?”

There’s something else in his eyes, something like the sparkle you saw all those months ago.

You look at him with pleading eyes of your own. A sense of entrapment overwhelms you, stuck with the choice between potentially ruining everything or, well, still potentially ruining everything. You wish he really could just read your mind and understand. Understand that you didn’t want to leave him, that you were avoiding him to protect your own, admittedly fragile, heart.

"Can't you just accept that I don't want to leave?" you manage, your voice barely louder than a pin drop.

Your heart flutters as he steps closer, though it shouldn't surprise you; he's never been one to respect personal space, and an argument wouldn't change that.

"No, I need to hear you say it," his tone is low, almost taunting, and his unyielding gaze sends another wave of fluttering through you.

"I don't want to leave you."

In the next second, Tony's lips crash against yours, pinning your back to the wall with a heavy thud. You don’t notice, the world fading with the taste of vanilla on your tongue and the scratch of his beard on your chin. Your thoughts become a blur as Tony's teeth graze your lips, and his hands squeeze your waist, pulling you closer, the arc reactor pressing into your skin.

When the kiss ends, you're both left panting, yet he still clings to you, gripping your waist like he’s scared you’re going to run away.

“I told you- the last thing I want is for you to leave.” he says sternly, voice still low. You can’t see his face, buried in the crook of your neck, but the heavy breath on your skin makes you lightheaded.

“Tony-”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s wrong to think I know what’s best for you. I just want you to be happy.”

“I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“I care about you too much for that, Cassie.”

“I’m your assistant, Tony.”

Tony gently cups a hand under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his, his thumb caressing your cheek. He studies your face intently, searching for any signs that he should stop while he's ahead. You stopped counting how often he leaves you a mess with his eyes, and try your best not to stare at his swollen lips.

“Then tell me you don’t feel the same.” he whispers.

A beat of silence passes, the fire crackling in the next room uninterrupted.

“I…can’t.” you answer hesitantly.

The confession hangs heavy in the cabin’s stagnant air. Your mind racing a thousand miles per hour, waiting for the dream to end.

“What are you so afraid of?”

“Doing this wrong, ruining everything.” Your eyes squeeze shut from embarrassment.

Tony laughs like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said, before kissing you again. It’s soft and slower than before, calloused hands still cupping your face.

“I think you’re the one who worries too much. When has anything bad happened to you when you’re with me?” Tony suggests, grinning, his eyes filled with warmth.

You want to mention an office party a few months ago, where a drunk attendee threw up on your shoes, but you let him make his point.

“Let me do the worrying for a bit, sound good?”

THREE WEEKS LATER

You felt like you traded seasons getting back to New York at the start of spring. You hadn’t gone home, instead staying in the tower at Tony’s request. You didn’t mind it at all, being surrounded with more comfort than you could ask for.

Tony made it his personal mission to keep you away from all things work related, despite how many times you told him you enjoyed helping him. One small problem being that he left for a mission a few days ago, and you haven’t got the faintest clue where he was or when he was returning. The first day, you relished in a bit of solitude, reading books that sat on your shelf the last two years untouched or catching up with friends that you lost touch with. To your relief, most understood your reason for disconnecting, and the books were captivating. Now, however, it was day three, and you were starting to do the one thing he asked you not to— worry.

Just as the rain starts to splatter the tall windows of his penthouse, you’re considering reaching out to Fury or Hill to make sure he’s at least still breathing. The only thing that stops you is the ding! of the elevator, turning your nerves back down to zero.

When you meet him at the door, a wide smile breaks out on his face—surprised you’re still there.

“How was it?” you ask, as Tony drops his bag and moves towards you. You feel slightly awkward in this new territory with him, shifting your weight anxiously.

“We’re getting closer to the scepter. Hydra’s pulling out all the stops these days.”

As Tony steps into the light, a deep freshly-stitched cut under his right eye comes into view. Before you can say anything about the cut, you notice the large bandage on his arm, and a matching bruise crawling up his shoulder.

“What the hell happened?”

Tony slowly peels off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch behind you. “Oh, this? This is nothing, you should see the other guy.” he says with a flashy grin.

You’re busy scanning for more injuries, eyes raking for more bandages and stitches. Tony doesn’t let you continue for long though, taking your hands in his.

“What’d I tell you about worrying?” he teases, stroking your hair and planting a quick kiss on your lips.

You give an annoyed sigh, wishing he didn’t irritate and charm you in the same breath so much.

“I think it’s natural to worry when you’re bleeding.” you gruff, letting Tony pull you into a tight embrace.

“Then I’m not doing my job, am I?” You don’t protest when his hands roam over your body, placing light kisses against your neck. “Let me take your mind off things.”

The light kisses on your neck turn into heavy bites, leaving marks along your collarbones. He creates his own path along your skin, sighing softly as his mouth finds every inch of skin your pajamas didn’t cover. You’re a panting mess as he trails down your body, twisting a hand into his messy locks.

When he kneels before you, you feel unsteady on your feet. You wish you could say you two had gone this far already, but Tony considered himself a self-proclaimed gentleman and insisted you wait. It seems three days away from you was enough for the chivalry to fly out of the window.

He stops for a moment, fingers hooked in your shorts, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the inside of your trembling thigh.

“Cassian?”

“Mhm?” You mumble, shutting your eyes. Nerves and anticipation mix terribly in your stomach, making you unable to process the desire on his face. You feel the fabric of your shorts slide down your legs with your panties. The cool air doesn’t help you any, rendering your skin sensitive and Tony’s hand feel like a furnace.

“Relax, doll.”

You suck in a breath as his lips wrap around your clit, body stilling— the hand in his hair tightening. Weeks of Tony’s insistent waiting had you thinking your first time with him would be slower- you were ill-prepared for the way he runs through your folds with absolute filth. He moans into you, keeping a tight hold on your thighs to hold you close.

He’s quick—grazing teeth against your clit as his tongue laps at your entrance— just to drag the tip of his tongue against your length and return your clit to start the cycle all over again. You feel the wetness coating the inside of your thighs, saturing his scratchy stubble on your skin.

You bring your free hand to the back of the couch as he continues, sighing into your core and sending shockwaves up your spine. You try to maintain some type of balance, legs growing shaky again in pleasure rather than anxiety for a change.

“Tony, god, that’s-” You’re cut off by your own moan when you feel Tony insert a finger into your soaking cunt, rocking slowly as his mouth finds its way back to your clit.

He pulls away a moment, letting his thumb keep the pressure against your sensitive bud. Your head tilts back, nails digging into the leather behind you. Out of your view, Tony wears a smug grin, pleased to see you taking his directive to heart. The middle of the living room might not have been his first choice, but it’s well worth it. Besides the fact you taste like heaven, it’s worth hearing every sound escape your lips.

Getting caught up in that, however, caused him to loosen the grip on your thighs. When his fingers curve inside you, your hips jerk against him. The calloused fingers tighten on your legs, to your slight dismay.

“Easy, doll, I got you.” he mumbles, returning his focus to eliciting more intoxicating moans from you.

Tony renders you a complete mess sooner than you’d like to admit, gasping above him as the warmth in your core grows overwhelming. If you told yourself a year ago that your boss would have you panting and begging, you wouldn’t believe it. Regardless of belief, his tongue pulls plea after plea from you. Your stomach feels painfully coiled- mind absorbed with the wet, filthy sound of Tony’s mouth on your cunt.

With another curve of his finger, you sent over the edge—crying out Tony’s name like a prayer and abandoning the hand tangled in his hair to hold yourself up. Tony lets you ride out your orgasm against his fingers, kissing the damp skin between your legs and muttering soft praises.

It’s not until you sense him standing again in front of you that you open your eyes. You immediately want to take it back when you see the shit-eating grin covering his shiny face. The sight sends a new wave of desire through you, staring at his mouth with your lips parted, panting softly. Did he have to look so good constantly?

“As cute as you are when you’re worried, I think I prefer this look on you.”

#tony stark x reader #tony stark fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #tony stark smut #marvel fanfiction #tony stark #tony stark x you #seikkoiwrites

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haileybeehappy · 1 year

Text

Award Winner

Authors note :This fic was inspired by the lines "It was always you," but they didn't make their way into the fic. Oops. But this is the longest fic I've ever written. So I hope y'all like it :D

Summary : New to the music industry you make fast friends with global super star musician Harry Styles and create a close bond. Leaving you wanting more. Unsure of how he feels for you.

Word Count : 4.6K

Warnings : Fluff, Fluff, Fluff, Simp Harry if we're being honest, drug use well mention I guess, Drinking, slight angst if you squint, self concious reader, I think that's it.

Waiting in line to get onto the red carpet is always the most nerve wracking part of the night. The anxiety and pressure built to the top. Heart beating a mile a minute and trying not to let the worry show on your face. The second you step onto the carpet the cameras snap at lightning speed. Flashes blinding you as frenzied hungry photographers yell at you to 'look at me look at me!' 'give me a smile honey!' 'over here over here' coming from all directions. A smile plastered across your face and the mantra of 'don't fall, don't fall, don't fall,' repeating over and over in your head. A small voice eating at you telling you that you're not supposed to be here. You're not good enough to be here. There's someone out there that deserves to be here more.

The walk down the corridor of cameras is done in a flash but feels like hours all at the same time. Taking in a deep breath as you make your way through a back passage way to get to the stairs of the event. Heels clicking with the roars of the crowd creating a white noise. Your hands wringing in front of you. Pulling and twisting your fingers as you get closer to the roars of the people. Opening the doors you are thrusted into the theatre of an award shows. Shown to your seat by a small woman wearing a headset. She motions to your place card and you sit. Looking at the cards sat on wither side of you. A unknown name on your right and the lovely Harry Styles on your left. The table empty besides yourself with the other tables around you filling slowly. You sip at your glass of water before the seat next to you is filled. You look over at your friend and give a smile.

"Harry!" You smile and he raises arms to hug you. His long arms wrap around you and you find calmness in his embrace. The pressure of his hold grounding you and relaxing your heartrate for the seconds of the hug. He pulls away, his hands not leaving your arms. Dancing down to your elbow and hold your forearms in his grasp.

"I am so grateful I am sitting next to you," His smile wide an his hands clammy. "I don't think I could make it if I didn't have my drinking buddy," he chuckles. You throw your head back in a laugh. Remembering your last encounter at a Met Gala after party hiding in a corner taking shots and laughing all night. His hands touching and grabbing at you in the way he does all his friends. A very touchy drunk he is.

"Let's maybe not drink that much in front of the cameras tonight," you wink at him. "We can save that for the after parties," He squeezes his hands and releases his hold on you.

"Yes of course," he sits back in his chair. "How was the carpet?" he asks. You shrug.

"It was okay I guess," your hands finding each other and twisting your rings. "Was over in a flash but seemed to last an eternity," his hands come to cover yours. Grasping your fingers in his.

"I get it honey," he nods. "I think over the years it's just become part of the job but I still get this voice in my head that calls me a dumbass and tells me all sorts of names," he smiles shyly.

"Yeah, kinda like that. I just feel like I'm not supposed to be here," the two of you sit in silence before someone sits next to you and you quickly pull your hands from him.

"Hi," they speak quietly to you as an artist you recognize sits next to you, along with someone you assume is their date. You give the both of them a wave. As the table settles in you direct your eyes to the stage. As the show progresses and awards are given you and Harry share small conversations exchanged. Mostly about the winners and the show itself. As the category for "Album of the Year," Comes up your eyes lock on Harrys. One of the many awards that he has been nominated for and the last one left for him to win. His hand quickly grasps yours and squeezes your fingers in his. His rings cold against your skin.

"You got this," you whisper. "Four for four right?" you smile at him. His face is displayed across the screen as you wait for the announcement to be made. His face settled into a frown, eyebrows furrowed in anticipation.

"Harry Styles!" The announcer yells. The crowd uproars and you stand to your feet. Pulling him up to stand along with you.

"I told you!" you scream. His arms wrap around you again. "I knew it." you whisper to him as his head settles into your neck. He pulls back from you.

"I am so glad I get to have you here with me here for this," The smile on his face filling your heart. The same smile displayed on your face. To the point where your face hurts. He turns to walk to the stage. Holding your hand out with him as he walks away. He pulls you back quickly leaving a kiss on your cheek before he makes his way to the stage. shaking hands and giving hug on his route to the podium.

"Thank you so so much," is what he starts with. Standing behind the mic with the award in his hands. "Thank you to everyone here who made this possible. To all of you working so hard to make this show run and make this evening possible. Thank you to my amazing team who helps me create beautiful art. And a wonderful thank you to my peers and amazing nominees who deserve this award as much as I do. And most of all thank you to my amazing, wonderful and absolutely stunning fans who make living my life possible. Thank you Thank you Thank you," He raises the award above his head and the crowd screams as he thrusts the gold encrusted gramophone into the air.

He waltzes his way back to stage with a closed smile on his face. The trophy is taken from him before it makes it to the table to be engraves and places with his others. He slots himself next to you.

"Bloody hell," He sighs. "I can't believe that just happened," the smile still on his face.

"I can," you say smugly. "You deserve it," he grabs your hand and the two of you sit like that for the rest of the show.

As the night concludes you and Harry make your way through the waves of people. His hands not leaving your body in fear of losing you in the crowd. His fingers entwined in yours or his hand placed on the small of your back while he guides you towards the cars. Stopping occasionally to small talk and except congratulations from others.

Your driver comes into view.

"I'll see you at Abbeys?" you ask as you drift towards your driver. Referring to the club that one of the many After parties will be.

"Of course love," he winks and turns to find his own car. Your driver, Philip, opens your door and you step in. Pulling your dress in behind you.

"Thank you," you voice to the man before he closes the door. The worlds instantly becoming quieter. Still hearing the hum of the screams outside the black suburban. The roars amplified again as Philip gets into the car and closes the door behind himself.

“To the hotel?” He asks.

“Yes. Outfit change then to Abbeys,” you smile at him.

“Sounds like a plan,” he shifts the car into drive and you wined through the streets to get to the hotel. Pulling up to the hotel you hop out of the car and are ushered up to your room by your manager and friend Raini.

“Okay so we have a few options for you. I know you liked the green dress but my in at Gucci found a beautiful floor length back sheer dress that I think would suit you so well?” She states but comes out as a question.

“No harm in trying it on,” you shrug. The two of you get on the elevator.

“Awesome,” she nods. Then there’s a lil of silence. “So Harry?” She asks. You look at her curiously.

“What about Harry?” You question back.

“When did you two get close?” She has a smug but curious look on her face.

“The after party for The Met,” you shrug. “We talk a. It here and there but nothing crazy,”

“Nothing crazy,” she laughs. “You two were making eyes at each other all night and were constantly holding hands and shit!”

“Whatever we were not,” you smile as the elevator rings and you step off at your floor. Walking quickly to your room where your trusted hair and makeup artist was waiting to give you a whole new look.

“You so were!” Raini yells after you. You shake your head. A smile still on your lips. As you open the door your makeup artist screams your name.

“You did not tell me that you and Harry were an item!” You roll your eyes and turn around. Glaring at Raini. She holds her hands up defensively.

“I didn’t say a thing she did that all on her own,” you turn back to Daisy.

“What?” She asks. Perplexed.

“We are not a thing. He’s just my friend,” she gives you a look as you spin around so she can unzip you from your gown.

“Pretty touchy for just friends,”

“Well we are just friends so whatever,” you respond as the dress drops off you. You step out of it and walk to the dresses in their bags hung up on the roll away hanger. You pull the black dress out and unzip the bag. Raini helps you get it on zipping you into the gown. The fabric digging into your sides. Wrapping into your ribcage and pushing the air out of your lungs. The sleeves are itchy and you can just FEEL it all over your body. It’s a beautiful dress but you can’t breathe.

“I don’t think so Raini,” you wheeze out pulling at the cups of the dress. “I know beauty is pain but I can’t be beautiful passed out,” you laugh. She nods.

“It’s definitely not our usual style,” she clicks her tongue. “Let’s try the red and then we can do the green if you don’t like the red okay?” She speaks quickly as she unzips you and moves to get the red dress. You drape the dress across the hotel room bed when there’s a knock at the door. You and Raini look at each other. “You expecting someone?” She asks and you shake your head. She moves to the door and you grab the red dress from her and slip into it and Daisy comes behind you to tie you into the corset back dress.

You hear Raini and a man exchanging words before she comes back into the main part of the room holding a HUGE bouquet. Roses and babies breath exploding out of a large crystal vase. Your jaw drops. You reach out and pluck the card tucked into the flowers. You read aloud.

“For the most beautiful woman at the Grammies deserves a beautiful bouquet,” no name. You look up at Raini and she shrugs.

“The guy who delivered them said he doesn’t know who sent them,” you flip the card over. There’s no name anywhere. You flip it back and forth a few times willing a name to show up.

“It’s not gonna change,” Raini laughs. Daisy chuckles with her. You drop the card down into the bed.

“What the fuck?” Is all you say.

“I don’t know man,” Raini starts. “I think the red looks good though!” She fluffs the ends of the short dress out.

“I like it a lot too!” You sigh as you twirl and the ends fluff out. “I think this is it!” You nod. Daisy guides you to the chair. She strips you of your heavy makeup and applies a light Smokey eye to your lids. High lights your cheeks and adds lots of blush. Just how you like it. She paints your lips a pinky red and finishes with falsies. You look refreshed. Raini’s phone rings and you pop out of the chair.

“Ready she asks?” You nod grabbing your phone off the desk and shoving into the small studded black clutch and follow her out the door.

You arrive at the party. Still in the back of the car. Waiting for Philip to open the door for you. As you get out you thank him. Your security is not far behind you as you walk along the street. The occasional paparazzi and fans here and there as you make your way to the club. The entrance is packed with press and cameras. You walk into the barricaded lines. Weaving through people as you work your way closer to the door. Cameras flashing and people screaming. You wave at the flood of people and are barely catching what they’re screaming at you.

“Are you and Harry together?”

“How long have you been with Harry?”

“Is your next album about Harry?”

“Is Love on the Loose about Harry?” They scream in reference to your most recent single. You ignore the questions but your heart is racing. Did everyone think you were with him? That was your first public sighting together. Why would it be jumped all the way to 100 so fast? You glide your way through the clumps of people and straight to the bar. You order a very strong drink and try to look for familiar faces in the crowd but you don't see anyone you know well enough to approach.

You sip at your drink. Standing in a rather empty area of the club. Being relatively new to the music industry you don't know what to do or how to act among the A list musicians. People you grew up admiring and looking up to. So you sit and watch. You can then hear the screams and yelling of the fans and people outside over the pounding of the music. You can see the entrance as the man who caused such an earth shaking reaction from the people on the other side of the walls comes into the building. Of course it's Harry. You doubt they asked him about you because he's a man so he doesn't get tied down to questions as shallow as 'who are you dating and why he's still single.' You watches as he is stopped by troves of people shaking his hands and patting him on the back. His eyes scan the crowd jumping from person to person. Looking for someone or something. You settle back into the bar and find a seat on a tall stool. You turn to the sound of your name and see a recognizable face.

"Charlie!" you exclaim as you reach out to the man. His arms wrap around your back in a tight hug. He pulls back. He hops onto the stool next to you and you fall into nice conversation with the one and only Charlie Puth. The only other musician outside of your team that you have had the pleasure to work with.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here!" he yells. Trying to be heard over the bass pulsing through your bodies.

"I know! I usually stick to the Beverley Hills house parties but I thought this could be kinda fun to," You shrug. You take a long drink of your beverage while be talks.

"I don't usually come to these things! I like to go home and chill with a box of pizza after those shows," he shrugs. "But I figured I should have a bit of human interaction before I lock myself in my studio for a bit. Gotta make those deadlines," you smile at him as he talks.

"I get that, My manager likes to make sure I get seen. Need a little more exposure," you explain as you stir the ice cubes in your drink around. He nods along. "Especially with my next album coming out soon,"

"Yes!" he yells and smacks his hand down on the bar. "Are you gonna give me a sneak peak of that or do I have to wait with everyone else?" he smirks. His scarred eyebrow raised questioningly. You shake your head with a shy smile.

"You can come by the studio anytime. I always need another listening ear to help me out," the smile on his face gets bigger.

"I will count you to that," He then finally orders a drink and raises it to toast. "To you," he taps it against yours. "I have to go find some people but I'll see you around," he gives you a quick side hug and disappears into the sea of people.

"See you," you yell out to him and turn back to the bar. As you finish off your drink a shot glass full of an amber liquid is placed in front of you. You look to your right where the hand that placed the glass in front of you. Attached to that hand is Harry.

"Hey drinking buddy," He smiles. Lifting the shot up and gesturing for him to grab yours. The smile on your face so big you can already feel the ache in your cheeks.

"Hey four time Grammy winner," you greet him and slam the shot back. He drops himself into the stool next to you.

"Glad I found you. I was beginning to think you ditched me," he laughs. You respond with a shake of your head.

"I could never!" You play with the now empty shot glass in your hands. rolling it on its sides and spinning it around. He gestures to the bar tender for two more and looks at you. His cheeks rosy and pupils wide.

"Are you high Styles?" you ask with a laugh. His eyebrows shoot up he brings his finger to his lips in a shushing motion, and the two of you burst into a fit of laughter. You laugh with him until your stomach hurts. The alcohol in your system making the situation far funnier than it really is. As two more shots are placed in front of you Harry turns to grab one and your knees end up bumping. He looks down at your legs before he adjusts himself so your legs are slotted between his. The shimmery maroon suit almost the same color as your dress.

"We almost match," he looks at you proud.

"Almost," you laugh. He pushed your shot towards you and swallows his down quickly and you follow suit. "I think that's a good start," you laugh slamming the glass down onto the bar.

"So how was your first Grammys award show?" he asks. Squeezing your legs between his. Your body flushes at the simple contact.

"I had a lot of fun. It was amazing to see you wipe the floor!" he just smiles in response. Shaking his head shyly. "Seriously Harry that was amazing, I am so happy that I was there to experience it with you," you reach out to him and grab his hand from where it was laying in his lap. His hands fidgeting with his rings.

"Thank you," your name leaves his mouth with a sigh. "I really am happy that you were there with me. And Hey!" he looks at you with wide eyes. "Next year it will be you," he says with a mischief laugh.

"Whatever," you say jokingly and throw his hands back into his lap.

"No seriously. You're the next big thing. You're gonna fly past me and become the worlds biggest star. I just know it," His fingers finding your knee and rubbing back and forth comfortingly. You let out a shaky breath at the contact. His skin warm against your own.

"I don't think so Harry but I'm thankful. That you think I could do that," you reach out to his leg and run your finger along the scratchy fabric of his sparkling suit in the same pattern he is yours. Your heart is racing a mile a minute. Your breath is shallow and you can't seem to focus.

"I believe it," He whispers your name. "I know it, okay," he nods. He moves his hands up and grasps your chin between his thumb and index finger. Your heart skips. Then all you can hear is the blood pumping through your veins. "I can see it. In you. In your eyes. I can hear it. In your music. You are amazing," his eyes not leaving yours for a second. You blink slowly and tell yourself to breath. You open your mouth to talk but nothing comes out. You don't know what to say. Your brain shut off. "I may be drunk," your heart stops. "But everything I said is completely true," he smiles. Your finger begins to draw shapes on his leg again.

"I really appreciate you Harry," is all you can get out.

"I mean it yea?" you nod. "I really do," he orders you more drinks and the two of you make it further back into the corner where the DJ booth and stage are. He had convinced you to do karaoke with him. Were they doing karaoke? No, No they were not.

"Harry how are we going to do karaoke when that's not an option they have ever had!" you yell at the back of his head as you wined through the people. His hand was grasping yours as you trailed behind him.

"Charm love!" He says as you approach the stage. "Good old British charm he says as he looks down at you. He takes a step or two up the stairs and begins to talk to the DJ. You can't quite hear what they're saying, but they are both smiling genuinely. After a few minutes they're eyes shoot down to you.

Harry looks steps up to the DJ booth and waves down the DJ.

"Hey man I love what you're doing up here!" he practically screams. "Really amazing!" The DJ nods along with his words.

"Thank you man! Thanks a lot!" He reaches over to shake Harrys hand. "I'm Jordan nice to meet you!"

"Harry pleased to meet you," he emphasizes the last word. He looks down at you. "You see that beautiful woman down there in that stunning red dress," he motions down to you. The DJ looks at you with a smile and nods.

"Yes sir," He nods at you.

"I would really love to serenade her," he laughs jokingly. "And I was wondering if you could help me out with that?" the DJ smiles even harder and nods.

"I'm sure I can work something out," he says as he reaches down and grabs a mic from the stand. Handing it over to Harry. Harry looks back at you and raises his eyebrows at you. Your jaw drops. "You know what you wanna sing man?" He asks Harry nods his head. Telling the DJ and dropping down to the floor with you.

His smile the biggest you've ever seen.

"You did it!" You exclaim. He then hands a mic to you. Raising the two mics as the music lulls. The DJ begins.

"For your listening pleasure for one night and one night only," he announces your name. "And Harry Styles!" You listen patiently. familiar melody plays over head. A smile bursts across your face. His eyes meet yours and he brings the mic up to his face.

"Don't go breaking my heart," Harrys voice floods the speakers. Reaching out grab your hand.

"I couldn't if I tried," you sing back at him. Swaying with him as he dances.

"Oh honey if I get restless," He raises your intertwined hands and spins you around.

"Baby you're not that kind," You flare out arms stretched.

"Don't go breaking my heart," The smile he has painted on his lips in enough to erupt a fire in your stomach.

"You take the weight off of me," you two continue dancing around each other.

"Oh honey when you knock on my door," He comes up closer to you.

"Ooh, I gave you my key," he smiles as he gets up in your face. You scrunch your nose and give him a joking glare. Still smiling. The night goes swimmingly. You sing quite a few more songs and drink a lot more drinks. Before the two of you find yourself heading out to your cars. Harry guiding you to your car. He motions for Philip to stay in the car while he opens your door for you. You try climb in without falling and succeed landing on the seat with a huff.

"Did you get my flowers?" He asks as you turn to him. Your breath halts in your throat.

"The flowers?" you asked. Shocked.

"Yeah, the roses?"

"Yeah I got the roses," He leans over and grabs the seat belts and moves to buckle you in. He smells of vanilla and alcohol. Maybe some weed too. "I hope they were good. I know you'd like something more colorful but I feel roses are more traditional," he shrugs as he drops himself down onto his feet again.

"I think they were perfect," Your cheeks hurt because of the permanent smile attached to your face. "You didn't leave your name?" you question him.

"I forgot," he laughs and steps back. Hand attaching to the door. "I had an amazing night tonight. It was, the best night I have had in a long time," You nod in agreement.

"Me too," your hands are playing with the latch on your clutch. "I think that we should do something like this sometime," you look up at him. He is shuffling his feet on the ground.

"I would like that," he says meekly. "And I know this wasn't technically a date but I'd really like to kiss you he says quietly as he steps closer to you. You widen your eyes and slowly nod your head. He smiles. "I wanna hear you say it please," he's so close you can feel his breath on your face. Fanning across your lips.

"I would like it very much if you would kiss me," you whisper back. Your voice almost inaudible. As the word kiss leaves your mouth he attaches his lips to yours. You reach out to grab him and you feel the seatbelt hold you back. His hands find your face and he pushes you back against the seat. You lose count of the seconds your bodies are meshed together. He pulls back and looks at you with a smile. His thumb moving to graze your lips.

"Have a good night Ms." he lets your last name fall off his lips. "I hope to see you soon yeah?" he grabs the door and starts to close it.

"Definitely," the door closes and you roll down the window. He waves at you as Philip pulls out of the parking by the street. You wave your hand at him an his comes up to the same.

"Soon!" he yells as you pull away.

"Yes!" you shout back. Closing up the window you look up at Philip.

"Home Ms?" He asks. A smirk on his face.

"Yes Philip. Home," you smile at him.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut fanfic #harry styles angst #simp harry #first kiss

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papermatisse · 1 year

Text

Into the Woods || Y.HS

† genre: horror, fantasy

† word count: 3.6k

† warnings: death mentions, gaslighting/tricks, abduction, faes

† synopsis: her village had always maintained the peace through fire-and-brimstone fear tactics. though who could've known that old children's fable had some truth to it...

† (a/n): second installment to my spooktober anthology! if you haven't already, do check out biaswreckingfics thrills and chills vent, in particular her fae one which helped me gain inspiration for this one!

† taglist: @scuzmunkie @hipsdofangirl @hydroyaksha

anthology | main masterlist

There had been rumors of the woods bordering the village. Of a great evil which lingered within its brush. Darkness somehow contained in the dense growth of trees that surrounded her people. That ages ago, children would go missing in the night, never to be heard from again. Their ghostly giggles seemed to resonate from the tangle of bark and leaves, luring in unaware or gullible children to their doom.

At least that's what was told to (y/n) and the rest of the children as they grew up. By the time she became a teenager, she had understood the intention of such tales. To deter children from wandering too close to the woods and its inhabitants: wolves, bears, perhaps even a dedicated rabid bunny. All dangers which lurked in their environment, inevitable in their existence, and so the only measure they could take was preventative. Ensure children were within the watchful peripheral of an adult, and therefore safe from nature and its cruelty.

Perhaps that's why she deemed it acceptable to gather the berries by the edge of the woods. It was all just a tall tale to ward off children either way. She was a grown adult now. Fully capable of fending for herself and accepting the consequences of her actions—although she made note to be quick in her foraging.

Pick the berries. Get out. Pick the berries. Get out.

Her mantra cycles listlessly through her head, becoming white noise as she filled her basket with the succulent delicacies she'd later use in her baking. The sun still beamed overhead, indicating the plentiful amount of time she had left of the day to be able to prepare some treats for her siblings.

As if by a grand coincidence, a familiar sound seemed to waltz through the air, greeting her ears with its comforting yet unexpected lilt.

"Nell?" (y/n) called out habitually, whirling around at the sound of her sister's familiar voice. Nothing. No one. The village was a fair distance away, with its usual hustle and bustle a mere muted drone to fill the otherwise still atmosphere. Definitely not close enough for her sister's voice to carry this far.

She waited another moment, eyes scanning the fields as if awaiting for Eleanor to pounce forth and startle her. Yet she was met with silence once more.

Perhaps it was her imagination. Her anxieties from being so near the woods manifesting itself in peculiar forms. Thus, she proceeded with her picking, though in an admittedly rushed manner.

Then, it happened again. Another round of giggles. This time, (y/n) shot to her feet, turning to stare out and await her sister's arrival.

"Nellie," (y/n) attempted to announce, eyes roving over the tall grass. "You know you shouldn't be out here. Mother will be displeased."

Silence.

The first time, she was able to chalk it up to mere paranoia. Though this time, it sounded almost too real to write it off as anything but her mischievous sister mucking about as per usual. However, she's never wandered out this far before in her jests.

Just as (y/n) was about to call her sister's name again, the giggle sounded forth once more. This time, right behind her.

(y/n) spun about, stumbling on her footing as she gasped at the sudden intrusion. Though when she turned, expecting to be greeted with her sister's conniving grin, she was met by none other than the woods, a mere foot away from her.

Memories of that accursed folktale came barreling to the forefront of her mind, twisting her stomach into knots as she stepped away from the trees. Even in the broad daylight, the darkness seemed all encompassing, swallowing anything and everything it seemed to get into its grasp. It was foreboding, an omen that held not even the slightest ounce of allure to (y/n), who continued to retreat from its beckoning.

"(y/n)." The hushed whisper of Eleanor's voice greeted her once more, this time certainly coming from within the woods. Her sister's exact voice. A perfect replica of it.

Again, (y/n) backed away, breath shaky as her shoulders trembled with fear. Any attempt to spot Eleanor peeking behind the trees proved fruitless due to that daunting abyss of black that consumed the woods as a whole.

"Where are you going?" The voice spoke again, a curious lilt in its tone, almost mocking in a way. (y/n) said nothing, steps widening as she kept her eyes trained on the trees.

Another giggle resounded. Gone was its joking undertones, almost entirely alien to the Eleanor she knew.

"You don't want to play?" It was a convoluted ploy, twisting her sister's words until it was a different person entirely. Another deeper voice seemed to intermingle with that of Eleanor's, overlapping in perfect syncrasy with one another.

Another gasp escaped her lips as the gravity of the situation began to truly settle in. The truth of it all dismantling every aspect of her belief system until nothing was left, uprooting her ideology until she questioned everything she once thought true.

Once the giggling began to fade away with distance, (y/n) finally turned around, making a run for the village, not daring to look back for even a moment.

Dinner was as rambunctious as it could be with a family of their caliber. Two young boys laughing and playing with their food, a father who seemed more than willing to partake in their shenanigans, a mother busy nursing the baby in her grasp, and the two eldest daughters off to the side. Eleanor laughed along with the bunch, presumably unbeknownst to her sister's forlorn demeanor since she had gotten back from her berry picking.

Though as they both prepared for bed in their shared room, Eleanor now seemed privy to her sister's silence.

"I didn't see you come back with berries," she began, voice cutting through the quiet of their room. (y/n) curled further into her sheets, attempting to push away the memories of earlier that day. Memories she never wanted to encounter again.

"I changed my mind." Eleanor chuckled at this, the familiar sound sending a shiver down (y/n)'s spine.

"Did the woods scare you off?" It was a joke, a subtle tease to prod at her sister, though at the lack of a response, Eleanor grew more stoic. "(y/n), you can't be serious. We're adults now, you should know fully well there's nothing in those woods. In all my years of living here, I've never once heard a wolf howl of any sort."

"It's not the wolves I fear," (y/n) muttered, burying her face into her pillow. Eleanor was stunned into silence for a moment, but then choked out another bout of laughs.

"Are you telling me you're scared of the fae? The story they'd tell us as kids to make us behave?" (y/n) was reluctant to respond, though this didn't deter Eleanor in the slightest. "(y/n), if it bothers you so much, allow me to go tomorrow and retrieve—"

"No." (y/n) was now sat up, staring at her sister across the room from her. The sternness in her voice shocked Eleanor, her smile slowly fading as she saw the pure, unadulterated fear lying beneath (y/n)'s gaze. "We're not going anywhere near those woods. Never again."

Days seemed to pass by without any other phenomenal hindrance. Though the memory of that day plagued her mind, and that sinister voice seemed to haunt her dreams, (y/n) continued with her life, however weary as she was. Her body was wrought with fear and it was beginning to take its effect. From simple mistakes accumulating into one big mess, it was clear (y/n) was not in her prime. Though there was nothing more she could do, what with this suffocating paranoia all but penetrating her every waking thought.

Her nightmares were as vivid as could be, and seemingly always followed the same sequence. (y/n) walking mindlessly into the brush, pushing aside branches and weaving between the trees which seemingly sprung up in her very path. And she continuously walked forth, as if on a predetermined trail ingrained in her mind. All the while, she could feel it—its stare. It watched her all throughout her journey, never sparing her a moment to herself. Suffocating her with its overbearing presence.

And at the end of her walk, her skin marred with scratches by twigs and rocks along the way, heart beating out of her chest, she'd step into a clearing. A grove of sorts. Dark and eerie, much like the rest of the woods, a canopy of dense branches overhead sparing only a few beams of sunlight into the ground. But in those rays of light, she'd see it approaching.

It took the form of a man, tall with long strides as he came forth. Handsome with deep eyes staring right into her, yet boyish features in a feeble attempt to lower her defenses. But no matter how fortified she made herself to be, it never seemed to do much once he got her.

A hand on her neck, squeezing in such a way that he could feel her pulse beating helplessly beneath his fingers and her breath growing frantic at the sudden obstruction. He contorted his body forward, crowding over her, consuming her space until there was nothing between them. A sickeningly sweet smile spread across his face, eyes manic as he laughed and he laughed and he laughed. A raucous crescendo into a deranged cackle, seizing at her every thought with its maniacal grasp.

And he'd keep her right there in that state, feeling her sanity slip away as she remained detained in his clutches for all the hours of the night. Taunting her, as if holding out her death, her sweet release from this torment, for another time. A time where he can truly have her all to himself.

Her nights were restless, her days vigilant, and at the end of it all, (y/n) was beginning to collapse in on herself. This was quite evident to her sister, the one who spent perhaps the most time with (y/n) in the first place, and as much as she tried to help, there was nothing she could do to derail her from this unending darkness she found herself collapsing into. All she could do was silently support her sister with reassurances and assistance—as much help as she could offer.

Though it was at times like these where the sisters' differences were truly apparent, and as (y/n) prepared dinner for the bunch, the barren absence of her sibling truly became apparent. With the lack of a helper in the cooking, (y/n) began worrying of where Eleanor may have run off to.

The paranoia only seemed to heighten as the table was set and the family was seated, all except the one chair across from (y/n). They were all understandably worried, though attempted to write it off as perhaps Eleanor getting caught up with something else. Perhaps a friend had invited her over and Eleanor forgot to inform the rest of them. Or maybe she was out helping one of her neighbors with a task.

But with the truth of the woods lingering perpetually in the recesses of (y/n)'s mind, she couldn't be sure of anything.

That night, (y/n) didn't sleep. She waited for her sister's arrival, something which never happened that night. And upon daybreak, (y/n) was certain this disappearance was the work of the nefarious evil of the woods. It was a certainty in her head.

However hesitant she was, the grief of having lost her sister consumed any ounce of reason or doubt within her, and with a brief farewell note upon the dining room table, she set out to seek Eleanor.

Along the way, neighbors gave brief but otherwise useless accounts of when they'd last seen her. The farmer's account validated each of (y/n)'s suspicions and fears.

"I'd seen her walk by the other day with a basket, heading out towards the fields. Didn't see her after."

Approaching the woods felt like visiting her recurring nightmares personally, yet no matter how real they seemed, they were nothing as compared to the true scene of it all.

A wall of trees towered over her, and at their feet lay that humble, lonesome berry bush. Beside it was both her basket she had abandoned long ago, somewhat tattered due to the natural elements it had faced over the past few days, as well as her sister's basket, toppled over with her picked berries pooling out and onto the grass.

The thought was bittersweet, guilt already riddling her body at the mere prospect that Eleanor may have gotten swallowed up by the woods whilst attempting to appease (y/n). As if the whole series of events they'd gone through were a result of her alone, yet as she neared the border of the woods, she knew it was not solely her doing.

She could feel her heart begin its tiresome beat, thudding violently against her ribcage. Her breathing was shaky as she stood there, a mere step away from the trees. Her feet seemed cemented to the ground where she stood, unable to back away nor finally break the threshold before her. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn back, to flee from these woods at all costs, but there was that debilitating guilt brewing within her. How could she live with herself if her sister truly did die in there?

Perhaps it was the guilt, or perhaps it was some blinding hubris which made her crave something from these trees—vindication, answers, release. Whatever it may be, the reason held her with an iron grip, and she remained where she stood, waiting; perhaps for some invitation of sorts.

"(y/n)..." the shaky voice of her sister alerted (y/n), a cold dread sinking into her being at the sound of Eleanor's voice—or more so that of a feeble replication of her voice… from right in front of her. As if she were speaking face to face with her sister. "(y/n), you came back for me."

The dense and dark brush obscured any attempts to see what stood before her, though the proximity of it had shivers running down her spine, tears pricking at her waterline at the sheer horror of it all. She remained silent, wary of whatever spectacle was being tried to lure her in. She could only compare the use of her sister's identity as something akin to a puppeteer exploiting its dolls. As if a mere guise for its audience.

It wasn't trying to lure her in anymore. It was taunting her.

Beneath the low whistle of the winds and the rustling on leaves all around, she could hear an unsettling yet rather distinct sound that made her blood grow cold. The deep and unmistakable sound of a man breathing, coinciding with whimpers of Eleanor's voice. Like he was only further proving her point of this whole charade being nothing more than a cruel mockery of her situation.

The noises grew more distant, sinking into the all encompassing embrace of the woods, daring her to enter alongside them. To finally become one with the woods and its victims—victims like her sister.

(y/n) took a tentative step forward, raising a weak arm above her to push aside the curtain of branches which concealed what lay ahead, and as she delved into the woods for the first, and perhaps the last time, she felt her world warp and twist into a demented wonderland of sorts. The trees, which from the beginning towered above her, seemed to only loom taller in their imposing stature. Shadows seemed to deepen into inky black pools of nothing all around her. Rustling leaves took on sinister murmurs, as if carrying along with it the voices of countless victims lost in these woods, as well as beckoning whispers to come further into the forest.

Her steps echoed with a hollow sound, reality seeming to distort with the discordant and ominous melody surrounding her. The further in she ventured, the more overpowering her fears seemed to become until its blinding and all encompassing existence had become the one thing she could fixate on. Her body prickled with nerves, a cool numbness tingling her skin as she willed her feet along, acutely aware of unseen eyes which probed her from the dark depths of the trees.

The air seemed to grow colder and colder, and she wasn't sure whether the trembles taking over her body were from her fear or the sudden temperature drop. Though there wasn't much room for thought, as obscure, yet ever so familiar, glimpses of the fae creature plagued the recesses of her mind, growing stronger and more vivid the further along she got, as if confirming the route she took. His malevolent grin flashed across her mind, shivering at the array of teeth ready to devour her, tormenting her as she progressed along.

Her breathing had slowly become unstable as she walked, the realization truly hitting her when she briefly turned around, only to have no idea where she had come from. What path she had taken mere steps before where she currently resided. As if the woods were swallowing her whole, refusing to ever let her slip by. And unwillingly, she proceeded forward into the never ending labyrinth, her mind somehow knowing exactly what to look out for.

It came sooner rather than later. The sudden clearing in the midst of it all. A small, unassuming grove of sorts, bordered by the impenetrable wall of trees that shrouded its existence from the rest of the world. There was an oppressive, deafening silence—a troubling realization for a forest of all things. Yet it didn't last long, as a low and distinct humming pierced through the stillness of the atmosphere, prompting her body to freeze up on the spot. It was melodic, dripping with a cruel and feigned saccharine that seemed to creep all about her.

Soon enough, he emerged. Tall as her dreams had portrayed him, with ethereal features unlike any she's seen before. His eyes were dark with an unmistakable edge that had haunted her dreams for many nights. His lips tugged into a smile as he stepped out of the shadows, and the full sight of him had (y/n) gasping. Tears welled up in her eyes at the image presented of the fae that had been targeting her. Watching her and tormenting her, driving her completely and utterly insane.

His dark eyes gleamed with a mischievous, unholy light, fixating upon her with an unsettling mixture of what seemed to be pure amusement and… hunger.

"(y/n)," he spoke, his smooth and deep timbre fitting perfectly with the rest of his personage, calling to her with his deceivingly sweet voice. "You've finally come to me."

His strides were wide as they carried him directly to her, and she was left to gawk up at him with whatever remaining bravado she may have had in her. His hands trembled as they carefully took in her loose hair, squeezing the strands between his fingers.

"I've been waiting… for so long." He leant down into her shoulder in an abrupt and aggressive manner. The sharp inhale he took had (y/n) jumping in her spot, tears freely falling down her face as he finally stepped back to stare at her, and she finally got to see him upfront for the first time. Making direct eye contact with the abomination of the woods.

His laughter burst forth in a raucous and chaotic way that had her wincing away as much as she could. Though the sounds soon dissipated as he opted on brushing her head with his large hand.

"Oh, your sister… Such a pity." He smiled again, eyes darting about to every square inch of her face, almost admiring her as one would an artwork.

"My… sister?" (y/n)'s voice was broken and mangled, barely above a whisper, though loud enough in the still quiet of the woods. He grinned at her words, a fond and appreciative smile that had her pulse quickening at the mere sight of it.

"Her fate was sealed the moment she ventured into my woods."

(y/n) felt her heart shatter at the news, throat constricting upon itself as she shut her eyes and openly wept. Her body seized in on itself, near the point of collapse had it not been for the fae who forcibly kept her standing upright against him.

"A useless thing, but her sacrifice was necessary for our meeting." Again, his voice was filled with such gentle kindness that it made her utterly sick to her stomach. The grief of losing her sister seemed the primary emotion wrecking her from within, to the point that the reality of her situation had yet to truly sink in, even as the fae continued to ravel himself around her until there was no way of escaping his grasp. "Don't worry, my precious, I won't hurt you like I did her."

He brushed away the tears staining her cheeks, ignoring the new streaks that replaced them either way, merely smiling down at (y/n) without a single care in the world.

"What are you going to do to me?" She asked, voice wavering with every syllable as her body shook with tremors. And the fae just continued with his merry demeanor, unperturbed by her clear dismay and debilitating terror.

"There are fates much worse than that of death. You've stepped into my domain. And now… you're mine forever."

#cix fanfiction #cix fanfic #cix x reader #hyunsuk x reader #hyunsuk fanfiction #hyunsuk fanfic #yoon hyunsuk fanfiction #yoon hyunsuk x reader #yoon hyunsuk fanfic #kpop x reader #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #kpop fic #cix fic #hyunsuk fic #yoon hyunsuk fic

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drippydumdum · 1 year

Note

Really liked your sissy ideas! Do you have some more?

i do yes.

1. Rename yourself. for sissies its always best to have a useless stripper name. something that ends with and i. something that has no meaning and is feminine. like Kiki, Chastitti, Candi, Trixi, and things like that. reinforcing that name by infusing it in your life. order things on this name when online shopping, doodle it with hearts and butterflies, just anything to reinforce your sissy name.

2. make a mantra for yourself, record it, play it while you sleep or do any work. let the mantra play on your earphones but dont pay attention to it. let it be a background voice. if coming in your own voice, it will reinforce your sissy identity. plus letting the mantra be a background noise that is constantly feeding your brain will make it stick to your subconscious. especially when asleep.

3. Makeup!! even with gender equality rising (about time it happened) up, makeup is still widely known as a feminine trait. wear lipsticks, lipgloss, a little blush. do all things seperately. at times only gloss, only lipstick, sometimes only blush. highlighters are the best. especially when you're outside the house. let people see you with makeup.

4. start modifying your hobbies and likes. start looking for heels instead of sneakers. gowns and dresses instead of suits and shirts, nail art instead of cars and bikes. disengage yourself with anything that affirms masculinity.

5. glitter! ✨✨✨ start making things glittery and sparkly in pinks and purples. nice soft pastel colours with sparkles. your laptop cover, mousepad, phone cover, some room decoration, your phone wallpaper. glitter and pink is considered extremely feminine. the shinier the better.

6. Manicures and Pedicures. nothing screams feminine as well manicured nails. sparkly nailpaints, long nails.

7. sissi porn. follow sissies on tumblr, Instagram, Facebook, youtube. watch at least one or 2 hour of sissy inspiration videos, of sissies who are living a happy feminized lives.

8. interaction. theres no point in going through this alone. find people you can talk to. sissies who are living this life 24/7, people who like sissies, like to sissify others and so on. you feel more comfortable and encouraged when you know you're not alone and when people talk about your likes positively. build more connections that affirm your sissy side.

9. pretty common but edge. the more sexually frustrated you are, the more suggestible you get. with the amount of edging posts you might see here, it might not sound as a big deal. but the constant sexual frustration keeps your mind clouded by horniness and before you know it, you're doing things you might have not done before confidently, hornily and desperately. edging works wonders to keep you sexually easy.

Please Beware That These Steps Are For Long Term And Permanent Personality Changes.

These steps heighten your sissy persona in a full time behaviour. dont do this if you're just looking for an hour of fun every once a while. only follow this if you want to be a long term sissy or a permanent sissy. follow at your own risk. these methods are all tried and tested on my slave @kikithecumdump that i sissified.

#feminine sissy #humiliated sissy #humiliation sissy #sissifyme #sissylover #sissy tasks #submisive sissy #sissy and slave #sissy ass #sissy sub #sissy ferminization #sissy for life #sissy desires #sissy doll #sissy goals #sissy kink #sissy life #sissy toys

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twittercomfrnklin2001-blog · 5 months

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Ghostwatch

Since some sources have pointed to writer Stephen Volk’s GHOSTWATCH (1992, Shudder, On Demand at Prime and YouTube) as the inspiration for LATE NIGHT WITH THE DEVIL, I felt compelled to watch it to see for myself. There are clear parallels, particularly in that they share similar dramatic arcs. But they both start from a different hook and diverge in a lot of details. That’s not to deny any influence but simply to put it into perspective. Oddly, GHOSTWATCH is classified as a mockumentary rather than a found-footage film. I suppose what keeps it from being found footage is that it’s purportedly a live telecast. It’s also formatted much more logically than most found footage films.

A BBC News show with actual BBC personalities (presenter Michael Parkinson and married reporters Sarah Greene and Mike Smith) is presenting a live Halloween broadcast about a haunted house, with Greene on the scene with the single mother and her two young daughters living there, Smith fielding phone calls from viewers with their own paranormal experiences to share and Parkinson anchoring the show from the studio alongside a paranormal investigator (Gillian Bevan) who’s been studying the case. Things start out simply, with the family sharing their stories while neighbors comment on the effect the haunting has had on their district. But then little things start happening — strange noises, a wet spot on the floor, falling pictures — until all hell breaks loose.

The program is remarkably effective (so much so some viewers believed it was real, despite disclaimers, and even complained of suffering from PTSD). Using real broadcast personalities helps greatly with verisimilitude. They don’t seem to be acting, even when Smith becomes genuinely concerned for his wife’s safety. And Bevan has captured the inflections of real people not accustomed to public speaking. Her voice keeps trailing off. There’s also a fascinating treatment of gender as Greene naturally falls into a motherly role with the two young girls, their mother (Brid Brennan) fights to protect her daughters and Parkinson attempts to exercise patriarchal authority over all concerned, particularly Bevan, whom he keeps trying to bully into giving concrete answers about her ever-evolving research. Her repeated, “I don’t know” becomes almost a mantra for the show. Volk also gets credit for cleverly constructing the script as if it were a mystery, with neighbors and callers offering pieces of the puzzle to explain what the source of the haunting might be. The result is one of the creepiest 90 minutes of TV you’re likely to see.

#mockumentary #found footage #haunted house #horror films

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mad4turtles · 1 year

Note

Would LOVE to know if the reason Casey Jr looks “haunted” in that second final line of your most recent Rise one-shot (part 18, if you happen to add another before seeing this!) is if, despite different circumstances and timing and just about everything, Future Donnie did the exact same thing to the exact same bull yokai.

A beloved universal constant.

.... ummmmmm... HOLY CRAP. So, this turned into a 9-page THESIS.

I cannot tell you how INSPIRED i was by this, holy stinking super crap! This hit me like a bus, and I thank you so much for gifting me with this opportunity!

Enjoy some more Donnie being a bamf!

---

A Beloved Universal Constant

“—but you won't listen to reason, you stubborn fool!”

The yelling wakes Casey up with a gasp. Master Donatello hasn't had time to soundproof certain sections in their newest base, and right now, Casey can hear General Bostarus' booming voice down the hall from the children's sleeping quarters.

He's not the only one roused by the noise, his friends rubbing their eyes or whimpering in fright. But he's the only one to get up and investigate. If not out of pure curiosity (Auntie April tells him it'll get him in trouble one day), then because he can hear Uncle Leo shouting, too.

(It's been like this for a while. Ever since they'd had to flee from the last base over a month ago. Casey remembers it well. He sees it every time he shuts his eyes.

He remembers the screeching alarms, people shouting and screaming that the Krang were coming. He remembers lights flickering as the Krang drilled through earth and steel, trying to dig them up or bury them alive. He remembers his mother gathering their meagre possessions, scooping him into her arms before running like a bat out of hell with the rest of the colony through the evacuation route.

He remembers the walls caving in and more screaming as the lights went out. He remembers clinging to his mother's shirt as he wailed, terrified that the boogeyman from his nightmares was right above them, screeching and hungry.

He remembers a flash of vibrant red, a behemoth in the shape of a spiky turtle filling up the space, holding up the rubble with glowing hands and shouting,��“GO!”

He remembers his mother staring wide-eyed at the glowing turtle before setting her jaw, nuzzling him, kissing his hair and whispering their family's mantra in his ear, whispering “I love you”, before passing him and her mask off to Master Leonardo. He remembers watching her and a handful of others following her back into the glowing red tunnel with a warrior cry, weapons raised high. He remembers Master Leonardo screaming at her and the red giant to come back, you assholes, don't do this to me, don't do this, YOU CAN'T LEAVE US, RAPH—!

He remembers the red giant's smile, brighter than his body and warmer than any campfire, right before the Krang broke through and closed the cave off.

That was the last time Casey ever saw Uncle Raphael or his Mom.

Everything's felt off since then. People are tense, afraid, sad or constantly arguing over things Casey doesn't understand. One of the Yokai Generals, a giant bull named Bostarus, keeps bothering Casey's uncles to the point where even Master Michelangelo, the most peaceable of the turtles, looks ready to throttle him. Again, Casey doesn't understand why, but apparently, it's come to a head now.

The yelling gets louder as Casey draws closer to the makeshift war room. He's still a ninja novice, but he's proud of himself when no one hears or sees him sneaking out and peering around the corner. Then again, it could be because everyone's shouting so they can't hear him, but still. It's a win!

It feels less like a win when he sees the General, big and buff, littered with scars and a heart-shaped tattoo on his neck, throwing his massive horns about with rage and towering over his stone-faced Uncle Leo. Uncle Donatello, as usual, stands right beside him. He looks bored, but his hands folded behind his shell clench hard enough that the knuckles are white. Master Michelangelo and Auntie April hover behind, looking ready to strangle the bull with mystic chains or beat him to a pulp. The room split nearly in half on each side like they were gearing up to fight.

This baffles Casey because the enemy should be the Krang. Not each other.

“I don't want to speak for everyone,” Uncle Leo says with forced calm, “but I'm pretty sure everything you've just said is not only outrageous, insane and impractical but so incredibly racist that I'm surprised you've lasted his long as a General without being shanked like a Caesar salad dressing.”

Casey has no idea what that means, but it makes a few in the room chuckle. Even Uncle Donatello cracks a grin.

Bostarus snorts. “I've lasted this long because my people are strong. Our forces rallied, ready to defend and fight the day the Krang came to our world while the humans ran about like headless chickens, screaming and crying for their 'leaders' to save them! Even now, they continue to deplete our resources like rodents, unable to survive the way we yokai have been forced to for centuries because of them—”

Uncle Leonardo steps forward with a violent hiss that sends shivers down Casey's spine. “Half of our forces, if not more, are made up of humans,” he seethes. “We have refugees seeking sanctuary here, families, children, and trained combatants fighting and dying for our cause, our planet, just like the yokai. And you're suggesting we turn them away? Because of an old grudge that shouldn't matter in the face of an alien invasion? I must ask, General, if you're under the influence of hallucinogenics for even suggesting something so disgusting.”

“I beg your pardon, boy?”

“I'm asking you if you are high, you absolute douche-canoe,” Uncle Leo spits. Casey fights a giggle. “And I may be whole decades younger, but I'm still the leader of the Resistance. I earned my stripes and fought to be here just like you. You're in my house now, asshole. Show some respect.”

Wow, Casey thinks. He's so cool. Even when he's mad.

Bostaurus snorts hard enough to send Uncle Leo's mask tails fluttering. The turtle doesn't flinch, not even when the bull stomps the distance between them and gets right in his face, Casey's Uncle stands straight and tall like a mountain, infallible, immovable.

Then Bostarus grins wide and nasty and says, “Why should I respect a cowardly fool who lets his brother die for his mistakes?”

The room goes cold. No one breathes. Casey shakes.

Uncle Donatello's jaw clenches hard enough that veins bludge in his neck. And Uncle Leo—he goes white. His face goes slack with horror, and he takes a step back—

Auntie April and Master Michelangelo start shouting, throwing nasty words that Casey's never even heard of. The room goes ballistic, tables and chairs screeching as people get up in arms.

Bostarus stands back with folded arms, looking smug, and Casey wants to hit him.

“What's wrong, turtle?” he taunts. “Nothing to say? Too afraid to admit that your failure cost you your—?”

“Enough.”

The room falls deathly quiet. Casey flinches. He's never heard Uncle Donatello's voice sound like that before. It's dark and cold. And when he lifts his head to meet Bostarus' eyes, his eyes are even darker behind the flash of mystic purple swirling in golden irises.

But Bostarus doesn't seem to notice or care. Instead, he huffs again. “Oh, what? Is the hermit scientist going to tell me I'm wrong—?”

“Yes, I am.” Donatello steps right up to the bull so they're toe to hoof. Uncle Donnie is as tall and taut with muscle as his twin brother, but he's lean where Leo is broad, organised chaos with streamlined tech all over his body where Leo is worn and ravaged from battle and time spent on the wastelands of the surface. To those who don't know them well, the elder twin cuts a slightly less intimidating figure than his leader.

Casey watches him now and wonders how anyone could think that.

“Everything that has come out of that crevice you call a mouth has been wrong,” the softshell continues in a bored drawl. His clenched fists are white-knuckled. “It was wholly biased and downright hateful to the point that I wonder how you rose to your station in the first place. Certainly not due to your skills and intuition as a figure of authority, or lack thereof. And if you continue to run said mouth, I assure you, you will not enjoy the consequences. So do yourself and all of us a favour and shut it.”

“Stand down, Donatello,” Uncle Leonardo says, but he sounds tired, reaching for his twin's hand and gently pulling. “Just drop it. It's not worth—”

Uncle Donnie whips his head around to glare at Uncle Leo, golden eyes hot with fury. Uncle Leo, and everyone behind him, flinch. Even Commander O'Neil looks pale.

Again, Bostarus doesn't get the message and chuckles. “Better listen to your 'leader', hermit. Probably the smartest thing he's ever—”

Casey sees the second Uncle Donatello snaps.

Between one breath and the next, Uncle Donnie picks up the table—the long metal one that had taken seven human men to haul inside—and slams it at Bostarus' face.

“Shit—!” Auntie April yelps, jumping back as the bull flies to the back wall, nose and forehead dripping with blood. Master Michelangelo squeaks, leaping into the air and staying there.

Uncle Leo's eyes are huge. “Donnie, what the fu—?!”

Uncle Donnie stomps over to the slumped bull, yanking a metal chair as he goes. He stands over Bostarus right as he's remembering who he is, raising the chair over his head. The yokai's eyes go wide.“Wait—!”

Uncle Donnie slams the chair down over Bostarus' face hard enough that Casey can feel his bones rattling. He brings it down again on his shoulder, on his kneecap, his arm, again and again and again, ignoring the shouts and cries for him to stop goddammit what the hell are you doing—!

Casey can't see his Uncle's face from here, but if even Bostarus is quaking and begging, he thinks he's better off not knowing.

“Donatello, enough!”

It takes Uncle Leo yanking him away by the rim of his battle shell to get Uncle Donnie to stop, ripping the bloodstained chair from his trembling hands. Even then, he has to physically hold him back as he hisses bloody murder at Bostarus. “Enough, stop, Donnie, stop! You'll freaking kill him—!”

“Give me one goddamn reason why I shouldn't.”

“Because murder?!”

Bostarus is helped to his feet, shaking, bloody and unsteady, by his men. His left eye is swollen shut, and his right horn bends at an odd angle. “What—” he coughs, and Casey swears he sees a tooth go flying, “What—in spirits name are you doing, boy? You—you have any idea who you're—”

Uncle Donnie shrugs off Leo's hands and stalks towards the wounded Yokai, who goes very, very still. Now Casey can see his Uncle's eyes blazing like embers, and yeah, it's terrifying.

“You seem to be grossly misinformed,” he says lowly, but his voice carries in the silence, “so allow me to do what was once typical of my generation and educate you.”

He holds up a finger. “Number one: I don't give two shits about who you are. You are not my leader, you are a wannabe General from an allied colony. I don't answer to you. Number two—” another finger—“Leonardo made a mistake. He didn't know what was at stake until it was too late. None of us did. And yet he's here, leading the only Resistance faction left in America, fighting side by side with humans, mutants and yokai for our planet. You have no right to belittle and humiliate him when he's doing more for our cause than you ever will with your small-minded, ignorant beliefs that will absolutely get you killed.

“And Number three,” he holds up his last finger and leans in close. Bostarus doesn't move. “If you ever come at my brother like that again, I will make a Krang labour camp look like a godsend. You will wake up every day begging for death, and when I finally grant your wish, no one will miss you when you're gone. Are we clear, General?”

Casey watches as General Bostarus, one of their strongest fighters, known for his ferocity against the Krang forces over the last ten years, cowers under Uncle Donatello's glare and nods.

Casey beams. “Holy shit.”

Every head whirls to the doorway. Donnie's murderous scowl drops in favour of comically wide eyes when he sees Casey peering around the corner. Mom used to call it his 'Oh Shit, a Child' face.

Uncle Leo recovers first, shaking his head and turning to Bostarus' pitiful form. “This meeting is over. Anything else you need to say can wait until some of your teeth grow back. Or just send a strongly worded email, I don't care. Go get yourself cleaned up.”

Bostarus looks like he wants to say something. Uncle Donnie looks at him, a spark of mystic purple in his eyes. The bull shuts up, letting himself be led out of the room and down the hall, limping with every step.

Uncle Leo lets out a long, heavy sigh, rubbing his face with one hand. Behind him, people set upon fixing the room, setting chairs upright and trying to lift the table to no avail. “Christ on a bicycle, I hate that guy,” he mutters. Then he turns to Casey, now out of hiding, pulling on the 'disappointed Sensei' face he wears whenever Casey does something stupid, marching closer and folding his arms. “As for you, Casey Jones, what are you doing out of bed?”

Casey tugs at the hem of his shirt and shrugs. “Heard you yelling, 'n it woke me up.”

Instantly, Uncle Leo's stern frown drops into a grimace. “Eugh boy. That loud, huh? We really need to soundproof these rooms.” He leans down and scoops Casey up. Casey squeaks, latching onto his Uncle's shoulders for balance; Uncle Leo's face melts into a smile as he boops their noses together. “And where did you hear that kind of talk, eh? Certainly not from your incredibly responsible, awesome, handsome Uncle Leo, right?”

Despite everything, Uncle Leo can still make Casey laugh with a smirk and a stupid joke. “Nah, Uncle Mike said it 'n told me not to say it, 'n not to tell you he said it.”

His uncles and aunt all glare at a floating, very meek Master Michelangelo. “Dude!” he cries. “Snitch!”

Casey giggles again. “Sorry! Oh oh, Uncle Donnie!

“Casey Jones,” Uncle Donnie replies, typing away on his vambrace, apparently done with this whole situation but not enough to ignore Casey.

“Can you teach me how to throw a table like that?”

Uncle Donnie freezes. “Uh—”

“That was—uh, sick! Yeah, sick! You got Mister Bostarus good! Just like you wanted to!”

Uncle Leo raises an eye ridge. “Oh?” he says, craning his neck to look at Uncle Donnie, who starts to sweat. He doesn't look scary now. He just looks scared as Uncle Leo grins wide. “Is that right?”

“Casey Jones Jr,” Uncle Donnie hisses—not unkind, just desperate—“I swear to the god that forsook us you will be eating rocks for breakfast for a year!”

Casey is six years old. He is the son of Cassandra Jones and a beloved nephew to three mutant turtles and their human sister. His sensei (and godfather—or just father in every way that matters) is one Hamato Leonardo, who is what many call a 'Little Shit'.

Therefore, Casey Jones Jr is also a Little Shit.

“Uncle Donnie used to call him a—uh—a bullshitting bitchless bitch, and the only way he'd ever get laid is—is to rest. I think that's what he said. I don't know what it means.”

Leo's jaw drops. There's a loud bark of laughter from the back, which starts a chain of hysterical laughter that fills the room. It's far louder than the yelling and screaming prior, and it rings in Casey's ears. But Uncle Leo is smiling and laughing so hard his wrinkles seem to fade. Auntie April and Uncle Mikey kick their feet wildly on the floor, and Uncle Donnie hides his red face behind his hands.

It's all so delightful, so Casey counts it as a win.

Then he taps Uncle Leo's shoulder, waiting for the slider to stop laughing long enough to lean in as Casey whispers, “You were cool, Sensei. So was Uncle Donnie! He's the best!”

And Uncle Leo's face does—something as he turns to look at the softshell. Uncle Mikey hangs off him, needling him about his horrible influence while grinning like a loon. April hip-checks him hard enough that he nearly falls over. He scowls and yells something unheard over the persisting laughter, but then he meets Leo's gaze, and his expression softens. His snout twists into a small but real smile, one Casey knows is reserved only for them.

And Uncle Leo's eyes shine as he smiles back. “Yeah,” he says, nosing Casey's hair. “Yeah. He is.”

~0o0~

As the years pass, Casey grows and moves with the tides of the Resistance. General Bostarus and his group eventually leave the Liberty Island colony to rebuild their own. He dies in battle weeks later, he and his men picked off one by one in a violent ambush that left no survivors.

Donatello dies before Casey's fourteenth birthday. A part of Master Leonardo dies with him.

Casey doesn't remember much of his early childhood. After Donatello's death, many try not to cling too tight to the little things or the past. Look toward the future and hold onto hope.

It broke his heart when he found out one day that he barely remembered his Mom or Uncle Raph. He couldn't recall how they sounded, smelled or felt like. But he never forgot that final smile before the earth caved in. He'll never forget Mom's words—

"Anata wa hitori janai.”

You are not alone.

He lived by that. They all did. It was their war cry to the demons that sought to end them and everything they knew for no reason beyond the need to conquer and destroy. It was their shield beside their greatest weapon.

Casey never forgot that. Even after leaving his destroyed world and saving the new one, he holds that memory, and many others of his old family, close to his heart.

Then one day, many years in the past, a world saved and a family unbroken, Raphael asks—

“So, how'd it go at Hueso's?”

“Donnie pulled a John Cena and made a bull yokai his bitch with a chair.”

Casey coughs up his cherry Dr Pepper.

No way. There's no freaking way.

Amid the spluttering and laughter, Casey reaches over to tap Leo's shoulder. “Wait, wait—a bull yokai? What did he look like?”

Leo swallows a mouthful of pizza before speaking. “Kinda like Bullhop—you've met him, right?—only like twice as big, nose ring, kinda blue-ish fur, some bigass horns and, uhh... I think he had a tattoo on his neck?”

A tattoo. “Was it a bull inside a love heart with 'Mom' written under it in cursive?”

Leo pauses. “Yeaahhh,” he says slowly. “Do you know him?”

Casey nods, and he can't stop the grin that splits his face. “Yeah! In the future, he was one of the leaders of a smaller Yokai colony from the BogWater region—that used to be New Jersey before it flooded with toxic Krang refuse from the ships.”

“Wow,” Mikey whistles. “Even in the future they can't catch a break.”

April snickers. “And that bull guy Donnie John Cena'd was a war general?”

“Yeah! And he and Master Leonardo were like worst enemies! You guys hated each other!”

That quiets the room instantly. The smiles fall, and dread taints the air. Casey winces. Maybe he could've worded that better.

“Oh god,” Donnie drops his head into his hands, “Did I set the wheels of another apocalypse into motion?”

“No, no, nonono, not at all!” Casey stammers, waving his hands. “We're perfectly safe, I promise!”

There's a collective sigh as everyone relaxes.

“Spirits, child,” Draxum says with feeling. “Be mindful of your words.”

Casey scratches the back of his head meekly. “Sorry, sorry. But there isn't anything to worry about. Despite his size and strength, General Bostarus was mostly all talk off the battlefield. Master Donatello used to tell me that he was a—what was it? A 'bullshitting bitchless bitch, and the only way he'll ever get laid is to rest? I never got that, but—”

Aaannd Raph has soda coming out of his nose. Draxum chokes on air. Mikey, April and Cassandra start shrieking. Splinter rolls under his chair, cackling. Donnie looks ecstatic.

“Jeezy heckin' creezy—Donnie!” Leo manages through his wheezing laughter, tears running down his face. “A bitchless—heeheehee—laid to rest, I can't—god—!”

“Good to know my creative insults were still the toppest of notches even at the end of the world,” Donnie preens, examining his nails as Leo clings to him for balance. Donnie lets him and turns back to Casey. “Sidebar, how did you know it was the same bull yokai based on what Leo said?”

Casey grins like a shark.

Donnie stiffens. Leo stops laughing, and everyone sits up.

“No.”

Casey nods. “Yes.”

Leo's jaw drops. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

Donnie throws up his arms, nearly smacking Leo in the face. “Freaking how?!”

Casey giggles. “It was kinda epic. One of my favourite memories from my childhood. Wanna hear it?”

“Um, is water freaking wet?” Leo bounces in place, beaming like a loon and clinging tight to a tolerant Donnie. “Yes.”

Casey takes up the seiza position, hands on his lap as he clears his throat. “Very well,” he says, adopting the tone Donatello would use whenever he sat down to tell them stories of the Before Times; enthralling, dramatic and everything that made him the Uncle Donnie he misses fiercely. “Gather 'round.”

Everyone shuffles in their seats and leans in. Splinter scurries from under his chair and settles beside Mikey, who automatically wraps his arms around his Papa to lean against him. Only then does Casey begin.

“Let us set the scene. It was the year of our lord 2038—“ A few snickers float, and Casey lets himself grin. He's hamming it up, but he can't help it. It's one of his favourites.

“The Resistance is still going strong, despite the Krang's efforts to snuff us out. War parties and colonies travel from all over the world in search of sanctuary. One in particular, led by General Bostarus of the BogWater region, found refuge with the Liberty Island colony the year before, and things were going well. Until a Krang pack discovered us, leading to the loss of our headquarters. After establishing a new base, things became tense within the higher rankings. And General Bostarus had a lot to say to the younger Resistance leader, Master Leonardo...”

(He leaves out the part where Raph and Cass had stayed behind to fend them off. They were hailed as heroes for their sacrifice. But what's a hero to the broken hearts of the family left behind?

He also leaves out Bostarus' snide remarks. He'd seen the lingering shadows in Leo's eyes and thought history's repeated itself enough in that regard.)

By the end, Leo and Donnie are all but leaning on each other, arms linked, Leo's bad leg draped over Donnie's lap, a look on their faces Casey can't quite name. The others range from proud to once again laughing themselves silly.

“Damn,” April hoots, wiping a tear from her eye with a finger. “Disaster Twins gonna disaster no matter what time branch, huh?”

“Bet,” Raph chuckles. “It's a—what's it called—a universal congress?”

“A universal constant,” Donnie corrects shortly, rolling his eyes and leaning fully against Leo like it's nothing for his usual aversions, tugging the slider closer.

And Casey is there to witness another impossible repeat as Leo leans his head against Donnie's shoulder, wearing that same look on his face that's softer and warmer than any flamboyant mask he wears. And Donnie looks back, his snout twisting in a smile—it's bigger than what Casey remembers from his past, younger and freer without the burden of trying to save a dying world. But the love is as real and intense as it had been there, near the end of it all, as it is here where they won.

Casey's eyes burn. He smiles.

Leo notices Casey's stare. He smiles back.

Then he asks, “So, did future Donbon ever teach you how to yeet big, heavy shit at people?”

Casey barks a watery laugh. “Yeah, he did. Wanna see?”

“Don't ask stupid questions, Jr.”

“Cool. Hey, Raph, can you come here for a sec? I wanna yeet you like a table.”

“You wanna what me like a what?!”

(And while Casey proceeds to, in fact, yeet a screaming Raphael like a table, Donnie and Leo stay cuddled close on the couch, hands linked.

Casey spares them one last look over his shoulder at the impossible, beloved universal constant and calls it a universal win.)

---

Reblogs are appreciated! Feel free to send more prompts <3

#rottmnt #rottmnt fic #my writing #disaster twins #future disaster twins #rottmnt movie #THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE #this is so LONG #but i regret nothing XD

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deepdisireslonging · 2 years

Text

Haunted by the House of Black

What it would be like to feel like you’re being watched… by something not of this plane? Lingering touches that first startle, then intrigue?

Pairing: Neutral gender!Reader x Malakai Black/Brody King/Buddy Matthews/Julia Hart

Warnings/Promises: SMUT, horror aspects, masturbation, voyeurism, oral (reader and House receiving), dub-con, edging (?)

Word Count: 1400

Note: 18+ only please. I’ve got the note on my blog, but I had a 15 year-old reblog one of my fics last week. I am not your mother. I can’t tell you what not to engage with. But please note that interacting with art above your age group can and will get the creator in trouble, even if it is your actions and they had nothing to do with it besides create the art. So please, wait until you’re 18 before reading. For those 18 and older, please enjoy. Heavily inspired by this post, and this, and this.

Being haunted would include:

· Moving into your new house. It’s old, but you think it’s sweet and full of character. The first room you sat up was your bedroom.

· What better way is there to break in a new place but with some self-pleasure?

· There was the usual uneasiness of being alone in a new space. It grew as you undressed, but you knew it would dissipate after a few nights. You put on your headphones to further block out the house settling noises. All you heard was your favorite music or audio that helps you get into the right headspace.

· If the air is cool, it’s because your body started to warm up. You writhe and tease your skin in the ways that make your core tingle. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. Release is inevitable when you’re the one pulling your own strings.

· Just as you focused to reach the end, one hand on your chest, the other between your legs, you felt a breath on your skin. And the sensation of a finger flicking your nipple.

· You cum, but you ripped out your headphones as the orgasmic quakes cut short. You were alone. Of course.

· It’s just a new house. It’s just a new house. It’s just a new house.

· The mantra plucked at your thoughts over the next week. The stack of boxes piled up in your various rooms dwindled. But there was something more.

· Whisps of air breezing over your skin.

· The sound of shoes over the floorboards when you were sitting or standing still. Sometimes multiple sets.

· The sensation of being watched followed around your house. It disappeared any time you spun around looking for peepholes, figures in the windows, or anything else your imagination could come up with as an explanation.

· Fully unpacked, you set yourself to take a long, hot, self-indulgent shower. The only room in the house without windows. The steam breathed into your lungs, relaxing away the anxiety. Suds washed away the ache in your muscles. And washing your hair gave you an excuse to knead your temples and massage your head to your full desire. Robbed of your former “me-time”, you shifted your hands to your chest. Soon you brought your nipples to peaks.

· You shifted your hands down, leaning against the shower wall and closing your eyes. The hum overtook your skin.

· Completion was still a ways away when your eyelids fluttered open. Through the steam and the condensation on the shower wall, you could have sworn you saw eyes. Instead of being terrified, a different type of warmth filled you.

· Whispers filed like static into your ears. Promises of what could be yours. If you only said yes.

· A hand smeared through the condensation.

· Another gripped your hip. Something took a deep breath next to your neck, inhaling the scent of your need.

· Terror overtook pleasure. You ducked under the water, using it like a shield, and clamped your eyes shut tight. A few breaths later, you opened them again.

· The handprint was gone.

· Over the next several weeks, the touches became more bold.

· At breakfast, a hand rested on the back of your neck, or the top of your head.

· During your work from home, the trailing of fingers up your legs. Despite wearing your thickest pants, they still felt like skin against skin.

· As you prepared for bed, lips kissed your back between your shoulder blades. A set of four, all at different heights along your spine. All at once.

· At night, whispers told you to say yes. They passed wet dreams into your sleep. You woke up with a growing ache between your thighs, and a buzz in your skull.

· Some days were quiet. Others were filled with quick touches that made you question your sanity.

· One day they left you completely alone. You almost missed having them. And you said as much… out loud.

· The next day, the larger pair of hands pined you to a wall as two mouths places chaste kisses to either side of your neck.

· After a month and a half, you were ready to give in.

· You began again, searching for the release that had been denied you since moving in.

· No headphones this time. Just you… and the energies that creeped in. You wandered around your house, palming yourself. You stopped in the dinning room.

· They waited until you were panting with need.

· When the first hand smoothed across your skin, you didn’t flinch. Its match joined int the exploration. Another pair smoothed up your legs. A third landed heavily on your shoulders, massaging and moving you to lay across the table like a sacrifice or a meal. The fourth pair of hands, smaller, landed on your collarbone. Not tightening.

· As one, they all stilled.

· Waiting.

· You took a deep breath.

· “Yes.”

· The small hands gently constrict around your neck. The others toyed with whichever part of you was closest to their grasp.

· One hand eased over your sex, flicking its thumb over your most sensitive places. Tightening. Twisting. Curling. Another hand toyed at your puckered hole. The hands on your shoulders held you down as you writhed.

· It’s so much. Their touch was cool against your flushed skin. Mouths placed wet kisses over your figure, leaving nothing behind. And, under the sounds panting out between your lips, the increased breathing of four other beings puffed. It chilled the air. You wondered if a ring of salt would have prevented all this.

· Something harder and longer than fingers traces over your lips. You open your mouth and use your tongue. It’s odd working something cold and invisible. But it reaches the back of your throat without choking you. Why would it need to. The hands around your throat tightened as your arousal increased.

· Another invisible cock slid across your sex, bumping and teasing while a mouth covered your heat. With the movement at your back, phasing through your table like it was nothing, you were soon full everywhere.

· The arousal that had been building hovered out of reach.

· No matter how you pleaded around the cock in your mouth, writing in the eight hands that gripped you, they prevented you from cumming.

· The ghosts were reaching for and end of their own. The more they filed you, the more your energy depleted. Were they taking it from you? Or were they working you that much that you were spent?

· Between blinks, you began to see the forms of your guests.

· Three large men, two of which were covered in tattoos. The largest at your head, pinning you down and filling your mouth. The other two lower on your body. The tattoo-less one worked his mouth over your sex. The third, with the piercing eyes you saw in the shower, filling you. And a woman, sliding herself across your stomach.

· Their forms were see-through, but each thrust and moan gave them another layer of opaqueness.

· Resigned to wait for them, you let them use you. Moving and humming when you can, you took what they gave.

· The woman suddenly tightened her grip. She tossed her head back as her body was wracked in shudders.

· At that sight, the cock in your mouth swelled. A few more desperate pumps followed before it filled you, spilling past your lips.

· The other two did their best to work you to completion. With two less weights on your arousal, you rapidly careened towards the end. The tattoo-less one came first, drawing away so he could spill on your stomach.

· Finally, the last ghost refused to fill you until your walls clamped down on his cock. For the first time, you heard his shout twinged with the groan of release. His eyes bored into you as you came, shivering and filled with endorphins to the point where you felt like you were floating. Maybe you actually were.

· Each one stroked you till you were at ease. Then, one by one, in the order they came, faded out of view with your name as a whisper.

· The last stoked your cheek before he went.

· “We’ll take care of you soon, liefje.”

· You slipped off to sleep.

· Awakening the next morning, you had been moved to your bed. You were clean and the only ache in your body was the familiar one that followed after a pleasant evening of pleasure.

You hoped they take care of you often.

#aew smut #ghost!au #house of black #house of black smut #ghost!house of black #malakai black #brody king #buddy matthews #julia hart #aew x reader #gender neutral #reader insert

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