#peter x ro

[ro-is-struggling]

Could I request prompt number 16 with Peter Maximoff (the X-men one), where the reader is the owner of the handcuffs. She’s kind of a nerdy tomboyish type, who’s not suspected because everyone knows she’s got net zero experience when it comes to dating. I think she’d probably have them because what if the opportunity to have sex finally arrived and she didn’t have all of the gear? What sort of fool would she look like then? Maybe not as much of a fool as… say a woman who was explaining her stock pile handcuffs to the guy she still hasn’t confessed to… If possible I’d like it smutty please!

Hi lovely! Thank you so much for participating in the celeration (and sorry it took me so long to get to your request). I had a lot of fun writing this one! I tried to make it smutty but for some reason I couldn't :( It's more funny and fluffy than smutty, but there are a few suggestive okes here and there, I hope you don't mind and that you like it anyways!!

The one with the embarrassing secret || Peter Maximoff x Reader

Summary: A mysterious pair of black handcuffs is found which leads to a search for their owner and some embarrassing confessions

Warnings: fem!reader, my attempt at humor, suggestive tones, fluff

Word count: 4500

This fic is part of my 600 followers celeration

When Charles asked you to fix up the room down the hall on the second floor you didn't think much of it. You were excited to meet the new occupant of the abandoned room and although cleaning wasn't your favorite thing to do, at least you knew you wouldn't be doing it alone. Jean, Scott and Peter were with you and you were optimistic that you could get the job done if you put in a little effort —especially if Peter dropped the jokes and used his powers to help you. 

That room had been unoccupied for so long that sometimes you forgot it even existed. It was a dump where things that no one used anymore were stored, so it was a total mess. You were so overwhelmed by the amount of things there were to do that you didn't think about the fact that you also used that room as your personal junk stash a couple of times. So you set to work without thinking about the embarrassing things you had hidden there from your former roommate, certain that you had retrieved them all the moment she left school.

That was until you heard Jean let out a gasp of pure surprise, emerging from the closet with a pair of black leather handcuffs in her hand. The world around you stopped for a moment as panic spread throughout you. The blood all over your body rushed to your face, the shame evident in your expression as you realized the horrible mistake you had made. You knew you should never have bought that stupid being. You didn't need it. You didn't even have a partner! You should never have listened to that stupid magazine article. It didn't make sense, to fuel the flames of passion in a relationship you first had to get one, something you felt would never happen. Not with your shy and awkward attitude at least. 

"Who do you think these belong to?" Jean's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You let out a sigh as you looked at their expression of confusion and curiosity, realizing there was no way they could know the handcuffs belonged to you. You just had to keep your cool so as not to arouse suspicion and they would eventually grow tired of the subject, wouldn't they?

"Well, I hate to be the one to say it but this is Charles' house..." Scott said and everyone winced —yourself included— at the implications of his words.

"Eww, Scott, gross!" Jean punched him in the arm to shut him up. "I don't want to think about the professor like that!"

"You asked!" The boy defended himself, stroking his arm where Jean's fist had impacted against his skin. Although he recognized that the mental image of Professor X's private life, someone he respected and loved like a father, was not a pretty one.

"Maybe these belong to Raven," she suggested as she inspected the handcuffs in her hands. You remained silent, returning to your chores as your friends talked. It was better for them to think they were Raven's than to find out they were yours. "I mean, she lived here too and she kinda looks like she'd be into this stuff."

"I don't know," Scott hesitated. Realistically they could belong to anyone, even people they didn't know. Many mutants had passed through the school for gifted youngsters and many others had sought refuge there. It wasn't exactly easy to deduce who owned such a scandalous object.

"Whose else could they be?" said Jean, though she was interrupted before she could continue her speculation. 

Peter, who had remained silent playing with junk he was finding while moving a couple of boxes, interrupted his friends' conversation when an idea formed in his mind. Using his abilities, he snatched the handcuffs from Jean's hands before she could do anything to stop him. "I know who can help solve this little mystery!" he stated with a smile, dangling the handcuffs on his fingers playfully.

"Who?" you asked him, fearing that he somehow knew the handcuffs were yours. Instead of answering you he disappeared from the room for a split second and when he returned he had on a dark leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses in his hand.

"This is a case for Detective Brad Steel, FBI," he said, speaking in a deeper tone of voice than usual as he put on his sunglasses. He looked at you with an exaggeratedly dramatic look in his eyes, acting like he was on a detective show and this was the most important case of his career.

No one could contain the laughter, not even you. You were amazed at Peter's ability to come up with stupid things that made you laugh. He had a great imagination and got bored easily, a combination that was the perfect recipe for disaster 90% of the time. Oh, but that remaining 10% where things didn't go terribly wrong was usually hilarious for everyone involved. Peter was a fun guy to have around and always knew just what to do or say to make you laugh. That was one of the things you liked most about him.

"Why doesn't Brad Steel stay to clean up like he's supposed to be doing?" you said looking at him with a raised eyebrow and your arms crossed. You knew full well he was using that as an excuse so he wouldn't have to stay and tidy up. He was like a little kid who got bored easily, especially when it came to tasks like cleaning and organizing. His world moved too fast to make sense of such things. "We could really use your talents to help out with this mess, Peter."

"I'm sorry, but Brad Steel has more important things to do. His talents can't be wasted with such trivial chores when there's so many mysteries out there that need to be solved!" Peter explained in his exaggerated FBI detective voice. You opened your mouth to complain, ready to argue with him to make him stay, but he vanished from the room before any of the three of you could say anything about it.

"Let him go," Jean said, resuming her chores. "He probably would have slowed us down more than helped us anyway."

You thought you were safe. After Peter left, you all focused on cleaning and tidying up the room as quickly as you could so you could get out of there. The conversation did not return to the subject of the handcuffs, the object easily forgotten now that you no longer had it lying around. You really thought that for once the universe had sided with you, quickly releasing you from the embarrassing moment and allowing you to have a second chance. All you had to do now was wait for the buzz to die —something you didn't think would be very difficult as Peter got bored easily with everything—, and then you could retrieve the handcuffs and make them disappear forever.

However, your hopes that this disaster would die quickly were crushed when you saw Peter talking to Professor Xavier. He still had his sunglasses on, so you didn't have to be very close to them to guess what they were talking about.

"Who used to stay in that bedroom?" you heard Peter ask a very confused Charles. "Or perhaps it was always a storage room?"

"I... I don't know, I don't remember." The professor muttered, looking at the boy with a frown. "Why the sudden interest in the room? How is any of it relevant to cleaning and organizing?"

"It's not, he's just joking!" You intervened in the conversation before Peter said something stupid. "We were bored while we cleaned up and we started a game, but it's all done now so the new guy can move in!"

You didn't give Charles time to answer you, you just gave him a smile and pushed Peter away from him. "What are you doing?" you asked him in a whispered shout. You couldn't believe he had dared to go up to the professor to ask him questions about the room. You had to stop his stupid game before things blew up in your face.

"I'm working the case," he said as if it were obvious, shrugging his shoulders.

"He can't know about this!"

"I wasn't going to tell him! I was just asking around to see what he could remember." Peter defended himself, throwing his hands up in the air at your accusing look. 

"No, you were avoiding work just like you always do." You complained, crossing your arms over your chest. "Besides, do you really think he wouldn't figure it out? He's a mind reader!"

Peter rolled his eyes, annoyed at your persistence. He didn't understand why you seemed so concerned about the matter. It wasn't like you knew who owned the handcuffs, so why did you seem so concerned that Charles wouldn't find out. Unless... you were hiding something. 

It didn't make sense in Peter's mind that you were the owner of the handcuffs. You weren't the kind of person anyone pictured when thinking of someone who used those kinds of sex toys. You were too innocent and indifferent to the world of love and sex for that. In fact, Peter wasn't even sure you had any experience with it. But that didn't mean you were completely ignorant of the subject. Maybe you knew who the real owner was. Maybe it was a friend you were trying to cover for. Maybe he knew the owner himself and didn't know it. 

That idea piqued Peter's curiosity and unfortunately for you, that meant he wouldn't let go until he got to the bottom of it.

"Why do you care so much about people finding out about it?" 

His question threw you off as you didn't expect him to pick up on your discomfort so quickly. Your brain froze for a moment, your mouth hanging open as it struggled to come up with a good lie that would get you out from under the spotlight. However, when you saw the look in his eyes you knew it was too late.

"I-I don't care." You lied, shrugging your shoulders in a desperate attempt to look relaxed. "I just think it's dumb and it could be embarrassing for whoever owns these to have the whole school spreading rumors about it." Peter squinted at you, inspecting your expression for signs that would confirm his suspicions. 

"I think you're lying." He said after a few seconds of silence. "I think you know something about this whole thing and you don't want to tell me."

"I do not!" You exclaimed in a high-pitched tone that immediately gave you away.

"Are you sure about that? Because my detective instincts are telling me otherwise." He teased you, looking at you with an amused smile plastered on his face.

"Well, your detective instincts suck then cause I don't know anything." You were starting to get nervous, speaking at a rapid pace and in a high-pitched tone that was unusual for you. Peter knew you well enough to know when you were lying, but even if he didn't, it was pretty obvious.

"Why are you so nervous then?" he stepped closer to you, invading your personal space with his presence. His eyes never left yours, staring at you with a paralyzing intensity. It was hard to focus when he was so close to you. It was like he knew the effect he had on you and was using it to his advantage. Your poor brain that was already having trouble functioning properly lost all hope of recovering. You needed to get out of there, get away from him before you ended up saying something you would regret. 

"You're making me nervous with your stare!" You said without thinking about how he might interpret that phrase.

"I make you nervous?" Peter repeated, looking at you with an arched eyebrow. You felt the blood in your entire body travel to your face from embarrassment at his implication. He was right to assume that, but it wasn't what you had meant. 

"Not like that!" you were quick to correct. "I mean you make me nervous with youe accusatory looks."

"Why? Are you hiding something?"

"No! You know what? Forget it! Do whatever you want, I don't care." You did care, you cared a lot, but you knew that this conversation with Peter would get you nowhere. He seemed more interested in teasing you than anything else and you were dangerously close to saying something stupid, so you decided it would be best to walk away. You headed back to your room, climbing the stairs to the second floor as fast as you could. However, when you reached the last door in the corridor you discovered that Peter was waiting for you there, leaning against the wood. 

"You can't escape from me, you know that, right?" he said arrogantly, giving you a cheeky grin. 

"Ugh, I hate when you do that!" 

"No you don't."

No, you didn't. But you still rolled your eyes, faking annoyance. 

"Go away, I need to do stuff."

"What stuff?"

"It's none of your business. Let me pass."

"Not until you tell me what you know."

You let out a frustrated sigh at his persistence. It was clear that Peter wasn't going to drop the subject anytime soon and you weren't sure how much longer you could put up with his questions. He was going to learn the truth eventually, of that you were sure. His curiosity and persistence would not allow him to drop the subject. It was a matter of how and when he would find out what was at stake.

And then it occurred to you that maybe if you told him the truth, if you controlled the way he found out everything, it would be less embarrassing for you. You knew that if you told him and asked him to drop the subject he would because you were friends and Peter wasn't a complete jerk. He would playfully tease you from time to time, sure, but he wouldn't seek to really hurt you. 

"If I tell you, will you let it go?"

Peter's eyes lit up at your words, like those of a child getting his way. "I pinky promise!" he nodded, raising his hand and stretching out his pinky finger for you to shake. You shook your head, unable to believe what you were about to do, but shook his finger, sealing the promise. 

You pushed Peter into your room, closing the door behind you to make sure no one heard you. The last thing you wanted was for the rumor to spread around the school, that was a kind of humiliation you weren't prepared to face. He watched you intently as you paced around the room, waiting for you to speak. It was clear you were having trouble finding the right words —or the courage to utter them— which made Peter even more confused. Why was this subject affecting you so much?

"Spill it out already!" Peter exclaimed when he couldn't stand the silence any longer. His voice brought you back to reality, stopping you on your feet as your eyes locked on him. There was no easy or non embarrassing way to say what you had to say, and you knew that dragging it out would only make everything worse. Just like removing a band-aid, sometimes it was better to be quick and precise to get things over with as quickly as possible. So you took a deep breath and blurted out your excuses as fast as you could, barely breathing between words as you tried to explain your reasoning to a very confused Peter.

"You have to understand it was an impulse buy, I don't even know why I did it... in fact I was going to throw them away, but I forgot where I put them and I-"

"Wow, wow, wow, slow down a minute!" Peter interrupted you, surprise written all over his face. "Are you saying these are yours?" You felt the blood travel to your face once again, igniting your skin from the embarrassment you felt under Peter's curious gaze. You didn't trust your voice to answer him, so you just nodded your head slightly, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole so you wouldn't have to face him anymore.

"How? I mean, no offense, but you don't seem like the kind of girl who would even know about these, let alone own a pair."

"Cause I'm not!" you said honestly, trying to defend what little was left of your dignity. "I haven't even had-" You stopped abruptly before finishing the sentence, realizing that confessing to the guy you liked that you were a virgin was as embarrassing as admitting that you had bought a pair of handcuffs for no apparent reason.

"You've never had sex?" He asked you after a few seconds of silence. Your gaze dropped to the floor, too embarrassed to look at him as you shook your head. If he didn't think you were pathetic before, you were sure he did now. "Then why did you buy these?"

You shrugged, unsure how to answer. Honestly you didn't even know why you did it, you just blindly followed the advice of a women's magazine —a mistake you weren't going to make again. "I don't know... I thought I might need them. There's this guy I like and I've been building up the courage to ask him out and I was scared he might think I'm lame or something if I don't have all this stuff."

Peter could tell that all this was a sensitive subject for you, so he tried to be as serious and understanding as possible. He approached you, taking a few steps until he could touch your face with his hand. He lifted your chin carefully, forcing you to look at him as he spoke. "You're not lame for not having experience in this stuff." He said in a soft voice. "And if anyone ever makes you feel that way then they're a dick and don't deserve your attention."

Hearing Peter say that put a smile on your face. His reassurance made you feel a little less pathetic, it wasn't enough to repair your bruised ego, but it did make you feel better to know that he didn't see you as a loser. You knew everyone else did, even if they didn't say it to your face. You were the weird girl who didn't fit in and had never been on a date. How could you when you acted like that? No guy would find you attractive! You weren't very feminine, always opting to hide in baggy clothes. You also didn't pay as much attention to your appearance as other girls your age seemed to do, and you weren't even interested in the world of dating and romance. It all seemed so complicated to you that just thinking about it overwhelmed you, so you were pretty sure you would die alone.

"So, who is it?" Peter's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. 

"Huh?"

"Who's the guy that you like, the one that you bought these for?" Peter twirled the handcuffs in his fingers, fiddling with them as he gave you an amused smile. He was back to his usual goofy self, trying to lighten the mood with his jokes.

"It doesn't matter!" you were quick to say, trying hard to control your imagination and not let it picture Peter doing something more than teasing you with the handcuffs in his hand. 

"That makes me think that it does matter," he remarked with amusement. "C'mon, who is it? I wanna know, please tell me." Peter spoke, stretching every syllable to the point that it was annoying —just like a child who wants to convince an adult to listen to them. He always did that and you usually found it amusing and adorable, but this time it was different because you just couldn't give in to his demands.

"That wasn't part of our deal."

"Yeah, cause I didn't know there was a special someone. Tell me who it is! I deserve to know."

"No you don't!"

"You're right, but I want to know so tell me, pleaseee."

"No!"

"Is it someone I know?" You tried to control your expressions, to remain serious so as not to expose your feelings, but it was pointless. Somehow he knew, you saw it in his eyes and in the smirk he was giving you.

"No. Actually, you don't know him." You lied, struggling to control your micro-expressions. You spoke casually, faking disinterest to see if it would get him off your back. But you sounded too casual, too disinterested, and Peter knew you were lying. 

"I do know him!" he gasped at the realization. "Who is it? Is it Scott? You know he's in love with Jean, right?"

"It's not Scott!"

"Then who? Kurt?" Peter made a funny face, finding the image that had formed in his head of you and Kurt together weird. You were friends, but he didn't picture you as anything more. You weren't compatible. Even though you were both innocent, your personality was too intense for him. That would never work. 

"No, ew, he's my friend!" It was your turn to cringe this time. "He's nice, but I don't like him like that. He's not my type."

"And who is your type?" 

You fell silent, admiring Peter's warm eyes. 

'You are my type,' you thought, feeling your heart race under his intense gaze. He was the one guy you wanted to see you in a special way, the one you sighed for when he passed you by. He owned your heart, but you couldn't tell him. Especially not now after he found out one of your most embarrassing secrets. 

"It's none of your business." You said simply after a few seconds of silence, turning your back to him to escape the vigilance of his beautiful eyes. 

But Peter could tell something was wrong, his instincts giving him an answer to the questions you refused to answer. It was the sparkle in your eyes and the strange tension in the air that gave him the hint. You looked at him as if you wanted to tell him something, as if you were biting your tongue to keep your heart from leading you to make a mistake. He couldn't think of a single reason why you'd try so hard to keep your mouth shut, unless....

"Is it me?" Peter asked you, appearing in front of you in a flash. His sudden movements would have surprised you if it weren't for the fact that you were used to being around him already. Being friends with Peter came with his weird behaviors and silly jokes. No, what surprised you were his words. How had he noticed? Were you so obvious?

You didn't know how to answer so you didn't say anything, you just looked at him, letting your eyes speak for you. You couldn't have formed a coherent sentence even if you wanted to, you were too mortified to do so. Your brain was spending all its resources preparing you for the worst, screaming at you not to cry the moment Peter rejected you. You knew he would try to be nice about it —there wasn't a single ounce of malice in that boy's heart—, but it would still hurt, and the last thing you needed at that moment was to humiliate yourself any further.

However, the rejection never came. Not even a look of awkwardness on his part. He only moved closer to you, invading your personal space as he reached out to caress your cheek. 

"I need to hear you say it." He spoke, his voice almost a deep whisper. It took you a few seconds to process his words, brow furrowing in confusion at the gentleness of his touch. You were expecting to be rejected, even mocked for the stupid secret Peter had just discovered about you. But instead he looked at you with a special shine in his eyes, admiring you as if you were the only thing that mattered to him at that moment. That threw you off, your brain too stunned to stop your lips before uttering the most sincere response you could at that moment.

"it has always been you."

There wasn't much more you could say because Peter's lips silenced you as they crashed against yours in the most anticipated kiss of your life. You didn't have much experience in the area, but you knew that was the best kiss you'd ever had so far. Butterflies flew in your stomach and colorful fireworks exploded behind your eyes as you let him guide you, taking control of the kiss. His lips tasted sweet, like candy, something that didn't help you want to pull away from him. But eventually your lungs betrayed you, forcing you to break the kiss so you could breathe.

"I'm flattered you bought these thinking of me," Peter spoke, twirling the handcuffs in his fingers. He had a mischievous smile plastered on his lips, but there wasn't a trace of malice in his eyes. He wasn't trying to mock you, he was just trying to make you feel good about yourself. "But we don't need to use them. We can take things slow, go at your pace."

You appreciated his thoughtfulness. It was a sensitive subject and Peter wasn't precisely known for being the most serious person. But he was really going out of his way to make you feel comfortable, from the gentleness in his eyes to the calmness in his voice. He wanted to be counted as much as you wanted to be with him, and he was going to do everything he could to make his work.

"I'd like that." you smiled at him and he gave you a quick kiss on the lips as a way of sealing your commitment to each other.

"But I'm keeping these! You never know when they might come in handy." Peter put the handcuffs in his pocket, giving you a suggestive wink that did nothing but earn him a slap on the shoulder from you.

"Gross!" you grumbled, though you ended up laughing at the exaggerated scowl Peter gave you.

"Excuse me? I wasn't the one that brought them. You're the gross one for putting weird ideas in my head. I was actually as pure as a dove before you presented me with such a filthy object!"

"I'm already regretting this." you said, rolling your eyes. But Peter didn't care, he knew you weren't serious. He knew you well enough to know when you were joking and when you were really upset with him. He could always tell in your eyes, something changed in them when he crossed a line. He didn't know how to describe it, but it was obvious when it happened, so he always knew when to stop joking. 

And at that moment, despite your crossed arms and your look of annoyance, he could see nothing but love in your eyes.

[railingsofsorrow]

time for my moots to choose my next WIP to be posted...

[ronearoundblindly]

If autumn has artsy side hobbies. Do you think she likes water color?

Autumn probably likes a lot of different crafts and hobbies, but in terms of things that you already enjoy...I'd go with building stuff.

I think Sam helps you get the wood and tools to craft a birdhouse, a birdfeeder, and/or a birdbath for the garden. Probably a little doghouse for Maple when she sits outside with you, and a fantastic bunch of maze/obstacle things to play in--ope! probably a little something for Alpine, too.

You even whittle a Death Star for Peter Parker to hang from his ceiling. He is over the fuckin moon about that one and tells you he's going to "make you so many playlists, you won't know what to do."

Steve is thinking about doing a pottery class with you...and he may or may not have gotten the idea from this 'really old' sappy movie called Ghost.

That film was Sam's suggestion, btw, not Peter's. Peter made a gagging noise when Sam brought it up, saying "if you want Demi, go for GI Jane."

Sam then immediately informed Peter that you, a super soldier, do not need to watch a movie about basically another badass woman soldier being treated like absolute shit by a bunch of men. Steve said he'll skim it first and then maybe add it to the list.

"Oo, oo, add Private Benjamin, too," Peter tapped at Steve's notebook. "And--"

Sam stopped the kid with a hand on the chest. "We will start another list for ya."

Pete twiddled his thumbs for a second before muttering. "Do you think she'd make me a treehouse?"

Steve and Sam exchanged a look of trepidation. "...sure."

"But you are not allowed near the table saw, kid."

Pete still took it as a win, and Steve helped him draft a blueprint for the structure. It was an awesome spring project for the whole team.

[silverzoomies]

Monster Mash

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: shameless smut, smut, kissing, porn with plot, halloween, zombies, biting, undead, undead!reader, gender neutral reader, zombie kink

word count: 11,996

a/n: first of three peter-centric halloween fics!! hopefully i'll get them all posted before the month ends!! timeline here is extremely fuzzy, and might not fall in line with canon. it's kind of super ambiguous.

the usual apologies: clunky writing, potentially ooc peter/other characters, inconsistencies, ending's super meh, etc etc etc. idk if peter would realistically be down to bang a cute, zombified reader. but hey, it's fiction. why the heck not!

tag list (i remembered this time!!): @dewberryobssesed @violetharmonscupcake @kaismanwich @jellyluvr @icannot3 @taintandviolent @ahoyladiesz @scene-and-dandylover @quickandsilvers @luttic @billielourdslays

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October. Just a week before Halloween.

Peter didn’t celebrate the holiday too often these days. Not like he used to. Ever since he took up teaching at the X-mansion, he only participated in a handful of Halloween activities. The staple being - playing escort for mutant kiddos on trick-or-treating ventures. An activity he enjoyed a lot, since the kiddos referred to “Mr. Maximoff” as “the school's most awesome trick-or-treat buddy.” Which had nothing to do with Peter swiping a little extra candy - for the kids, of course - when the other teachers weren’t looking. Swear on his life.

Another Halloween festivity he loved? The school's annual, X-family Halloween party. The team generally left Peter in charge of decorations, considering it took him no time at all to set them up. Professor Chuck himself - legendary baldy - always played host at those parties. As per tradition - after the party died down - Peter cozied up in the living room with the team. They’d gather together to watch everyone’s favorite horror flicks on VHS.

He really couldn’t wait for this year’s festivities. Peter looked forward to those after-party, horror movie marathons every year. Movie nights with the team? Pretty freakin’ awesome. If only for two reasons: The abundance of sugary garbage to snack on. And the way Ororo loooooooved snuggling up with him on the couch. Being so hot natured helped. Living life in the fast lane - operating like a human furnace - sure had its perks sometimes. ‘Ro’s cuddling made an excellent distraction from Peter’s unbridled loneliness. Haha...

C-...Consider that a topic for another day. Moving on.

On horror movie night, Peter inevitably saw the jumpscares coming leagues before anyone else. It never failed. He’d call them seconds ahead of time. With ‘Ro lying at his side, and his arm wrapped around her waist. Peter would exclaim, “Jumpscare!”, breaking the tension heavy silence amongst the group. Spoiling whatever movie played. Everyone hated it, of course. Kurt growled at him. Animalistic, but nowhere near intimidating. Jubilee pelted Peter with popcorn.

Peter just couldn’t help himself. Those scares were so predictable and boring sometimes. Sure, he liked horror movies enough. With all the gnarly gore and twisted kills. But they never freaked him out, since he didn’t spook easily. His incomprehensible reaction time made terror a tough game.

All that being said...

Even with his totally outrageous bravery streak, Peter - guilty as charged - sure had his candy-ass moments.

This current mission proved, without a doubt, one of the spookiest situations he’d ever landed himself in. He could feel it in the air tonight. And not in the groovy, Phil Collins way either. An ominous sense of uneasiness crawled across his skin. Eerie vibes sent chills creeping up his spine like spiders through a web. Peter wished he could fast forward to Halloween night on the couch with ‘Ro. Heck, he'd even take decorating duty over this any day of the week. At least he could go all out, and have his own fun with it.

For an October’s night, the weather seemed uncannily coincidental. Drops of rain showered from a mass of black clouds. A sharp crack of lightning struck the ground, with a roar of thunder following in succession. It rattled the very foundation of the abandoned lab Peter found himself exploring. As part of a last minute, late night mission.

Below his feet, tiled floors laid in disrepair. Dirtying the mismatched laces of his untied sneakers. Peter snuck his way through murky hallways, his heightened senses buzzing on edge. Fight or flight kicked into high gear, making him all the more sensitive to any outside stimuli. Another echoing roar rumbled through the building, threatening to topple its cracking walls. Peter worried the ceiling might cave in at any moment.

A terrifying thought. But it happened to be the exact reason Hank chose Peter for this mission to begin with. Should shit hit the fan, Peter could skedaddle at the speed of light unscathed. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Unlike his other team members, who might risk being flattened like a pancake. Under the weight of, not one, but two floors above.

…Speaking of pancakes. Peter should definitely drop by a mom ‘n pop diner before heading back to base. He could really go for a fresh stack of late night hotcakes right about now. Warm and soft. With chocolate chips melting on the inside. Caked in sticky syrup and slathered with butter. Oooooh! And a little bacon on the side. Not too crispy, not too flop-

His mouth watered, and Peter blinked. Wiping his jacket sleeve across his lips, he redirected his attention to the task at hand. Focus, Quickie. He had a job to do, and he didn’t wanna be stuck doing said job all night.

The lab sat nestled off the coast of some island with a foreign name. Super hard to pronounce. Peter couldn’t remember it off the top of his head. Prior to this assignment, he’d never even heard of the place. But apparently, neither had anyone else. Hank sent Peter in search of what he dubbed leads on a mystery project. Something to do with scientific documents.

If he found any, he’d read their info over to Scott. Who would then relay that same intel back to Hank. Like an insanely boring game of telephone. Why Peter couldn’t speak to Hank directly was anybody’s guess. Too busy with his super secret project thingy-majig, possibly?

Hanging from Peter’s stereo belt alongside his old Walkman, a walkie screeched with a shrill chirp. A shock of alarm shot straight through Peter’s veins, making him jump. Scott’s voice crackled from the speakers.

“Any updates, Pete?” Scott asked, “Tell me anything you got. Even if it seems boring. Just hit me with it. It’s gotta be better than waiting around here in the lab, doing nothing.”

Peter held a compact flashlight in one hand, searching the lab’s pitch black halls. Most of the rooms he passed looked desolate. Barren and dusty. Save for the odd desk or empty cabinet. Peter wondered if they’d all been ransacked when the place closed down. The ceiling leaked rain from the floors above, dripping onto Peter’s bomber jacket. At the edge of his vision, he caught a rat scurrying by. But otherwise, not much else.

Pulling the walkie from his belt, he brought it up to his lips, “Uh. It’s dark and kinda spooky here. Saw a rat. Storm’s not gettin’ any better. It keeps shakin’ the whole place.” Peter shook his head, “If it doesn’t let up, I’m gonna have to split. Don’t wanna wait around to see what happens next, y’know? Over."

On the other end of the line, Scott breathed an annoyed sigh. Even through low-quality speaker fuzz, Peter could tell the sigh lacked any real spite.

“Peter. We’ve been over this. We aren’t using decades old, two-way radio communication. You really don’t have to say over. ”

Peter drummed his free hand on an empty desk. Following the beat of Sweet Poison by Naked Eyes, as it played from the only earbud he wore. He wanted to keep one ear open, just to hear Scott clearly. And mayhaps because he felt the teensy weensiest bit paranoid by his lonesome in the lab.

“Copy that. Over.” He grinned to himself.

The further Peter explored the lab’s halls, thick layers of mucky green seemed to take over. If he had to guess, he assumed Hank didn’t consider masses of moss “key intel.” Every few feet Peter stepped, he tore his way through another wall of cobwebs. Lots and lots of creepy cobwebs. Reduced to undying boredom, Peter took to karate chopping them. Might as well have fun in the face of ennui.

Half second flickers of lightning cast the lab in gleaming flashes. Bringing Peter’s attention to more rooms he missed. He wandered through some old offices. Or what he thought were offices, anyway. The trashed state of the rooms made it hard to tell. Nothing within them had withstood the test of time. Peter even tried poking around with some clunky computers. No luck. Dead as doornails.

“Found some computers. C64’s, I think. Haven’t seen one ‘a these bad boys since forever ago. But they’re totally busted.” Peter reported into the walkie, banging a fist onto one of the computers, “Yep. Busted. Over.”

Before leaving the room, Peter fucked around. Knocking over a computer monitor for no reason at all. He snatched a few, grubby pens from a lone desk. As well as a cracked coffee mug that read “I try to tell chemistry jokes, but there’s no reaction.” Just for the heck of it. Why not swipe some keepsakes, eh?

After what felt like a geological age of scouring, Peter eventually stumbled upon more filing cabinets. Stuffed to the brim with research documents and science-y records. Sighing, he pulled each drawer open one by one. Peter read the dusty files, sharing intel with Scott over the walkie. For every document Scott dismissed, Peter tossed them carelessly aside over his shoulder.

Antsy to wrap the mission up, grab some pancakes, and race home for a game of GoldenEye; Peter rushed through the last few folders. In hopes of finding whatever specific file Hank needed. But upon the last one, Scott broke some totally bogus news.

“Sorry about this.” Scott sighed, “Those files? Yeah. Hank says they’re all duds. No dice. You think it’s safe to keep looking? You might have to check the second floor.” He mentioned, to Peter’s dismay.

Peter bumped his head into the filing cabinet, groaning aloud. With a kick of his foot, he closed the last drawer and trudged onward. Oh well. The speedster could totally manage. At least he brought mix-tapes to keep his mind occupied. Along with extra tapes stashed in his belt pockets for good measure. Without music, he’d be so outrageously miserable on a mission like this.

Shining the dinky flashlight, he scanned the first floor area one more time. Just to be sure. The flashlight’s glow passed a set of double doors, leading to-

Wait. Back it up a sec. Double doors? Quietly singing New Order’s Blue Monday to himself, Peter moonwalked backwards to observe the doors again. Knitting his brows, he blinked. Stumped.

“Yo. Scotty. Got another room on the first floor. Gonna check it out real quick. Over.” Peter reported, clicking the walkie into place on his belt.

Another echo of thunder rattled through the lab, shaking the floors above. Lightning illuminated the halls in temporary flickers of white. Peter stared at the large set of doors, totally bamboozled. He couldn’t comprehend how he missed them before. When he knew for a fact he checked every nook and cranny. Inching closer, he eyed a sign pasted on one of the doors. In a rough scratch of permanent marker, the sign read:

Reanimation experiments in progress. Do not disturb!!

Reanimation? What, like…of the dead? Pfffbt. No way! Could this spooky place get any spookier? Peter swallowed an uncomfortable wedge in his throat. Shaking off any chills threatening to overtake him, he shined his flashlight through one of the door’s windows. Peter scanned the area for anything useful.

Inside, he clocked an operating table. Close to that, a lone cart cluttered with rusty, surgical tools. Cracked computer screens lined one of the walls, more advanced than they should’ve been. At least for the era they originated. Tangled cables ran along the floor, leading to something in the shadows. Peter couldn’t make it out.

He arched a brow, finally locking his sights on - Aha! Jackpot! More filing cabinets. Hopefully, they held his ticket out of this creepy place. Fingers crossed. Peter burst into the room in a flash, kicking up dust in his wake. Tearing through another wall of cobwebs, he surveyed the area again. Making a mental note of every cabinet he could see. Enough to keep him busy for the next hour, he guessed. Peter slumped his shoulders, huffing an aggravated groan.

Talking to Scott through the entire process made it more bearable. Being so no nonsense and straight forward, Scott had no problem retaining the info Peter shared from every file. Which saved the speedster any hassle of repeating himself, or having to explain things he didn’t understand. Science? Not really Peter's area of expertise. He thought himself more of a tech, or music guy.

Luckily enough, Peter found whatever documents Hank sent him after. A deep dive into every folder, in every drawer, in about a dozen different cabinets were all it took. Had Peter aged another thirty years? He sure as hell felt like it. No sweat! Mission accomplished. Time to bid the old lab goodbye.

Peter flew through the rest of the cabinets in less than a second’s time. Triple checking for any intel Hank might find compelling. He skimmed some records documenting the “reanimation of dead tissue.” Hm. Actually, blue beastie might potentially find that fascinating. “Reanimation” of the dead didn’t exactly sound too commonplace in modern science, did it?

In a folder, Peter discovered a file. Clipped with a photograph of - hellllllllooooo there! Someone…kinda cute. Very cute. Peter whistled, piercing the quiet thrum of distant rain. He read on.

Oh. The cute someone. They died. Tragically perished. Hit by a car back in the 80’s. What a bummer. One of the scientist's brought them to the lab as a test subject. Used for some twisted experiment in reanimation. The kicker? They proved to be the lab’s first and only successful trial run. Of around fifty different, reanimation trials. Yikes. That's...a lotta dead bodies.

These scientists successfully revived the dead? Peter doubted it. Over a decade had passed since then, and no one ever used the technology mentioned in the files. This lab's research couldn’t be as successful as they documented. Or something must've gone wrong, for them to give up and shut down the lab's operation completely.

Yeah. Treating human corpses like science fair projects for school? Super warped. Hank, wacky in his science ventures, totally found macabre shit like that interesting. Shrugging, Peter tucked the manilla folders he gathered under an arm. He grabbed his walkie, and reported to Scott.

“I got somethin’ else Hank might be into. It's totally messed up, he'll love it. But-uh…if that’s all he needed? I’m gonna jet now, ‘kay? I can’t take another minute in this scary ass place. Over and out.”

Before making his leave, Peter glanced around the room one last time. He appeared near the operating table in a picosecond, his brown eyes scanning the cart next to it. Curiously, Peter picked through some rusty, surgical tools.

Upon finding a scalpel in fairly okay condition, he swiped the tool and slipped it inside his back pocket. Whistling to Oingo Boingo's No One Lives Forever - in hindsight, kind of ironic - playing from his Walkman, Peter raised a foot to kick the cart. Watching it roll away into a nearby wall. Hasta la vista.

As Peter steered away from the operating table, a monstrous shadow loomed at the edge of his vision. His heart rampantly pounded in his chest, his senses still high strung. Jumping back with a terrified gasp, Peter climbed halfway onto the operating table. He fumbled for his flashlight, pointing the glow at the massive bundle of darkness. The light shook in Peter’s trembling hand.

But it-...oh. Phew! Nothing to be afraid of. Hah. What the heck was Peter gettin’ riled up for?

Like something straight out of science fiction, Peter’s shadowy monster proved nothing more than a giant pod. He squinted, moving towards it until close enough to observe it more clearly. The tech appeared big enough to hold a person of his size. Or, hell, maybe even someone of Beast’s size. Peter ran a hand along the surface of the pod, gathering a layer of dust on his fingertips. Scowling, he shuddered, wiping the dust on his jeans. “ EUGH! Eck-” Peter exclaimed to no one, “What’s up with this dusty, old thing??” Glass encased the outer layer of the large machine. It might've been see-through, if not for the unsanitary grime blanketing the entire thing. Years upon years of soot build up. Peter tried wiping the dust away with his elbow, to no avail. He couldn’t see inside, even with the aid of his flashlight.

Puzzled, Peter darted around the room in a silver blur, searching for clues. A switch of some kind? A secret code? He tampered with everything from the cracked monitors on the wall, to the colorful cables lining the floor. Peter even tried prying the pod open with a rusty hammer he found. Still, it refused to budge. Even with the power of speedster strength. Was it made of adamantium or something?

Sighing, defeated, Peter tossed the hammer away. It crashed into one of the screens hanging against the wall. Shattering the crystal display upon impact. Whoops. Oh well. How much more damage could be done to the place? Not like anyone would be making renovations anytime soon. Not in the middle of buttfuck nowhere island.

Making an accidental misstep, Peter slipped on his untied shoelaces. His ankle entangled itself in a circle of cables on the floor, and he lost his balance. Tripping, Peter stumbled backwards into some busted machinery, knocking his head. His back collided with the hard, metal surface behind him.

“ Auuugh. Shit.” Peter muttered. He didn’t understand how he could be so goddamn clumsy all the time, given - what the professor called - his mutant gift, “Ow. Dammit.”

He must have triggered a switch when he tripped. Suddenly, a loud hiss seethed through the air like a bus braking to a stop. A slow moving cloud of smoke rose from inside the pod. As it spread, filling the room, the fumes turned radioactive neon in color. It swarmed Peter’s nostrils, overflowing his senses with an earthy scent.

“Uhhh…uh oh.” He mumbled, “Is that supposed to happen?” Acting in haste, Peter scrambled to free his ankle from the cable’s tight grip.

A corpse reanimation research lab.

Nope. Noooope. He’d seen Return of the Living Dead enough times to know - whatever the hell’s happening now? Bad news. Couldn’t be good. Peter suppressed the urge to scream like a frightened child. A buzzing voice chimed from his walkie, startling him further. Dammit all, Scotty! He almost sent Peter into cardiac arrest for a hot second.

“Peter? Hey-uh, are you there? You alright? You didn’t stop somewhere for pancakes again, did you?” Scott crackled through the walkie, but Peter didn’t respond, “Better bring enough back for the whole class.” He joked, sarcastic.

Peter gawked at the sight before him in a mix of horror and confusion. Completely petrified, as Oingo Boingo played through his ear. The neon smoke emitted from the pod began to clear, revealing a body inside. A dead body.

Your dead body, to be specific.

Somehow, Peter recognized you. But that didn’t make any sense at all. He knew for a freakin’ fact he’d never seen or met you a day in his life. Unless… oh. Oh, holy shit. He hurriedly grabbed the extra folder he’d taken and opened it, just to glance between you, and the photo inside. And sure enough… The first and only successful trial run in reanimation.

Oh. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Peter’s eyes blew open wide. His stomach dropped twenty thousand feet through the ground, plummeting to the Earth’s core. Swallowing thickly, he observed your slumbering body from his position on the dirty floor.

Your skin appeared ashier than it naturally should be. Y’know, on account of being dead and all. It more closely resembled a subdued, greenish color. Kinda Frankenstein-esc. Stitches lined each and every one of your limbs. As if some psycho nut job took you apart and sewed you back together again. Judging by the info in your file, they probably did. Embedded into your neck, were two bolts on either side. Also very Frankenstein-esc. You reminded him of a wax dummy on the set of some low-budget, horror flick. It’d be kinda funny, if he didn’t feel seconds away from screaming in horror.

You could be a dummy, if Peter had any luck. Yeah. This mission? Surely just a super elaborate prank set up by the team. Like a haunted house tour, made to scare the silver pants off him. Those sly dogs think they’re so slick, huh? ...R-Right?

Peter took a deep breath, keeping his terrified gaze fixed on you. In his ear, the funky tune came to an end. The lab fell into a deafening silence. Only broken by the faintest pitter patter of rain, and a quiet clamor of thunder now echoing at a distance. Signaling the passing of the storm. One less thing to worry about.

Though, he’d much rather agonize over a building’s foundation crumbling. He could handle a weather-related disaster wayyy better than a zombie coming to life, to - potentially - gorge on his flesh.

Raising his flashlight, he pointed the glow at your lifeless body. Again, Peter breathed a long sigh to ease his panic stricken nerves. An interference of crackling static ripped through the walkie then. Loud, and shrill enough to cut glass. At that very moment, your eyes - once locked in eternal slumber - popped open freakishly wide.

Oh. Oh hellllll no. Fuck that. Fuuuuck that.

Peter’s hunch proved totally right. You weren’t just dead. You were undead.

“ Mmmmmm nope.” Peter mumbled to himself, swiftly shaking his head, “Nuh uh. Nope.”

Shaking with adrenaline, he glanced between your dead-eyed gaze, and his trapped foot. Okay! No problem-o! Not a problem at all. For an X-Man, zombies made an easy foe, right? Peter could totally just-...

Just vamoose! Make a break for it! Right now!

Like, now.

Peter hadn’t run away yet. Why hadn’t he run away? Hellllloooo? Ground control to Quickie! Time to make a quick exit, and head for the hills. Lest he become zombie chow.

Stunned, Peter remained petrified. In an uncannily slow movement, you rose from the pod like Nosferatu out of a coffin. Peter cursed under his breath, willing his terror to take a one way ticket outta there. He needed to come to his senses, and fast. Even as Peter tried to move, his paralyzed state caused him to fumble again. His movements lacked their natural fluidity, and his blood ran cold.

Like a total doofus, in his failed attempt to escape, Peter tangled his foot even deeper through the cables. Sometime in the last thirty seconds or so, he dropped his flashlight. Within the inky darkness, he could barely make out your shape as you moved. You groaned a long, croaky sound. Guttural, like an eldritch abomination.

Another crash of lightning showered your living corpse in a white luster. Peter made direct eye contact with you. A gaze between life and death.

A yell vibrated through his lungs and bounced off the walls of the room, as Peter finally screamed. Your slow moving, zombified body climbed from the pod much like a spider. Stumbling at first, you connected your bare feet with the dirty, tiled floor. Once you found your balance, a cracking sound erupted from your limbs. Your bones clicked and popped audibly into place. Peter scowled, physically cringing.

Another scream tore from the depths of his chest, “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” He shouted.

You dragged your feet in a limp, moving towards Peter with a slow gait. Stitched arms reached out for him in an unhurried motion, “ Luhhhhhhhh- ” You choked on a groggy gurgle.

Fuck. Fucking shit fuck. You definitely wanted to feast on his juicy brains and smooth flesh. No denying that. It had been, like, a decade since you last ate anything. And Peter probably looked like one hell of a snack right about now. Not even in a totally kinky way.

“WOAH, WOAH, WOAH! Hold yer horses there, baby! Yer gettin’ a liiiitttle too close fer comfort now! C’mon, huh? Do you really think I’m on the menu? ‘Cuz trust me. If yer gonna eat somebody? I shouldn’t be yer first choice! I really don’t taste all that great!” Peter yelled, throwing a hand out momentarily before returning to the tangled cables. He huffed an uneasy laugh, “SHIT! Yer not listening, are you? Ahaha! Yer gonna eat me. Totally gonna eat me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-”

Peter tore at the cables wrapped around his foot. Acting as quickly as his petrified state would allow, he pulled the scalpel from his back pocket. But the dull razor’s edge refused to cut through the wires. Dropping the useless tool, he ripped into the cables one more time using all his strength. Only to free himself a millisecond too late. Always late. You lurched forward, making grabby hands. 

Quicksilver vs. an actual, real life zombie. If he made it out alive, that’d make one helluva story.

But-

Wait a damn minute. Hold the freakin’ phone. Why were you…looking at him like that?

The glazed over eyes of a living corpse opened up, all big and doe-like. Gazing at Peter in - no mistaking it - infatuated fondness. Your supple lips parted with a wide smile of pure delight. Like sunshine peeking through hazardous, storm clouds. You leapt forward unexpectedly, squeaking a raspy squeal. Burrowing your face into the warmth of Peter’s chest, you linked your arms around his neck. Holding onto him tight.

“What the-” He whispered, looking down at your messy head of hair.

Uh. Okay. So, that just happened. Weird. Why weren’t you feasting on his flesh? Wasn’t he supposed to be your first meal since zombie hibernation, or something? Didn’t you wanna go chomp chomp chomp, and turn his guts into mush?

Peter realized, looking at you up close, you appeared perfectly clean and preserved. You didn’t reek like a dead body. The earthy scent on your cold skin wasn’t too unpleasant either. It smelled herbal. Floral, even. Your smooth skin lacked any signs of rot. Aside from one or two lesions revealing rib or arm bones. Kinda...freakishly cool. The surface of your skin looked see-through, with veins weaving underneath like intricate wiring.

A little spooky, sure. But not all that scary to look at, surprisingly enough. Not like Peter expected, anyway. As you snuggled closer into Peter’s body, he began to realize how oddly affectionate you were. Very out of character, for a zombie. You squeaked an unintelligible noise, attempting to communicate. But you just couldn’t form the words. Maybe your speech capabilities fizzled out after years and years of unending silence.

Peter creased his brows, lowering his defenses and calming himself down. Another thirty seconds passed. His brains remained intact, and you hadn’t made him your next meal. He pulled the earbud from his ear, hooking them around his neck and pressing pause on the Walkman. Craning your neck back, your glassy eyes met Peter’s own. You grinned so big and joyful, gleaming the innocence of a pure-of-heart, golden retriever. Despite being totally bizarre, Peter found your sweetness...sorta...weirdly cute.

“Uhmmm…hi? Hey. Uh-why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” He laughed, a little uneasy.

Maybe your affection stemmed from something simple. If Peter were locked up in a cramped pod for so many years, he’d be ecstatic if someone finally freed him. You were probably just uber thankful he’d broken you outta that pod thingy. And you showed gratitude through touching, since you couldn’t exactly flurry him with thank yous. He could accept that. Sure. For now.

The walkie hanging from his belt droned a buzz, and Scott’s voice called out. Peter finally reached for it, maneuvering between his body and yours. Your arms stayed around his neck, your body hanging like a stubborn monkey’s from a tree.

“Peter? Do you copy? Peter, are you there, man? Talk to us. Please. Should we send someone over to assist?” Scott asked, his voice itching with alarm. “Yeah! Yeah, nah. Uh-hey, Scotty! Hey, I’m here. I’m oka-...dude, it’s fine. Nothin’ to worry about. Seriously. But…I do kinda have a situation here? Over.” Peter replied.

Scott exhaled a relieved sigh on the other end of the line. In the crackling background of the walkie, Peter heard Jean’s voice. She asked, “Did he say over ?” Followed by a series of hushed chuckles. Peter smirked to himself.

“Oh! Oh my god. Thank goodness, Pete. We were all getting pretty worried about you over here. What’s going on? Are you still at the lab? You said there was a situation. What kind of situation? Did that old place finally cave in?” Scott asked. Many, many questions.

Peter heard even more frantic, muffled conversations in the background. While he couldn’t understand them, he recognized the voices. The entire team had gathered, just to make sure he made it out alive. Awww. How sweet. They were worried about lil ol’ him? If Peter hadn’t had the bejesus scared out of him not even five minutes ago, his heart would’ve melted.

“Heyyyy, guys! Uhhhh…soooo…I might’ve found, like, a zombie? No joke. Like, a real zombie. But it’s not tryna kill me. It’s-” Peter paused, raising a brow. You fluttered your lashes, giving him a coquettish look, “Bro, I think it’s makin’ eyes at me. Legit. Kinda weird, right? Definitely not what I was expecting. But it’s totally fine. I got it all under control now. Over.”

A long silence fell amongst the walkie’s noise. Until Scott finally responded in monotone.

“Did we hear you wrong, or did you just say you found a zombie?” He asked, his tone carrying a hint of disbelief. As if expecting Peter to say - Psych! Fooled ya!

Peter parted his lips to confirm. But the abrupt tickle of a chilly kiss on his neck silenced him. You stood up on your bare toes, giggling sweetly. Across his hot skin, you peppered your chapped lips. Instantly, Peter froze in place again. Shudders rang through his body. He reached for one of your arms, tugging you to try and pull you off him.

“Uhm. Y’know what? It’s no big deal. B-But yeah, it’s a zombie fer sure.” Peter tugged your arm with more insistence, urging you to let go. But you persisted, giggling into the crook of his neck, “Like I said. No worries here. It’s not like I’m in da- haaah okayokayokay-”

Your feather light kisses became soft, kitten licks. Flicking Peter’s flesh with your slimy tongue, you squealed, tickled pink. Peter jolted, shivers sizzling down his spine. He tilted his neck to the side, wincing. Over the walkie, he heard Hank’s gruff voice.

“Peter! It’s Hank-” The blue beast said, as if Peter couldn’t already tell based on his growly tone, “Are you a hundred percent sure the undead creature isn’t dangerous?” He asked, buzzing through a scratch of interference.

Coldness slathered and swirled Peter’s neck in slow circles. Fluttering his eyes closed, he replied, “N-Not dangerous. Ohhhh. Definitely not dangerous. No danger here. All good. Over.” Again, he tried to pull you off.

Your discolored arms tightened their hold around his neck and over his shoulders. Cooing noises dripped from your tongue like honey, so sugary sweet. You swiped his skin with your tongue, nuzzling your cold nose into the heated crevice of his neck. Pressing your body closer into his, you squirmed, littering him with zombie kisses.

Peter tensed, apprehensive of your affections. He didn’t want to be too harsh or aggressive towards you. Worried that any sign of conflict might make you snap. For all he knew, you might go bonkers and brain hungry. Really, he should’ve gotten it over with and pushed you away. Before you took things a little too far. And you did. Your teeth sank into his neck, lightly nibbling his flesh. As you pressed yourself even closer into his proximity, your breasts - covered only by a ragged crop top - met the swell of his broad chest. WOOOOOAH! Talk about twisted! Sure, okay, maybe your bites turned him on, like, a little. Flooding his body with a pleasant, all-over shudder of pleasure. But he couldn’t just fold for a zombie, could he? That’d be disgusting!

It’d be gross, right?

A subconscious desire in the recesses of his lonesome mind told him he wanted - no, needed - the attention. He hadn’t been intimate with anyone like this since the pogs fad. Easy, now, Peter! Down, boy.

But…shit. As much as he wanted to give in, he couldn’t. Not for a monster. A living corpse, left cooking in a secluded pod for a decade. Cloaked in discoloration and held together by expertly crafted stitching. Not entirely mindless, but so dense, you hadn’t the forethought to ask - “What happened? Where am I? Who are you?” No. Instead, you went after him the moment you saw him, showering him in bubbly, zombie lovin’.

He…shouldn’t find that hot. His fingers shouldn’t be tightening around the walkie, and his groin shouldn’t feel as scorching as it does. Oh, man. Could Peter be any more doomed? He’d have to be mad desperate - way out of his mind - to reciprocate your affection. Raising the walkie again, he cleared his throat.

“Hiya, Beastie. A-Acutally, I think they-...the zombie really, really likes me.” Peter added for no reason at all. You nibbled him a little harder, and he winced again.

“Well, now! That’s good then, isn’t it? Better than the alternative, I’d say! If at all possible, Peter, you should bring the creature with you. I’d like to look it over. Maybe run some tests. Figure out what brought it to life! This could be the secret to reversing brain death!” Hank chimed, excited.

Peter rolled his eyes. Of course Hank wanted to poke and prod at you like some little, lab rat. He opened his mouth to respond, but choked before he could get a word in. Your dull teeth clamped roughly into his neck. Peter braced a free hand on your hip, his thumb digging into the cool, exposed flesh there. Now, suspicion began to dawn on him.

You could be a clever, little zombie. Capable of luring Peter in with flirtatious wiles and sweet touches. Once he let his guard down, what if you planned on tearing into his guts? Well played, smarty pants zombie. Well played. But Peter caught onto your little game. You couldn’t get anything past him.

Instead of slurping his blood like a 7-Eleven slushie, or ripping your nails into his taut muscles; you suckled his skin lovingly. Pulling tiny hickies into his neck. Squealing and giggling in that girlish fashion, playful with every nibble. Peter gulped, biting his lip between his teeth. No way in hell he allowed a zombie to give him hickies.

…Except he did. So what? No harm in it, right?

“Y-Yeah. Sure. I’m good. Great. Just hangin’ out with my new zombie buddy. It’s totally not gonna eat my brains. Like, zero percent chance I’m gonna die an ugly, zombie death. So, y’know, Beastie, don’t lose any sleep over it.” Peter responded, before following it up with a condescending, “Over.”

On the walkie line, Peter heard a series of groans and faint giggles. Followed by Hank’s voice, as he passed the walkie back to Scott. The X-Men’s laser eyed leader sighed, his tone unamused.

“Whatever, Peter. Just…just hurry up, will you? And bring those documents over for Hank. Thanks.”

Peter tried, and failed to keep his composure. A cutie pie zombie kept macking on him like a lovesick puppy, and he had no clue what to make of it. You sucked more sloppy, violet marks into his neck. Tugging his skin with your teeth and nibbling like you couldn’t get enough of him. Peter’s skin flared up in cold creeps, as you trailed your chilly lips to his shoulder. Pulling his jacket and the collar of his shirt aside, you spoiled him in more undead affection.

“Gotcha. Copy that. Ov- mmm -” Peter whispered a moan, replying with a rushed, “Overandout.”

He clipped the walkie back onto his belt. Attempting once more to pry you off him, Peter gave your arm a strong tug. A little more forceful this time around. As you finally dislodged yourself from his neck, Peter took a few steps back. Avoiding any stray cables on the floor.

Now, with some distance between the two of you, he cleared his throat. Peter brought a hand to his neck, grazing fingers over the love bites you left behind. Tiny splotches of purple pooled with offsets of scarlet. Faint teeth marks left grooves in his skin. He hissed.

Giving you the freedom to pepper him with hickies might not have been the smartest idea. Hopefully, you didn’t infect him with some sick, zombie disease. One with the potential to end humanity as he knew it. He couldn’t cope with the weight of that responsibility on his shoulders.

You gawked up at him with those big, adoring eyes. Excitedly, you squealed, hopping towards him with your eager arms outstretched. Hoping to pull Peter into another close hug, just so you could litter him in more nibbly, love bites. He raised an abrupt hand, maintaining distance. Peter cleared his throat again. His cheeks burned hot, doused in bright pink.

Totally not fair, the way an overly affectionate zombie got him blushing.

“L-Listen. Uh. Yer sweet, but-” Peter started. Subconsciously, his gaze drifted down your body. He observed the stitches sewn into your neck and limbs. His dark chocolate eyes followed the rips and tears in your skimpy shirt. The flimsy garment revealed a tiny peek of your - admittedly pretty - breasts. And Peter swallowed, his throat running dry, “Uhhh…you can’t keep doin’ this, okay? The-” He wiggled his long fingers, gesturing to his neck, “The hickie thing. If yer gonna come with me, we gotta lay down some ground rules. Alright? You get me, babe?”

You tilted your head to the side, blinking slowly. Gazing at Peter with a look that told him you didn’t understand. But you didn’t seem to give a shit either way. You reached for one of his hands, a dazzled smile curling into your lips. Purring a candied noise of affection, you brought his hand to your cheek and nuzzled his palm. Your lips gently kissed each fingertip. Peter pulled a face, knitting his silver brows.

“Why’re you so damn-” He shook his head, “Whatever. Listen. Can you, like, chill out? No biting, you understand?” Peter paused to make a chomping gesture, clicking his teeth. But this only made you giggle. Which, unfortunately, he found super infectious.

Peter chuckled, scoffing playfully, “Stop that! I’m totally serious! No biting. No licking. No kissing. Like this. You see this?” He gestured to the hickies on his neck, their trail leading under his shirt, “No more ‘a that, you feel me? I dunno how I’m gonna explain this to the crew back home. They’re gonna think we got, like, freaky ‘er somethin’. Yeah. Can you imagine that? Like I’d ever fool around with-”

Fluttering your off colored lashes, you tilted your head to the other side. You parted your chapped lips, squealing as you edged his fingertips into your mouth. Pressing the salty pads to your bitter tongue.

“Oh! EUCK! Gross! Don’t-” Peter scowled, jerking his hand from you in less than a millisecond. With a horrified look, he observed his fingers as if they were germ-infested specimens, “Yer a real weird one, babe.”

His guard fell. While Peter kept his perplexed eyes on his fingers, you leapt forward. Burying your face deep into the fabric of his shirt, you squealed. Gleeful and bubbly. Peter groaned, only half-annoyed. He made a move to push you off him again. But your precious, little purring noises changed his mind. Peter couldn’t find it in himself to put his foot down.

Turns out he had a weakness. Cute, overly affectionate zombies. Who woulda thought?

Whatever. Peter had wayyy more important things on his plate. He knew he should gather up those folders he dropped, along with anything else he lost during his freak out session. Once he did, he needed to get the two of you out of this dingy, old lab asap.

“ Mmmmm …n-need…” You hummed your first word, before squealing, “Loooooove~!” Your voice strained, rattling like you’d been pounding down cigarettes by the plenty.

Peter’s eyes widened, and he let his sizeable hands fall to your hips, “Di-...wait a sec, did you just talk? Holy shit! You can talk?” Peter asked, dumbfounded, “Woah! Wow. Uh…so…you got a name? Can you at least tell me yer name?”

Your case file hadn’t listed your name, leaving you reduced to a number. Pretty messed up, if anyone were to ask Peter. Either you still didn’t understand him, or you couldn’t remember your own name. Instead of giving him an answer, you nuzzled your face in his chest. You tittered, so soft and smitten, your ragged voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Cold, tiny zombie hands tickled the back of his neck, raking gentle nails down his torso.

Standing on your toes, you connected your cool lips with his neck all over again. You kissed your previous love bites, as if doing so would heal them entirely. Ashamed of himself for letting it happen, Peter stifled a groan.

"Y-...You don't remember yer name, do you?" He mumbled. Peter's strong arms wrapped around your back, pulling you in, "That is...a seriously messed up situation. But, hey, I'm here fer you. Don't worry, 'kay? We'll get you to a safe place, and you can start over there. Sound good?" His caring nature shined through. But male horniness abruptly overshadowed it, as your wet tongue tickled his skin.

A guilty part of him, overrun with sympathy, felt bad for you. Those scientists hadn’t treated you like the victim of an unfortunate accident. More like a toy. Meant to be ripped apart, played with, and abandoned. It seemed wrong to perceive you in a frisky light. But then again…you wanted love. You may as well have been begging for it.

Love. One of the first words you spoke since your undead coma. Not that much of a surprise, if he thought about it. As a science experiment, loneliness probably consumed you. Even before your decade-long slumber. In a way, Peter understood. He too felt haunted by a longing for affection for far, far too long. In his mind, that made the two of you kindred spirits.

Ahhhh …dammit. Peter just couldn’t resist you and your sweet wiles anymore. His self control steadily slipped from his weakened grasp.

“ Mmmmm! Wa-....waaaant…love~! Neeeed… mmm …lo-....love~!” You squeaked, your cold tongue curling over a fresh, purple mark.

“C’mon, baby. We can’t-...you really have to stop this. We gotta head back to base, like, now. Everyone’s waitin’ on me, and I-” Peter muttered, and you pulled back. Gazing at him with that mystified, doe eyed look. Like you saw the beauty of the cosmos in him, and him alone. Your lips sparkled, wet from your lovin’. Peter clutched your hips firmly. His jeans seemed...somehow tighter all of a sudden, “Would ya stop lookin’ at me like that?”

“Looooooove~?” You cooed, your voice taking on a lustrous, but groggy tone.

“Yeah. I know. But…” Peter sighed, letting his hands feel up and down your curvy sides, “Yer gonna get me in soooo much trouble. But, fine. You win, okay? What kinda love are we talkin’ 'bout here, babe? You wanna hug? Want me to-uhm…to plant one on you? Is that it?”

You perked up then. Peter took it as a sign you understood him, more than you let on before. He arched a brow. At this point, why even hold back? Because you were dead? So what! Who ever said zombies couldn’t be smokin’ hot?

If he messed around with you just a little, no one would ever know. Which…made the concept even more enticing. You could be his little secret. An affectionate secret he’d forever bury in the ground. In place of the grave those scientists never gave you.

Peter fluttered his eyes closed, finally giving in to your closeness entirely. Lowering his big hands, he grabbed your ass. His palms squeezed over the torn, booty shorts you wore. Never did he imagine - upon exploring some horror movie, science lab - he’d feel up a cutie pie corpse’s plump bottom by the end. What a way to end a mission. Life worked in some wildly bizarre ways sometimes.

Kissing a zombie? Not as gross as he thought it’d be.

Okay. Maybe for, like, half a second. But the earthy taste on Peter’s lips didn’t faze him much. Once he pushed past the initial ick, he embraced you fully. Peter decided he didn’t give a flying fuck how unsanitary zombie smooches might be. Uncoordinated lip motions lured him in further. Pinkish teeth grazing his bottom lip between kisses. Soon enough, they turned sloppy, and Peter found himself frenching the living dead.

Zombie make out session. An experience he hadn’t planned to check off his bucket list. But now, he could.

One of his hands gripped your ass. While his other held your face and pulled you in for more tongue action. In the midst of swapping spit, you sought every opportune moment to nibble him. Peter couldn’t help but be super into it. You mewled softly, giggling when he gave your booty a hard squeeze. Chuckling, he parted from your lips to look over your greenish face. Your eyes bulged so big and wide, pupils an off-grey color and impossibly huge. Wonderstruck by his very existence. Darting down to capture your lips again, Peter stumbled forward. He guided your body towards the operating table, knocking you into it. Your hips collided with the edge, causing a loud, vibrating clang. The rough motion worried him enough, he stopped sucking face just to confirm you were alright. Peter feverishly kissed your cold lips, his hands exploring your body. Feeling stitched skin under his fingers.

You pulled from him with a joyous squeal, but Peter followed. Confused as to why you stopped, until you dove for the untarnished side of his neck. Dull flats of your teeth chomped straight into his flesh, grinding a little too roughly for comfort. Peter winced with a start, ceasing his love on your bootylicious bottom.

“N-No! Noooo! Hey, baby, look at me.” Peter snapped his fingers to get your attention. Not that he wanted to be so demanding. But you needed to understand his boundaries, before you tore into his flesh and guzzled his blood. Instantly, you reacted, retracting your teeth from his neck. You moved to make eye contact, and Peter fixed you with a soft gaze, “What’d I tell you, huh? Look, it’s not that I can’t appreciate some neckin’. 'Cuz I totally can. And I really dig it. Like, a lot. But you can’t be munchin’ on me! Really freaks me out when you do that.”

You angled your head again, curious. Doe eyes gaped at him with fluttering lashes, innocently confused, “ Mmm. Giv-....Giiiiive…love?” You croaked, pawing at Peter’s chest over his shirt, acting so needy.

He couldn’t begin to understand what you meant, or what you imagined love to be in your head. Were you really so desperate to bite him? Or, were you asking for something else? Wanton, bedroom eyes dawned your pretty face. Plush, ashy lips parting. You pawed his chest again, your blunt nails scraping across his shirt. In your desperation to communicate your-uhm…needs, you jutted your hips forward into his jeans. “L-L…Lo-” You started, throaty voice oozing innocence. Though, the look in your lidded eyes betrayed said innocence, “Loooooove. Need. P-Please?” 

Peter’s eyes popped open, as realization dawned on him. Oh. You meant you needed-... Ah. He understood now. The unreasonably cute, living corpse he found - dormant in a pod for, like, a decade - wanted to bump uglies. Great. Awesome. What the hell was he supposed to do about that? Fulfill your unbridled desire? C’monnnn. Didn’t boning undead cuties come with any moral implications? If he took you to pound town, would that make him a necrophiliac? Peter really didn’t wanna be labeled a necrophiliac.

But hypothetically, what if he admitted his own desperation to himself? He always fumbled every time he tried to step up his game and woo the ladies. Not like he had any game to begin with. And tonight, there you were. Practically begging for him to take you. He should acknowledge the fact that, yeah - no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise - he found you very hot. So, ludicrously hot. Zombie traits and all.

And regardless of how many times he second guessed himself - at the end of the day - his dick didn’t have any qualms about zombie hanky panky.

Peter’s hand traveled up, thumbs curiously tracing the rough lining of your neck stitches. Before toying with the rusted bolts an inch or two above. Testing if you could even feel it. You didn’t react, and Peter wondered if scientists used those bolts to revive you. Did they awaken you Frankenstein style, with sharp surges of electricity? Or did you come to life by other means? A glowing, reagent liquid, maybe?

Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Peter tugged the front of your loose top down. A pair of off-green, zombie melons jiggled freely. Stitches circled each breast, and Peter may or may not have thought they looked hot as fuck like that. Call him inhumane, but he really dug your whole monstrous babe aesthetic.

His hands kneaded the softest pair of undead knockers he ever felt, making you squirm under his touch. Peter grinned, pleased with every choked squeak leaping off your lips. He flitted his dark gaze up to your face, then back down to your breasts; back and forth, back and forth. Admiring the delicate expressions you made, your precious face scrunched in pleasure.

“Damn. Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are? ‘Specially like this.” Peter chuckled, pinching and twisting your perky nipples, “Bet those bad guys never did. Sucks fer them. Yer a total babe. And sooo fuckin’ cute. Makes me want you all fer myself.”

Sooooo…about your…cooch situation. Yeah. Uh…Peter might’ve been somewhat worried about that. Taking your condition into consideration, he felt himself overcome with hesitance. Fearful that your-uh…flower, so to speak, may have withered away after a decade of darkness.

What about diseases? The thought made Peter squeamish. Even though you appeared and smelled relatively clean, you still hadn’t showered in a long freakin’ time. Then again, protection existed. Not to mention, you were so, so needy and cute. Your body looked undeniably amazing, and felt so soft. Fuck it. With some reluctance, Peter willed himself to test the waters. For your sake, but also for his own. Just to make up for the years he spent wishing he could get laid again.

A win-win for you both.

Tugging your tiny shorts down your smooth thighs - finding a little struggle along the way, since the meat of your thighs proved an obstacle - Peter snuck his fingers under the hem of your worn panties. The millisecond before his fingers met the supple curtains of your pussy, he second guessed himself for the zillionth time. Peter’s subconscious doubt pestered him enough, he almost withdrew his hand completely.

But the precious whimper you made gave him enough encouragement to keep going. His thick digits cautiously braved forbidden, undead territory. Finding an overabundance of cool, silky wetness between your lips. Peter swallowed hard, knitting his brows as he scoured for your clit.

“Jesus, baby.” He muttered. Judging by your bubbly squeak of delight, Peter assumed he found what he’d been venturing for. Leaning slightly forward into your proximity, Peter circled your stiff, little nub, “You want it bad, don’t you?”

“G-...G-....Gooooood! Mo-....More? More!” You mewled, clenching fists into his shirt. Mindlessly, you canted your hips, seeking his crotch. “Hey, it’s whatever you want, pretty.” He mused with a smirk, voice tender, “Relaaaax. I gotcha. I gotcha. ”

His fingers drew downwards, teasing for a beat before cruising into your silken entrance. Lush, deathly cold walls welcomed his digits in a loving hug. Beckoning Peter to sink them in deeper. You held his shirt like a lifeline, moaning an angelic, rattle of a noise. Pulling you closer into his warm body, Peter lowered his head to your shoulder. Thin strands of silver hair tickled your cheek. His thick fingers curled, hooking into a cushiony spot inside you. Your near-empty eyes saw hot flashes of light.

“L-LOOOVE~!” You whimpered through hitched cries.

“Mhm?” Peter laughed, impishly nibbling his lip, “Feel that lovin’? Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

Keeping you distracted for a temporary moment, Peter dotted your neck in warm kisses. Subtly easing his fingers in and out of your velvet pussy at a quicker pace. Your knees buckled, trembling the faster he moved. Until his motions became brutal. With a perfect curl, speedy digits rammed repeatedly into that spongy spot you loved. Your sugary sweet, unintelligible whines rose in volume, as your sticky, little, zombie cunt quivered.

You gnawed powerful bites as you came, your teeth digging into Peter’s neck. But this time, he allowed it. He forced himself to muscle through the pain, holding your shuddering body close, “ Shhhh. Shhh. It’s cool, baby. It’s - ahh - it’s cool. That's it.” He cooed with a careful tone, stroking the back of your head and threading fingers through your ragged hair.

Easing his fingers from your cunt, he double checked the digits, making sure nothing seemed off. Your release felt thicker and stickier than any living person’s, but didn’t have much of a scent. While usually he looooved to taste the aftermath of a total cutie’s orgasm, Peter opted not to. Sure, your wetness didn’t appear radioactive or hazardous. But the thought of guzzling zombie honey put him off a little bit.

“G-....Goood?” You ogled Peter with half-lidded, glassy eyes, your lips parting in an irresistible giggle.

Peter bit his tongue. Alright. Maybe he…could give it a shot. Just this once. Zombie love liquor couldn’t be deadly or anything, could it? Disease-ridden, maybe. But Peter knew a hyper-intelligent doctor who could whip up a cure for most ailments. Guess it didn’t matter anymore. By the time Peter second guessed himself yet again, he’d already sucked his fingers clean. A bitter thickness lingered on his taste buds. Peter salivated at the thought of drinking down more.

“ Mmmm … mhm …not bad.” He chuckled, lips humming around his fingers, "I'd go fer seconds." He added with a wink, making you laugh.

Yikes. If Hank only knew how reckless Peter acted in the presence of some zombified cutie. He’d lock him up in the infirmary and run a thousand tests on him. Just to make damn sure Peter hadn’t contracted anything lethal.

Politely pushing you off him, Peter turned his head. He double checked the perimeter for any signs of life, despite the lab being totally desolate. Hopefully Summers hadn’t sent anyone after him, since the speedster took way too long returning to base. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulled his hard length from the fly. Almost immediately, you gasped in elation. Tickled squeals danced on your discolored tongue. Thick, and flushed a dark scarlet, Peter’s cock throbbed in his hand.

"I'm guessin' you like what you see?" He snickered, giving his dick a firm stroke, "I like what I'm seein' too...if you couldn't tell." Every word Peter said, every charming smile he gave, seemed to attract you considerably. Drawing more kittenish giggles from you.

With your freezing, zombie mitts, you ungracefully reached for him. Cold fingers squeezed his cock, stroking in a clumsy motion. Peter drew in a sharp breath, the cool sensation of your hands arousing his nerves. Even if your hand to gland combat lacked any skill, it felt damn awesome to be touched like this again. He stepped forward, his giant hands grabbing your hips. You played with him as much as your little, unbeating heart desired. Tugging his burning hardness with an overzealous grip.

You tried lowering yourself to the floor, your mouth falling open, tongue gliding over your lip. But Peter instinctively stopped you. His hands darted to your shoulders, pulling you into a standing position. He preferred if you didn’t take your biting addiction downstairs. Visitations of the oral variety were closed to any undead visitors. At least, for right now.

“Y’know, I don’t usually like goin’ all the way on the first date.” He spoke, fishing his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, “Like, call me an old soul 'er whatever.” Peter worked quickly, pulling a condom out of his wallet. He slipped the latex over his length, “But I can make an exception. Just fer you, cutie. But this stays between us, yeah?”

You nodded, pushing yourself up onto the dusty, operating table. Peter cringed, curling his lip out of concern for you. This couldn’t be sanitary. Dragging his attention from the filth under your bottom, you parted your knees. With your body angled backwards, you pointed eagerly at your panty-clad pussy. Soaked and dripping under the thin fabric. Peter’s breath hitched.

“Looooooove~? M-Ma…make?” You cooed, scooting a little off the edge of the table. As if tempting him to give in and fuck you already, you wiggled your ass. Like a beautiful, monstrous display of stitches and postmortem skin. All for the speedster's taking.

"I-I mean-uh...sure. If you really want me to. What kinda guy would I be to turn you down?" He awkwardly joked, fighting his nerves.

Peter pushed a strong hand against your inner thigh. Warm on your deathly cold flesh. He pulled your thin panties to the side, teasing your glossy slit with the head of his cock. You whimpered, cute noises bubbling in the back of your throat. Edging you for a beat more, he slid the teary eyed tip over your clit. Before sinking his length through your walls. Inch by pulsating inch, he bottomed out in a flash, tip kissing your cervix.

“ Wohhhhh, fuck.” He groaned. A new kind of coolness enveloped his cock, plushy and soft. Hooking your stitched legs over Peter’s shoulders, you tilted your body. Inviting him to submerge as deeply as your tight cunt would allow, “Oh, baby…yer so-...ah, fuuuuck. ”

"G……..Goo-......Gooood~!" You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut. Your strangled voice erupted in a mantra of lustful squeals.

By some act of divine intervention, Peter could feel the swollen, unyielding lusciousness of your pussy. Walls wringing his cock, like you wanted to suck him dry of everything he had. He swiftly rutted into your cunt, hard enough to make you bounce against the table. Peter’s sluggish eyes followed your breasts as they bobbed. Titties jiggling with such a soft, sexy whirl; He felt his cock twitch inside you.

Leaning down, Peter loomed over you, the rough fabrics of his clothes sliding along your bare skin. He kissed you tenderly, a little heedless. In the midst of fondling your precious, stitched breasts, Peter's hot palm curiously pressed against your chest. Feeling...nothing. No heartbeat, no blood flow. A little spooked, he refocused his attention. Playing with your bouncing, zombie titties again.

"Feels so-...you feel so good, holy fuck -" He moaned, his voice catching in his throat, "So pretty. L- ah ...love how tight you are." Playfully, Peter lost himself in the moment. He pulled a nipple between his teeth, suckling one of your Frankenstein tits, "Loooove these zombie boobies. Hah -oooohhh, shit-"

Lying in slumber for a decade must have left you majorly sensitive. In just a few more, aggressive, bunny humps; you came again. Hypnotic delight burst through your core, pushing you to the point of tears. Your pussy fluttered, sticky wetness gushing around his cock. Reaching up to link your arms around his neck, you clawed little etchings into his skin.

“M-Mmmmmooore~! More, mmm- ...more~!!” You pleaded, coaxing Peter to drill you with all the energy he carried. Not to toot his own horn, but - little did you know - he harbored enough energy for a hundred men. And then some.

"You w- fuck -want more? Want more, baby? God, yer gonna make me-" His voice wavered between moans, "G-Gonna make me lose it-"

Peter’s mischievous eyes met yours, as you gave him that doe eyed look he couldn’t fucking resist. Sharp jabs of his cock sped to a blur, slamming into your cunt in a brutal display of his strength. Keeping himself balanced, hands pressed to the table on either side of you; Peter showed no mercy. Abusing your precious, syrupy walls with a ruthless pace. But not fast enough that he’d tear his means of protection. A harsh surge of heavenly pain flared up inside you, as he tore into your pussy and bashed your cervix.

"LOOOOOVE~! Ah~! Peeeetur~!" In a moment of post orgasmic clarity, you called his name. Slurred, and barely recognizable. How'd you even know? Had you picked it up from his walkie conversations? Damn, his zombie buddy's more perceptive than he thought. Peter snickered, finding your pronunciation ridiculous. But the cute, needy sound of his name on your lips triggered something.

" ’Mgonnacum- ” Peter whined, his brutal pace more inconsistent and sloppy, “Gonna-...feels too good o h fuck oh fuCK -” 

A pearly white burst of thick heat stuffed the latex of the condom full, threatening to make it pop. Burying his nose deep in the crook of your neck, Peter moaned. Guttural whines ripped from his chest, drying his throat. Panting - not from exhaustion, but overstimulation - Peter loosened his muscles. In mellow, post nut bliss, he almost overlooked the sizzle of static buzzing from his walkie.

“Peter? Peter, answer me right now. So help me god. Everyone’s worried sick about you! Do you read me? Peter, I said, do you read me? Please!” Scott pleaded through a mix of agitation and genuine distress.

 Peter drew out a long, hard groan. Pushing himself up a little, he fumbled lazily for his walkie. A sluggish grin curled into his dimples, as he nibbled his lip and winked down at you. His eyes half lidded and hanging heavy.

 “Mmmm…’M fine. ‘M fine. ‘M fine.” He chuckled, overcompensating for himself. He knew he’d be in mega trouble with the crew by this point, “It’s all-uh…all good. Jeez, Summers. Did ya think I was dead ‘er somethin’? Haha…” Peter drolled, his tone slower than usual. He withdrew his softening cock from inside you, watching while you squirmed. On your back, you appeared a blissful, fucked out mess. Ultimately satisfied. Mission accomplished, “Don’t worry so much, bro. I was only takin’ my new, zombie buddy out to-uh…tooooooo…an arcade. Yeah. An arcade.”

On the other end of the line, a silence fell. Peter filled it with an, “O-Over.” to compensate again.

 “...You took the zombie…to an arcade?” Scott responded, an edge of irritated disbelief in his tone, “Peter, are you out of your damn mind? Do you not realize how much of a risk that is? I can’t even-...your priority for this mission was to retrieve those documents for Hank. Doesn’t it seem irresponsible to be dragging an unknown, undead creature around a public place? I can’t even believe you!” He heard Scott scoff, “Now, will you please return already with those documents? We’re all waiting on you. Bring the zombie too.”

“Uhhh…yeah. Sorry ‘bout that. Dunno what came over me. Sure. Okie dokes. Lemme, uh-” Peter spoke, playfully fighting you off. You reached for his neck, trying to pull him back down for post-sex cuddles, “Lemme grab ‘em. They’re goin’ hog wild with skee-ball right now. Crazy, right? They scored, like, sooooo many points. You should see all the tickets we got, man. We could totally get one ‘a those jumbo prizes. Say, Scotty, do you want, like, a giant Mighty Mouse?”

“Maximoff.” Scott replied sternly, without a beat of hesitation. His frustration oozed through the speakers, and Peter could feel guilt itching at his conscience.

In the background, Peter overheard someone - though he couldn’t guess who - mutter a, “Is Mighty Mouse even a thing anymore?” Oh. Once Peter returned, he’d be in for it. Royally fucked. Figuratively, and, thankfully, literally. In the short, momentary instance of silence between walkie communication; Peter disposed of the condom and straightened himself out. He disappeared for a millisecond, snatching a fresh towel from some luxury bath shop all the way in Paris. Dousing the cloth in warm water, he wiped you clean upon his ultra speedy arrival. Before helping you redress, making you look…somewhat presentable. 

“Fine. I totally get it, okay? Look, man. I’m sorry. But can ya really blame me fer wantin' to hang after the experience I just had? Doesn’t matter. Be there in a flash. M-Maybe don’t tell Hank, though. If you can hel-” Peter rambled sheepishly, slinging the towel over his shoulder. He stepped backwards, extending a hand for you to take. 

“Pietro Maximoff, I am beside myself with you!” Hank started, clearly agitated, cutting Peter off.

Peter groaned, mumbling quietly to himself as you took his hand, “He told Hank. He did it. He fuckin’ told him. Shit. I’m so fucked. I’m so, so fucked.” In a motion to guide you off the operating table, Peter pulled you forward by your hand.

“I have several questions. Why would you bring an undead creature to an arcade? What were your motivations behind taking the creature out, on a recreational activity? The potential danger or damage to the arcade and its patrons is far too high. And, furthermore, Peter, is there any scientific value to observing a zombie around arcade equipment? I understand you have this insatiable need to act out, but this is ridiculous! It is our duty, as members of the X-Men, to protect humanity from all threats. Including potential zombie related incidents at public arcades. Now then, please return the specimen immediately for further observation.” Hank ranted on and on and on and on-

A noise, like fabric tearing, cut uncomfortably through the air. Weak stitching around your elbow ripped loose, and Peter pulled your forearm clean off. Hank’s tirade met an abrupt end, as a blood curdling scream rocked the entire room. “Peter? Peter?? What’s happened? Peter, are you alright?” Hank panicked over the walkie.

Past the edge of terrified, shocked to the point of nearly pissing himself; Peter screamed. He wiggled his hand, trying to let go of your lone arm. But your hand held his tightly, your grip refusing to ease up. Once he finally freed himself, he expected your arm to drop to the floor. But your little fingers moved, crawling like spider legs. A zombie’s dislodged arm creeped up Peter’s shoulder over his jacket. Some real, Evil Dead kinda shit. He smacked at it, shouting like a housewife frightened by a mere mouse.

“YEAH!I’mfineI’mgreatI’mawesomesorryit’snothing.” Peter responded, rushed and unclear, “O-Over?” He cringed, scowling as you hopped off the operating table to retrieve your missing arm.

“...Pardon?” Hank asked, tone puzzled. Peter swallowed, shuddering while you pulled your freakish, deadite arm off his shoulder, “Are you…sure you’re alright, Peter? What’s going on? You’ve been acting awful strange tonight. Is there something on your mind?”

A lot. Peter had so much on his mind. Like, the totally real fact that he boned an undead, Frankenstein babe, for one.

“Uhm. It’s-...it’s nothing. Seriously, don’t even worry, Beastie. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Just-uhm…lab’s still-...there was some thunder, and the building-uh-” Peter nervously rambled, struggling to find his words, “Over.”

Another pause drew out long enough for Peter to realize his mistake. He cursed, smacking himself on the side of the head. How could he be scatterbrained, to forget his own lies in a matter of seconds? He had a feeling, deep in his gut; Hank would rip him a new one tonight once he got back. “...The lab? Peter…didn’t you just tell us you were at an arcade?” Hank asked, reasonably suspicious.

Peter’s voice broke as he replied, “I mEAN-” He cleared his throat, “Uhhh-...heh. I-I ran back! Forgot-uh...there was somethin’ I forgot. Like I said, doesn’t matter. I’m totally fine! I’m juuust peachy! Hang tight. I’ll be right there. Over and out.” Peter took a second to collect himself, clipping his walkie to his belt. He silenced the device, ignoring any further questions from Hank. Subconsciously, Peter took a step back as you reached for him again. His veins vibrated with a buzz of adrenaline. With your arm dismembered, you moved abruptly forward. Nuzzling your face into Peter’s chest, the same way you had all night. Still just as smitten with him. Groggy purrs rumbled in your throat.

Rolling his eyes, Peter patted your head, smoothing out your ragged, messy hair, “What am I gonna do with you? Yer nothin’ but trouble, y’know that?” He teased, pinching one of your cold cheeks, “Whaddya say we get outta here already? But I gotta make a couple ‘a pit stops. And you gotta behave yerself. Don’t get any funny ideas about eatin’ anybody.” Peter wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you close. Pointing at you with an accusatory finger. 

You tilted your head, confused again. Peter really couldn’t get enough of that cute, clueless look. Hank and Scott had no idea what they were talkin’ about. His zombie buddy? Totally harmless. You’d never even hurt a fly.

Okay. First order of business. Find a Mighty Mouse plush, just to really sell his arcade story. After that, he planned on snatching you some nicer clothes. Anything to protect your modesty. Thirdly, Peter wanted to teach himself some gnarly makeup tricks. Cover up his hickies. Yeah. No sweat! He could do all that in a flash.

Oh. And late night pancakes. Peter refused to skimp out on those. He’d been craving them all night, and his body desperately needed to replenish its energy. Surely, the gang back home wouldn’t mind. After everything, they totally wouldn’t be supremely pissed and fed up with Peter’s bullshit. And the waitress serving at whatever diner he picked? She wouldn’t bat an eye at some undead, zombified customer, would she?

Why's he even kidding himself?

Gathering Hank’s files, Peter tucked them under his arm. He zipped around in search of whatever other knick-knacks he lost, including his fallen flashlight. Stepping towards you, Peter brought his earbuds to your ears. He exchanged the tape in his Walkman for another, aiming to keep you entertained with music while he traveled at superspeed. As soon as the tune graced your ears, you leapt in place. Squeaking a surprise chirp. Your shoulders bunched, and you darted your hazy eyes around.

“Hey, easy, easy-” Peter reassured, cranking the volume down low so you could still hear him, “It’s just music, baby. It’s nice, right? You like it? You like-uh…you like the Monster Mash? Crypt Kickers? Bobby Pickett?” He gestured with his hands, suggestively raising his brows, “We had a graveyard smash, didn't we, eh?” You simply stared at him, clueless as usual. Huffing, Peter pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Seriously. What am I gonna do with you?”

You clutched your dislodged arm tight, cradling the appendage close. Throwing a quick glance your way, Peter shook his head. He pulled his goggles over his eyes, and braced a warm hand at the back of your neck. The few seconds before he took off, he leaned in close. Hearing that Halloween melody playing from the earphones you wore, he quietly sang along.

As much as he liked cuddling ‘Ro on Halloween, horror movie nights; A new idea crossed his mind. He might just snuggle up on the couch with someone special this year. 

[ichorai]

hell, yeah ; roman roy ; part five (m).

pairing ; roman roy x f!reader

synopsis ; pain was an old friend for the both of you.

words ; 10.9k

themes ; angst, fluff, drama, slowburn, smut, childhood friends to lovers

warnings / includes ; depictions of mental and physical abuse, mentions of death, a lot of sexual/suicidal jokes and general foul language, a lot of business talk, unprotected penetrative sex, roman’s implied demisexuality, dick pics and weddings

a/n ; and that's the end of s3!

series masterlist. main masterlist.

Roman had gotten into the habit of sending you pictures of his dick every now and then. Apparently, having sexual intercourse with Roman also entailed an afterparty consisting of dick pics and filthy messages. Not that you weren’t enjoying them, he really had a pretty cock—but you were growing increasingly paranoid that people, maybe hackers, maybe curious coworkers looking over your shoulder, were going to find out about the salacious pictures and texts he’d been sending you. And how bad would it look to have people find out your boss was sending you pictures of his penis? 

Maybe it was his way of getting you to stay. Really, it just translated to: Hey, look at my dick! Remember this? We fucked, do you remember that? Do you like it? Please tell me you like it.

You found it strangely endearing, in a way. A lot of emphasis on strange.

And now, as you were just settling into the lovely, spacious room in Italy for Caroline’s wedding, your phone buzzed in your pocket. 

Another dick pic. How lovely. You smiled down at your screen as you replied with:

looking great ro :)

A second later, you asked: you going down for welcome drinks?

Yup, he texted back. I’ll come by.

Not three minutes later, he swung your door open without bothering to knock, peeking his head through. He was dressed in rather casual attire for a wedding event—pale blue slacks, a white shirt, and an unbuttoned canary-hued top. 

“You dressing down as a way to tell your mom you don’t approve?” you queried as you smoothed down your own pantsuit, a soft shade of purple over a cream turtleneck. 

“Fuck you. You look great, by the way. Like a jizzed-up grape,” Roman snorted, linking your arm with his when you stepped out. “I need to talk to her about getting a prenup—this Munion character is a walking fucking sinkhole. Shiv is being an avoidant bitch about it.”

A hum fell from your lips as the two of you began making your way downstairs and out to the gardens, where the event was taking place. “Shiv’s always been more prickly when it comes to Caroline. It’s a warped mirror to her, you know?”

“She’s my mom, too. I get it,” Roman said with a shrug. He didn’t, not really.

The two of you spotted Caroline chatting with Peter, and you nudged Roman into their direction. After pleasant greetings were exchanged (well, less pleasant on Roman’s end), you excused yourself from the rather tense atmosphere to go walk around and grab a few drinks and bites of food. You knew Roman would be confronting Caroline on the prenup and his distaste for Peter, and you really didn’t want to be around for that hot mess.

Instead, you found yourself engaged in a lovely conversation with a pretty, raven-haired woman about the last book you’ve read, genuinely interested in what she had to say. The joy was short-lived, however, because Shiv stormed up to you, only barely apologizing to the woman before dragging you away.

“What? What’s going on?” you asked, incredulous. 

“Check Matsson’s Twitter. Jesus. What the fuck is going on, do you know? Is this a move of some sort?” 

Pulling out your phone, you quickly opened up his profile, reading the latest tweet. 

Going to Macau. Feeling lucky. 

You narrowed your eyes. Soon enough, Gerri and Roman appeared, the former looking apprehensive and the latter in more denial. 

“It could be nothing,” Roman said, which made Shiv narrow her eyes. “Fucking social media fireworks.”

“He’s always been one to tweet bullshit when he’s high off his ass,” you tried to reason, reading the five words over again. “Remember that time he said he was going to release his sex tape? That blew over in a few days.”

Clearing her throat, Gerri argued back, “Well, yeah, it could be bullshit. Or it could be him trying to up his price.”

“Is he just rocking the boat or is he trying to blow up the deal?” Shiv asked. 

From behind his wife, Tom chimed in, “Maybe he’s just going to Macau, and he just happens to feel lucky.”

Roman stepped away to leave Matsson a voice message, because none of his calls were going through. You sucked in a breath, wondering if you wasted an entire evening at Kendall’s disaster of a birthday party just for Matsson to fuck you over the ass. 

God, you hated him.

After sending a few messages, Roman popped up beside you. “I don’t know, he’s a fucking trickster. It’s nothing.”

“Mmkay, so is he going to steal our watches and saw the fucking deal in half?” Shiv deadpanned.

“Hm. Maybe,” Roman reluctantly drawled.

A frown pinched her lips thin. “You’re supposed to be inside this, Roman.”

“I am inside this. Leave it. Why don’t you go find someone else’s dick to tug on? Oh, sorry Tom, didn’t see you there.” 

They were bickering like children, as they often did. Tom blinked in mild confusion.

“Hey, okay, why don’t we get in contact with his PR team instead of him? They’re supposed to be working with us on this. None of this should be leaking onto personal accounts until the deal is met,” you calmly said. Gerri nodded, sending message after message to Karolina to get on their asses.

Though, it was far harder to stay calm when Kendall approached the group, face sullen, his phone held out to show Matsson’s twitter. To your surprise, his head was now shaven.

“Matsson going nut-nut, huh?” It was said as if it was supposed to be a joke, but his voice was monotonous, and his exterior cold. “Keep a hold of that shit, bro.”

“It’s all under control, motherfucker,” Roman hissed. “And where are you off to? Going to go score some junk in Naples?”

Kendall didn’t show any reaction to that. “No, just our mother throwing me out of her party.”

“Oh,” Roman replied. “Nice.”

“Where are my kids?” Kendall asked, before wandering off to go search for them.

Rolling his eyes, Rome snickered, “What a surprise—Ken doesn’t know where his kids are.”

“SEC is going to be all over this,” Gerri said, shaking her head. 

“Ooh, gummy love bite from the fucking toddlers. I’m so scared,” Roman scoffed. “I think he likes us, I do. I can feel it in my gut.”

Pulling a sour face, you told him, “I really don’t think we should be banking the future of the company on your gut, Rome.”

It was then that Matsson tweeted again. This time, it was just three emojis: a game controller, crossed fingers, and an eggplant.

“He’s fucking us,” you muttered, which made Roman’s head jerk in your direction. 

“Nah, come on. Don’t be so paranoid—we’re good. I think we’re good!” Roman insisted. 

Brows raised, Shiv asserted, “Yeah, well if he blows this deal, then who is left for us, exactly?”

Before Roman could reply, you all caught sight of Logan making his way through the crowd, Marcia hanging off one arm and Kerry trailing behind the two of them.

“Jesus. He really doesn’t give a single, solitary fuck, does he?” snickered Roman, gaze following after his dad.

Caroline wove through to stand in front of you and Shiv, inviting the two of you to the bachelorette party. Shiv fumbled with protests, but Roman had insisted she went. When Caroline looked to you expectantly, you nodded your head and told her you’d be there, but not without a reluctant glance in Roman’s direction, who rubbed your back in an almost consoling manner.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be spying on you guys with a pair of binoculars,” he leaned forward to whisper.

“Not creepy at all, Roman. You sure know how to charm me.”

Nearly an hour later, the bachelorette party set off a little ways away from the hotel. There were drinks, there was gossip, and there was laughter. By nightfall, the party began to fizzle away, and you were more than ready to head back to the hotel. Find Roman and rope him into sleeping next to you, like he often did.

Though, as you descended down the stairs of the building the bachelorette party was occupying, you weren’t all that surprised to see Roman leaning against the bannister, a rogue smile on his lips.

“Have fun up there?” 

“Mhm.” You kissed his cheek once, then another time for good measure. He smelled like limes and expensive cologne. You liked the limes more than the cologne.

“Not too much fun, I hope.”

You snorted. “Were you waiting for me here?”

“No, I just really like loitering around Italian streets at three in the morning.”

There was a warm sort of feeling simmering within your chest. “It’s only eleven o’clock, Roman.”

“Close enough.”

Roman rather liked the way your hair had gotten a little more tousled as the night passed on. You muffled a yawn, leaning against him as the two of you set off for the hotel.

“Matsson?” you asked tiredly, voice hoarse with overuse.

“He left me a message—said the tweets were just fucking around. You were right. As always. Lawyers gave him the spooks—he’s flying back to Switzerland.”

You hummed again, pleased. “Good. You did good, Roman.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you told him, soft. “And what about your dad? How’s he taking it?”

“Gerri says Dad thinks Matsson is trying to fuck him. I don’t know. He’s just gotta ride it out,” Roman said, shrugging. “They want me to go save the deal. Go see him.”

“You’re leaving me alone in Italy?” you crooned, laughing slightly. 

Without hesitation, Roman offered, “Come with me. Can get you away from Mumsie and her nosy little fingers.”

You pulled a wince. “Mmh, no thanks. Didn’t like the way Matsson eye-fucked me the entire time I sat near him at Kendall’s party. Don’t want a repeat of him getting distracted.”

“Good to know I didn’t just imagine that,” Roman murmured. His head drooped, hair dropping over his forehead.

There was a moment of silence, interrupted only by a few people passing by, cheering in broken Italian. Drunk party guests, you assumed.

“What’re you thinking? Like—is Matsson… is he good for us?” 

“No,” you said, much quicker than Roman had expected. “I don’t like him. He’s a flight risk. But he’s big—it would be a huge fucking deal acquiring GoJo. As in, change the company fundamentally, kind of a big deal. Could be good for the company in the long run, maybe. I don’t see us working well with Matsson, though.”

Roman studied your side profile, eyes roaming the bridge of your nose, your drooping eyelids, your parted lips. It was dark, but the moon’s glow seemed to light up the most beautiful parts of you. Or maybe it was just the Italian air. 

“Well, I guess we’re just gonna have to see.”

“Yeah.” You yawned again. 

“Okay, yeah, come on, sleepy. I don’t have the arm strength to carry you there.”

Matsson wanted a merger of equals. You should’ve guessed, with how he was talking at Kendall’s party, not wanting another man’s shadow looming over him. And… asking about Logan’s death.

“I hate that guy,” you mumbled to Roman as the two of you walked to the meeting room, where Logan had called for everyone to assemble. “The nerve of him…”

“I think it’s off the table but… Gerri’s pressuring me to push the deal forward. I’m already so stressed I’m jerking dust.” He rolled his shoulders and frowned. “Think Dad’s gonna eat it?”

You spared him an unsure glance. “I mean, what other choice does he have?”

With a heavy sigh, Roman swung open the glass door and the two of you filed into the meeting room. Logan waved for you to take a seat. Around the table was Gerri, Kerry, Shiv, and Tom—Karl and Frank were on call, displayed on a big screen TV. You sank down beside Gerri, with Roman across the table from you.

“Now, before we get the whole circus here, I wanna get a sense of what’s going on,” Logan announced. “Is he a Twitter panty-flasher? Or is he a serious person?”

“Uh, well, he is a serious person,” Roman said, which earned him a disbelieving scoff from Shiv. “But, Dad, he thinks there’s value that hasn’t been priced in yet. He’s gunning for a merger of equals. So I guess that kills it, right?”

“What? A merger of equals?” Shiv parroted, staring at her brother as if he’d grown a second head.

“Well, yeah. He’s got, like, twelve of the prime Asian sports leagues under GoJo’s belt, and he’s gonna fold it all into the platform. Live sports, games, betting—it’s a fucking growth bomb.”

Narrowing her eyes, Shiv hesitantly broached, “Okay, but… fifty-fifty board, all stocks? Dad, what, splits control?”

“Yes, Siobhan,” Roman exasperatedly said. “That’s what he wants.”

Everyone looked to Logan, who was silent for a few moments. There was a contemplative look to his gaze.

“But the guy isn’t a fuckhead?” he asked Roman.

“Oh, no. The tweeting was a move.”

Logan leaned forward, resting his large hands on the table. “He’s not some big baby who shits for clicks?”

“No, Dad. He’s, uh, he’s—I know people, Dad. I’m a fucking people sniffer.” 

Shiv was glaring at her brother, and you pursed your lips. 

“Because I can win any round with a boxer fuck, but I don’t know how to knock out a clown,” Logan deadpanned. 

“He’s not a clown, he’s a tough motherfucker,” Roman insisted. “It’s what you would’ve done, right? He just maximized his leverage.”

Still not happy with the whole ordeal, Shiv shook her head. “Yeah, but merger of equals? That sounds ridiculous!”

“No such thing,” Logan gruffed.

Tom, by his right, nodded in agreement. “Always a top dog.”

“Family stake will be seriously diluted,” Karl warned, his voice crackling on the call.

“Could be just an on-paper thing,” you added. “Real control rests on the family if we negotiate who gets board seats.”

“Yeah. We could still be the puppy-fuckers here,” said Roman. “I think Matsson would let us craft it so that we keep balance of the board. He just wants the freedom and the status. GoJo Royco, I mean, who gives a fuck? Let him have the logo, we take the wheel.”

Sensing her father was being swayed, Shiv finally caved. “I mean, it would be real-scale. It’s a legitimate way of staying relevant.”

Frank and Karl weren’t happy, seeing as a merger of equals would threaten their positions with newer, better replacements. You almost laughed upon seeing Frank’s pixelated, unsure features.

“Dad and Gerri, you guys would stay with your hands on the tiller. Their price rise is real! It’s a proper fucking streamer. Would save that sector of Waystar completely. The future is really boiled down to: movies, TV, music, games, sports, eSports, VR, AR, betting—fucking everything for everyone, and Matsson can get us there,” Roman argued.

With a slight dip of his head, Logan said, “We can’t afford to walk away now. This is our crutch. Must be worth a conversation, son. Call in the team. Let’s get the banker fucks on this.” 

Roman grinned victoriously, his eyes meeting yours. 

You smiled back, pulling out your phone to shoot him a text.

you’re a fucking champ rome

The GoJo bankers began to file in, and you put your phone away. Roman’s buzzed on the table, and he glanced down at the screen, beam unwavering. He shot you a sly look, before tapping his keyboard a few times, deciding now was a good time to send you the picture of his hard dick he’d taken early in the morning, while you were still asleep.

dinner to celebrate? eat this, fuckface

He watched you expectantly, but you were busy greeting one of the bankers, shaking her hand. And then, his father’s phone buzzed. Logan slid on his reading glasses, clicking on the new text notification from his son.

Dread sank down to the pits of his stomach once he realized what he’d done.

Oh, fuck.

Logan stared angrily at his son, who sunk further down on his chair. You were still chatting to the banker, but halted the conversation when Logan suddenly stood up. 

“I need five,” he said.

And with that, he was gone. That was the quickest you’d seen him walk in a long time.

Shiv shot you and Roman a confused look, before following after him. 

You excused yourself, too, rounding the table to put a hand on Roman’s shoulder. To your confusion, he seemed to jerk away from your touch. 

“Hey, what—? Rome, what’s going on?”

He sucked in a breath, letting you pull him out of the meeting room. The two of you stood in the hallway, just a few feet away from the conference room Shiv and Logan had disappeared into.

“I maybe might have sent Dad a, uh, a picture of my dick,” Roman nervously said, scratching at the back of his head. His arms seemed to shake.

“Oh,” you replied, far too stunned to say anything else. “Were you… was it for…”

“Yeah. It was for you. Fuck.” 

The two of you stared at each other. 

“Will he… oh, Rome. Fuck.” You didn’t know what else to say. Logan wouldn’t hurt Roman with GoJo right in the next room, right? 

But you weren’t so sure.

Inside the conference room, Shiv winced to her dad whilst handing his phone back, “Yeah, he sent you his dick by mistake.”

“Well, that was pretty obvious.”

“It was meant for Y/N,” she said. “He calls her fuck-face all the time.”

Logan’s brows furrowed. “Y/N?”

“Yeah, they’re… they’re weird with each other. Everyone knows. Frankly, I think it’s fucking disgusting.”

“Yeah? They fucking?”

Shiv spluttered for words. “I don’t really—I don’t—I mean—” She shook her head. “Regardless, this… this is grounds for a potential lawsuit. Boss sexually harassing his employee kind of situation.”

Logan took his glasses off. “Isn’t this Roman just being Roman? They’ve been good pals since babies.”

Shiv chose her words carefully. “No. No, Dad, I think this could be a potential problem. This could be bad for us, you know. Y/N could use this as blackmail if she wanted to. And Roman, he’s… he’s a loose canon. People say he used to get jerked off by his personal trainer.”

It was then that Logan bellowed Roman’s name so loud, the very walls seemed to shake. Roman flinched, and you gently patted his arms, urging him to go.

“Put in a good word for you,” Shiv told her twin as he hurried in.

Roman twisted his hands nervously, only barely managing to catch the phone that Logan angrily slid over. 

“Are you a sicko?” Logan asked, voice harsh. “What is this? Why do you send them?”

“Jesus, Dad…” Roman sucked in a breath. “It’s just—you know, we’re… it’s like, here’s my dick, or whatever.”

His brows cinched. “What? Like a ‘fuck you’?”

“No, it’s just… people send each other pics of their dicks. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking normal. You ever heard of dick pics, Dad?”

Rolling his eyes, Logan retorted, “Well we do publish a number of popular newspapers, so yes, son. We probably invented the fucking words. But why?”

Roman’s mouth opened and closed. He shrugged. “I don’t know, Dad. It’s just something people do.”

“You have a problem, son?” Logan asked, watching Roman like a hawk would its prey. “What happened to that nice piece of tail you were with?”

“Uh, Tabitha? Yeah, she’s… she’s not really in the picture anymore. We had a few issues.”

Logan frowned. “She wasn’t messy. Y/N is messy. She’s a good girl, don’t get me wrong, but she’s messy.”

“Well, uh…” Roman shrank under his father’s glare. “I like her.”

“Oh, you like her? Fucking solves everything, doesn’t it? It’s one thing for you two to be plastered all over gossip tabloids. It’s another thing entirely for it to be real. And I don’t like things going on that I don’t know about.”

It didn’t go past Logan’s notice when Roman’s voice cracked a bit. “It’s all fine. Nothing’s going to happen. We’re… we’re friends.”

A terse second of silence. Roman worked a hand over his jaw.

“Go on. Fuck off.” 

Roman made his way to the door. “So, what’s… what’s going to happen?”

“You end it. Or you fire her. Whichever is easier for you, son.”

A pained look crossed Roman’s features. “Well, uh, I’m not a radical feminist or anything, but I think, maybe, we shouldn’t fire her for getting pictures of my dick?”

“Then you end it.”

Roman cleared his throat. He lingered by the doorway as if he had something else to say, but he eventually turned on his heel and left the room.

Meanwhile, Shiv had beckoned you out of the hall to sit in a different room, her expression contorted into one of false security.

“What’d he say?” you asked her. “Is he… did he get a—?”

“Yeah. Roman’s dick. Real classy,” she replied, before beckoning you out of the hall to sit in a different room. “So… I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

You tilted your head. “Uh, yeah. It’s fine, Shiv, really.”

“Uh-huh. Has this kind of thing happened before?”

You studied her, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Can’t really remember.”

“Right, yeah, of course. But if it did… did you ask him to stop?”

Fed up, you held your hands out. “Listen, Shiv, I’m not going to give a statement to you. I wouldn’t jeopardize Roman or the company like that.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you were welcoming these, right? Because that would be… an abuse of power on Roman’s end, wouldn’t it?”

You drew yourself back. “Roman and I are friends. Nothing happened.”

“Okay. Yeah, sure. Things are just really delicate right now. Can’t afford to fuck up, right? Do you want to make a formal complaint about this situation? You’re the victim here, Y/N.”

“Woah, uhm… can I have some time to think about it?”

Humming, Shiv nodded. “Of course. Just know that… you should really report this to HR. It’s a big deal, this.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Shiv.” You hesitantly turned away, biting down on the inside of your cheek anxiously. You stood out of the meeting room for a second, trying to compose yourself. Plastering on a professional smile, you swung the door open and stepped inside.

Late that night, long after the meeting had ended, Roman slipped into your room, making sure nobody was around to see. 

He kissed you then, fingers cradling your face as if he was expecting you would crumble away right in front of him. When you pulled away, hands lightly pushing at his chest, he mumbled that he needed this.

And so you let him pull you apart. Kissing you, touching you, holding you. 

Your clothes were gone at some point—you hadn’t even registered taking them off, and he guided you over his lap. You rode him then, slow and steady, his hands roaming over your sides. Your foreheads were touching, the both of your moans muffled into kisses.

It was much more intimate than the last time the two of you had sex—Roman shook beneath the pads of your fingers, rife with fear. Sex was fine, but intimacy… that scared him more than anything. But he felt safe with you. It felt right with you.

And, this time it didn’t feel like Roman had a point to prove. 

He came first, his lips wrapped around one of your nipples, teeth sinking into the flesh of your breast, panting wetly against your skin. You were close to follow, shuddering against him, your hips slowly rocking to a grinding halt.

You left to clean yourself up a minute later, and came back to Roman sprawled over the bed, half-asleep.

You laid down beside him and brushed the hair away from his forehead.

“Dad told me to fire you,” he mumbled, almost slurring his words. “If I didn’t want to break up with you, that is.”

“Break up?” you echoed. “But we aren’t together.”

“Right. Sure, yeah.” He sounded hurt, but he wrapped his arms around you, nonetheless.

With no hesitation, you curled your leg up over his. “You gonna fire me, Romey?”

“No. You’re the only thing that makes sense in this fucking shitstorm.” 

“Okay.” You pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead. You were never really worried on that end. “Then I guess we’ll just have to be less… open and affectionate in public. It’ll blow over eventually. We’ll fade away, and nobody’s going to care.”

Roman squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay.”

The two of you fell asleep like that, entangled in each other, dreaming of tooth necklaces and strawberry popsicles.

The next morning, you heard from Shiv that Kendall had nearly drowned himself in the pool while everybody was at the meeting, and he’d stayed over at the hospital overnight. At your worried expression, she reassured you that he was fine. One too many limoncellos, apparently.

To make matters all the worse, GoJo’s market cap had overtaken Waystar’s, and they were apparently also considering other options. Roman and Logan were off to go see Matsson to make sure he wasn’t pulling the plug. You mumbled a low good luck to Roman, not wanting to do or say anything else with his father watching the two of you like a vulture.

Hours later, when he returned, there was a slightly panicked look to his eye. He pulled you into the gardens, where it was mostly empty, save for an elderly Italian couple sniffing the roses a good distance away from you.

“No more merger of equals,” Roman hurriedly whispered to you, which made your eyes widen. “Matsson insinuated that GoJo eats Waystar—and he stays top dog.”

Your brows cinched. “What did your dad say?”

“Nothing. Told me to leave. But Matsson said he’d go with a handsome settlement.” The distress was clear across his features. “And where does that leave us? Fucking—kicked out to the curb with bread crumbs and cardboard boxes.”

“Jesus,” you breathed out. “Well… did he offer you an out?”

Roman ran a hand through his hair. “No. Just—just don’t tell Shiv, okay? We’ll stick to the merger of equals story.”

“Okay.” You placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in what you hoped to be a comforting fashion. “C’mon. It’s time to face Mr. Poseidon. Shiv and Con are already waiting.”

“Poseidon, huh? And who does that make me? Hades?”

You arched a brow. “Hermes. Duh.”

The two of you made your way out of the gardens, to the fancy little tables Caroline had set up. Shiv and Connor were sitting near the balcony, bearing a particularly breathtaking view of the Italian countryside. Rolling green fields and slanted, multi-hued rooftops. It wasn’t too bad of a place to get hitched, you wistfully thought, shooting Roman a glance. If Shiv had noticed anything between the two of you, she didn’t say anything. To that, you were grateful.

He was explaining the merger of equals situation to his siblings (save Kendall, who still had yet to appear), and Connor grew angry with the fact that he wasn’t informed. He didn’t like Matsson, but for a wildly different reason than you.

“Okay, well, if you guys don’t mind, I’m a little churned up about my big brother trying to kill himself, so I can’t really think about that shit right now, thanks.” Roman made a high-pitched noise, before leaning forward and snatching a piece of garlic bread off of Connor’s plate. “I’m fucking starving. Can we get some more food here?”

“It’s a buffet, you dipshit,” Shiv told him.

Before Roman could get up to grab food, Kendall turned the corner, stiffly making his way to his siblings, and you. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of expensive, brown-tinted sunglasses, doing a great job of hiding the bags beneath his eyes. He hadn’t slept a wink at the hospital.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hello,” Roman chirpily greeted. Only Roman could somehow make the word hello sound sarcastic. 

Kendall’s hands twitched at his sides. “So, what is this?”

“Take a seat,” Shiv said, and Connor patted the head of the empty chair beside him.

Kendall scoffed, but sat nonetheless.

“So,” Shiv started, looking awfully uncomfortable being somewhat emotionally open with her brother, “we just wanted to get together and let you know that… we love you.”

A soft breath, and a tilt of his head. “What?”

Connor nodded. “I love you straight up.”

“We care about you, Ken,” you added, feeling mildly guilty that the last time the two of you spoke, you were yelling at him about something as stupid as a popsicle.

“I suppose I don’t want you to die,” Roman lamented, pouring himself a glass of wine.

“What is this, guys? What’s the angle?” Kendall asked. 

In a placating tone, Connor said, “No angle. We were just worried that you… consciously or subconsciously tried to… you know…”

“Are you trying to shut me down?” gruffed Kendall. 

“Uhm, you kind of tried to kill yourself, dude, and that’s not cool?” Roman inputted, avoiding eye contact.

“I fell off an inflatable.”

Clearing your throat, you gently said, “You were drunk. And your kids were there. Comfrey had to fish you out. I heard that Soph was crying behind the rose bushes, Kendall.”

At his daughter’s name, Kendall’s face seemed to twist with an unmistakable sort of anguish. “Is this a fucking intervention? Why do you guys get to do an intervention on me?” 

“Seriously?” Roman asked.

“No, well, maybe you need an intervention.” He gestured to Shiv. “You need an intervention, Con. You two need one, too.”

“Yeah, totally, but, like—you’re kind of the top of the pile, right now. We can do me tomorrow, yeah?” Roman said.

Shiv pursed her lips in agreement. “Suicides kind of jump the line.”

“I fell off my fucking floatie!”

“You’re an addict,” Shiv stated plainly. “You’re addicted to booze and to drugs and relationships and sex and work and family drama.”

The siblings decided to argue a bit more, until Connor, fed up, exclaimed that he was the eldest son, and that he loved all of you, and he’d proposed to Willa and nobody even bothered to congratulate him. Your face fell with guilt, but you didn’t try to stop him as he stormed away. The conversation died out after that, with Roman complaining that he was too hungry to think straight, leaving for the buffet table, and Kendall straight up leaving without even saying goodbye.

Not wanting to be left alone with Shiv, you shot Roman a message saying you’d be in your room, and left the table.

The wedding started two hours later. You’d managed to squeeze in a nice nap and a quick shower before, meeting Roman at the lobby with a refreshed smile.

“You look great,” he told you, genuine. His hands seemed to reach out for you, but he winced and pulled himself back. “Now that we’re not supposed to be all over each other, I suddenly have this inexplicable, caveman urge to raw dog you in front of everyone.”

Your lips twitched in amusement. “You are so romantic, Roman.” Careful not to draw attention, you bumped your hip into his, and the two of you began walking to Caroline’s wedding.

Shiv met you at the entrance, pestering Roman on where Logan was (which he clearly didn’t know himself), and also making several incessant japes about Roman’s lost chance to marry his mother. A part of you wondered if she was amping it up because you were there, as if to try to goad a reaction out of you.

“Well, I’m just worried about the prenup,” Roman hotly defended after Shiv made fun of him for not liking Peter Munion.

“She has a prenup, Rome,” Shiv said while rolling her eyes. “She had her lawyer look at it because she wants to keep the London flat Dad gave her.”

“What if he poisons her? Or pushes her down the stairs to get this flat he so desires?” Roman quipped, crossing his arms.

Shiv snorted. “Oh, yeah. And what if worse—he fucks her with his dick. Fucks her so good that she dies?”

A group of giggling children passed by, and you muttered a quiet apology to the parents glaring at the three of you.

“We should get going,” you told the twins. “Must be starting any minute now.” 

They halted their quarreling for the time being, and followed you into the building. 

The ceremony was delayed around half an hour—you suspected it was because Logan hadn’t shown up, and Peter Munion sure wanted to brown-nose some more—but it carried on without him. You wondered if Logan wasn’t here because of what Roman had told you.

GoJo eating Waystar. That would make headlines for a good few months.

After the ceremony came a lovely little banquet, decked with long white tables lined with sweet-smelling flowers, beautiful flutes of champagne and wine passed around. Waiters flitted to and fro like busy worker bees, serving up course after course. There were seventeen dishes total, you counted. Roman said there were actually eighteen—you missed one when you briefly disappeared for the bathroom.

“You don’t have a fucking clue where Dad is, do you?” Shiv prodded at Roman’s shoulder, and he shrugged her off.

“Just relax, will you?”

Connor came up to the three of you then, a wary smile on his face. You and Shiv took turns apologizing to him, wearing guilty expressions. He’d always had soft spots for the both of you.

“No, no, it’s okay. Forget about it.”

“Mhm,” Roman said. “Forgotten.”

“So, guess who’s getting married to the greatest gal in the world?” Connor announced, a wide smile overtaking his features. 

You grinned, congratulating him with a hug, Shiv and Roman slapping their older brother on the shoulder. When you pulled away, Connor pulled up a shriveled little brown bulb out of his pocket.

“Oh, ew. What is that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“It’s a dried penis from one of the great men in history, correct?” Roman postulated, poking it before wiping his hands onto you.

Pointing at it, Connor said, “This is maca root. It’s for Dad’s smoothie.”

“Mhm?” Shiv asked, not quite getting it.

“He’s working on his baby batter!” Connor reiterated. “Maca root, almond butter! Dad’s putting together a more adhesive, potent gloop.”

“Ew,” you said, grimacing. “He’s eighty fucking years old. The baby practically pre-ordered the daddy issues themself.”

Utterly confused, Roman asked, “Are you fucking with us right now? That’s disgusting!”

“No, I’m not! Look at all the walnuts he’s been munching! He’s gonna be rocking sperms like a little catfish.”

“Oh, my fuck. Dad’s scrambling the fighters,” Roman guffawed, batting away Connor’s hand when he waved the maca root closer to his nose. 

With a final laugh, Connor clapped Shiv’s shoulder, before bidding adieu, in search of his now-fiance.

“We gotta find a way to kill this baby,” Roman muttered.

“Yeah, finally you’ve got a worthy adversary,” laughed Shiv.

It was then that Tom made his way to the three of you, his arm curled over her waist. You eyed the fluid motion, wishing you could have something of an open relationship like theirs. Though, you weren’t sure comparing yourself to Tom and Shiv was the best way to go.

Tom let it slip that they were planning on having a baby, too—but by freezing an embryo. 

“Congratulations,” you told the two of them, though Shiv didn’t look all that happy.

Roman chortled and made a few jokes about how Tom would have to poop out his own baby, and you nudged him harshly. 

“That’ll be your niece or nephew, you know. Just don’t be that weird, creepy uncle they avoid at family gatherings.”

“Can’t make any promises,” Roman whistled, though he fell silent when Gerri strode up to the three of you.

It was just as you thought. She’d heard Logan and Matsson were meeting with financiers—which meant Logan was going through with the flipped deal. GoJo swallows Waystar, Logan leaves with his pockets full, and everybody aboard the sinking ship is left to fend for themselves. 

“Why would Matsson need financing for an all-stock deal?” Shiv asked, though she was beginning to get an inkling of what was truly happening on her own.

Gerri suggested splitting up to cover more ground. Roman would get Kerry, Shiv handled Marcia, Gerri tackled Frank, and you were left to call in a few of Roman’s lawyers to see if they could rifle through anything that could block Logan from plowing into GoJo full-steam.

“I think Frank and Karl are in Europe,” Roman told Shiv, his phone pressed to his ear. “It’s got the fucking Euro ring.”

“What?” Shiv demanded. “Rome—are we being fucked right now?”

Roman hung up once Karl lied straight through his teeth that he was in America. Just before, he’d seen Gerri and Kerry speaking to each other in hushed tones, before Gerri quickly walked away. Was Gerri knifing him, too?

He turned to stare at you, speaking to his lawyers on the phone about voting power for the next CEO.

“Okay, well, I should probably tell you,” Roman said, scratching at the back of his head. “Matsson did float, just as an idea, that maybe they’d buy us.”

There was a momentary pause. Shiv’s eyes flared wider, her lips pinching tight. “Right. And what did Dad say?”

Roman shrugged. “Fuck off!” he said, in his best Logan imitation.

“Mhm. And he stuck around?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

Abruptly, Shiv shoved him so hard that Roman stumbled back into a table. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this earlier?” She stomped off then, making her way to Kendall, moping by the edges of the gardens.

You hung up the phone, walking back to Roman. “Dead ends. They’re going to have to look through fucking everything—signing heir contracts, settlement conditions, the divorce clauses. Might be something there that gives the three of you a hand on the steering wheel.”

“Great.” Roman sucked at his teeth, hesitant. “Hey, as it turns out, I don’t think I can trust Gerri.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, and—I can trust you, right?” He scuffed the grass with the heel of his expensive boot, anxious.

The two of you stared at each other for a long moment. Man and woman, microphone and stand, dog and chew toy. You ran your tongue along the back of your teeth. 

“I love you, Roman. You know that,” you told him, swallowing the lump in your throat. 

“Okay. Yeah, okay. Yeah. I trust you.”

“Hurry the fuck up!” Shiv yelled, startling the two of you away from each other. She began making her way around the building, towards the deserted back, where nobody was around to hear what the four of you were discussing. Slow on her heels was Kendall, dragging his feet along glumly.

You and Roman were only barely able to exchange comforting glances, before hastening after her.

“Okay, so—Dad is doing us dirty, right?” Shiv said, a tad too loud for your comfort, seeing as there were wedding guests only around the corner.

“Can you not make it a whole thing?” Roman protested, nose wrinkling. “We actually don’t—we don’t know anything yet. Matsson pitched to Dad the idea of them eating us, but I think he was just flying a kite.”

“Financing wouldn’t be there if it was just Matsson jerking off. Karl and Frank wouldn’t have bothered unless it was real. You know that, Roman,” you said.

The man merely raised his tense shoulders, kicking at a rock on the sandy ground. “Dad kind of shut it down,” he replied.

“He kind of shut it down?” pressed Shiv. “A moment ago, you were telling me that he told you to fuck off!”

Frowning, Roman told his sister, “Well, I didn’t keep track of the exact number of expletives he used, Siobhan. Okay? I’m not a fuckometer.”

There was a crackling silence for a few seconds. Kendall wasn’t facing the three of you, opting to stare away into the distance, hands propped on his hips. 

“Our market caps have tipped,” Shiv vehemently put forth. “The local town’s been bought out by a new set of advisors. Something has flipped!”

It was clear that Roman was the only one still clinging onto his father’s leg. He watched you and Shiv with scrutinizing eyes. “Dad would never sell, would he? Hey, asshole, Dad would never sell, right?” Roman directed the question to Kendall.

Kendall’s shoulders moved just a tiny bit, barely a twitch. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

“I see him doing it if the buy-out settlement is large enough,” you said, expression grim. “A handful of billions in his pocket, and he’d walk off satisfied.”

“But Dad… he…” Roman itched at the back of his head. “What about us?”

“Okay, yeah, the question is—would we get fucking protection?” Shiv demanded, as if the three of you had answers to give her.

Kendall looked up at the bright Italian sun. He was feeling thirsty.

“Can you guys just do this without me?” he asked, voice dejected. “I can’t—I don’t really wanna get into it.”

Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, Shiv hurled out an accusation, “Wait a minute, Ken. Do you—you have an angle on this? Are you speaking with Matsson?”

Kendall laughed. He paused for a second, thinking on Shiv’s words some more, before laughing again. Then, he sank to the sandy ground. There were sharp rocks poking his legs, a fine layer of dust coating his ass and the back of his thighs.

“Is he okay?” you whispered to Roman, who just shook his head and murmured something you couldn’t quite catch under his breath.

“Ken, can we just talk?” Shiv asked. 

“Shiv, I’m not here,” he said. His knees pulled up to his chest, and his head rested upon them.

He wasn’t okay, that was plainly clear. Tentative, you took a step forward, exchanging uneasy glances with Shiv. The redhead crouched down and soothed a comforting hand over her older brother’s back. You kneeled in front of Kendall, uncaring of how dirty you were getting your pants. Lingering a little farther back was Roman, stressed out of his mind, studying the three of you contemplatively.

“Hey, you okay?” Her voice was far more soft this time around.

Kendall shook his head, a heavy exhale slipping past his slightly-chapped lips. The familiar sting of salt welcomed the corners of his eyes. 

“Talk to us, Ken,” you said, your shoe nudging his. 

His mouth trembled. “There’s something really wrong with me. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

“Uh, well… it’s okay, Ken…” Unsure, Shiv looked up to you. 

“I just—I’m not feeling very connected to my children or my endeavors right now. And, uh, I can’t get one thing right with another, you know?” His voice broke near the end. A warble, a shake, a lilt.

Roman stepped closer. To anyone who didn’t quite know him, he looked as if he was angry. But you knew—you knew that that was concern splayed across his features. He was worried for his big brother.

“Kendall, we can get you help,” you tried to reassuringly say.

“But I can’t,” he replied, on the verge of tears. “I don’t know what happened. I tried to do something. I tried, I really did. Really.”

For better or worse, Roman attempted to diffuse the tension by saying, “I know, man. You fucked it.”

You and Shiv glared at him, while Kendall merely laughed. It was painful and grating. His throat ached.

“I took a shot, but it’s like it didn’t matter,” he said.

“It’s just business, okay?” Roman told him, trying to downplay the situation. “We’re all fucked. Everything just sort of got… mixed up.”

When Shiv stood up, her legs aching, Kendall’s eyes slid shut. “I thought I had an out. I could see it—I could see the way markers, and I thought I could, out of all our shit, I thought I could take us all out of it. I tried, guys. I did.”

Roman hummed. Shiv stayed silent. You watched him, pensive. 

“I don’t know,” said Kendall. “I’m not a good person.”

“Well, whatever,” Roman said, miffed. “You’re… fine.”

“I’m… I’m bad.”

A few tense, sparse chuckles. Roman shot you a confused look, as if to say, is he for real?

“Lighten up, glum-glum,” Rome said.

Kendall blinked down at the sand. “I killed a kid.”

“Hm?”

“What?” you quietly asked. What was he talking about?

Shiv laughed a bit, wondering if this was all an elaborate joke. After all, it was hard to take anything Kendall did seriously after his disaster of a birthday party.

“I killed a kid,” Kendall repeated.

“Like… metaphorically?” you queried.

“No, I… I killed a kid. And, yeah, they’re… they’re coming for me. They’re gonna come for me.”

Your mouth fell open and shut, shocked and uncertain of what to do, what to say.

“Is this—?” Shiv looked around wildly. “Is this real? What the fuck?”

There was a sharp inhale. A warm breeze blew by, and Kendall found himself swallowing around what felt like dust. Glass shards. All the same.

“At your wedding,” he said.

“What?” Shiv asked, voice hardened.

“Horseshit,” said Roman, though he knew it, deep down, none of it was horseshit.

Rapidly, Kendall blinked. “The kid. That kid.”

“Uh, you mean the… the waiter kid?” Shiv clarified. 

A soft, nearly horrified exhale slipped from you. “That was you?” you asked, voice much smaller than it had been only minutes ago. 

“I was high,” he began to explain, miserable. “I was trying to score, and I was drunk, I was fucked up, and I drove. He saw something and he snatched at the wheel. We went into the water.” His voice trembled. “And then I left him in there and I ran.”

“Uhm, okay, we gotta… we gotta get you inside,” Shiv started, but Kendall’s shoulders began to shake.

His head lowered further. “It’s fucking lonely,” he quietly sobbed. A tear fell down his cheek, slipping into his mouth. “I’m all apart.”

You weren’t quite sure what to do, so you reached out and kept a steady grip on one of his knees. It grounded him, in a way, because his sobs seemed to dullen after a few seconds.

“I mean, if it pleases the court,” Roman began to say, which made your stomach roil in fear of what other abrasive comment he might spit out, “it sounds like you didn’t really kill him. Sounds to me like… he killed him.”

Your brows cinched. Kendall ran away from the kid and drove under the influence, which made him largely at fault. But you also knew it wasn’t… wholly on his shoulders. It was an accident, first and foremost. Besides—what choice did he have than to keep quiet, with his tail pressed beneath Logan’s thumb? 

“Rome, I’m a piece of shit, man,” Kendall sniffled, shaking his head. 

“The road and the water killed him,” offered Roman. “That’s what it sounds like.”

“What he’s trying to say,” you interjected, voice slow and placating. “Is that it was an accident.”

“Yeah, seriously. You crashed, and then, what? You ran?”

“No, I mean… I tried to get him. I dived a few times.”

Roman spread his arms out a bit. “See? That… that sounds like the story of a hero to me. That’s more than I would’ve fucking done. Seriously, I would’ve been out of that water like a tabby cat from a bath.”

Pained laughs from Kendall filled in the space between the four of you, which dissolved into cries. “Don’t, man. I’m… I’m a killer.”

Scoffing, Roman groaned out, “Fuck you. Come on, bullshit. At worst you’re an… a fucking irresponsibler. Okay? You’re bigging yourself up.”

“I don’t know, you guys,” Kendall hiccupped. “I’m blown into a million pieces.”

“Okay, uhm, we gotta get you out of here,” Shiv said, rubbing his shoulder. 

“We could bring him back to the chapel,” Roman offered. “Stuff him into a confessional. That might fix him.”

It was then that your phone started ringing, the lawyers calling you back. You gently apologized to the siblings, before stepping away and answering. Not long after you, Shiv’s phone began to ring with Laird’s caller ID, and she pulled off, as well. Leaving just the two brothers.

Roman sank down to sit beside him. He tried, and failed, to comfort him. But he succeeded, too. Somehow.

“I’m sorry,” Kendall croaked.

Wincing, Roman said, “You know, one waiter down makes a bit more sense. Took me forever to get a fucking drink at that wedding.”

“Please, man, I can’t—”

“Yeah, no, I’m just saying. Who’s the real victim here, you know? I waited three quarters of an hour for a gin and tonic.”

Both you and Shiv hung up your calls at the same time, making your way back to the brothers.

“You first,” you told Shiv. “What’s Laird know?”

She nodded. “He was inside the deal, then got cucked out of the lead. He’s bitter and bleating. GoJo buys Waystar. They pay a premium, Dad cashes out—cash and stock, maybe a title and a few assets, but it’s Matsson’s fucking board.”

“Can we trust that? Is that even real? Laird is a fucking prick. I know this—I was stuck as a hostage with him pissing buckets next to me,” Roman spat.

“Look, Kendall, I know you’re in a tough spot right now, but we have to talk about this now. I’ll call the car. Let’s just get the fuck out of here,” Shiv said. 

The eldest of the four burst into another raucous sob. Roman got up from the ground and placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders, squeezing. Shiv palmed his buzzed head. You took your previous spot, crouching down in front of him and patted his kneecaps.

No more words were exchanged about the accident. It was time for war.

“What’s your news?” Roman asked. “My lawyers?”

You offered them a small, bitter smile. “There might be a gun in this knife-fight.”

In the car, you explained to them how the lawyers had found a clause in the extensive divorce settlement between Logan and Caroline: the kids would have veto power to any changes in company control.

If all the kids objected, there was legally no way Matsson could buy Waystar. 

The siblings were reunited on the same side for the first time in what felt like decades. Despite this, Roman still felt uneasy about the whole ordeal. 

“These are still all just rumors,” he said from beside you. “So I’ll have to talk to Dad alone first.”

Indignant, Shiv scoffed. “You think you’re close to him? You’re just his little rat fucker.”

“I’m just saying, as a matter of fact, that Dad and I have been working closely lately and I don’t want to go in too aggressive,” he heatedly defended. “I’m not busting in there crying Team Shiv, okay? We don’t know how this is going to play out yet.”

“You think Dad is protecting you?” Shiv hissed. “No, we let Matsson take control, that is Dad slamming the door! It means he doesn’t think that we will, can, or should take over.”

“All this time he’s spent braying about family,” you whispered, staring out at the rolling Italian fields flashing past. “And he’s the one who drives the knife in.”

Roman bit down on the inside of his cheek. “I just don’t think we should be aggressive. Can we even actually stop him with this one clause?”

“Yes,” Kendall said. “A change of control needs a super majority in the holding company. He’d need us to agree to it.”

“Exactly,” you said. “Just one of you, it wouldn’t work. That’s why he wasn’t threatened when it was just Kendall. The three of you, though… that’s the golden goose.”

Roman nodded, uncertain. “Right, well. I’m not sure I want to pull a move like that. Maybe I just… I stick with what I got.” He looked at you, expecting your support on this, but you pointedly pursed your lips.

Shiv gritted her jaw. “Which is what, exactly? A hard drive full of dick pics you send Y/N? Where exactly do you think we fit on Matsson’s new org chart, Rome?”

In a calmer voice, Kendall said, “He’ll gut you like a pig, Rome.”

Roman’s brows knitted together. 

“Rome, you know Dad is never going to choose you because he thinks there’s something wrong with you,” Shiv said. “I’m sorry, but maybe it’s time we said these things to each other. Instead of just airing it out to Vanity Fair.”

There was a roll of his eyes, but you could tell that her words hit close to home. A home he never felt safe in, perhaps.

“Hey, Rome,” you said, taking his hand, uncaring that Shiv and Kendall were there to see. They’ve seen far worse, after all, and you were nearly certain they already knew what was going on between the two of you. “You might not have a place beneath Matsson. You know that, right? And… and neither would I, I don’t think.”

This seemed to tip the scales over for him. The thought of not having the company to keep you close by his side anymore—to tether you to him—made him far more scared than he cared to admit.

Finally, Roman tentatively broached, “The holding company move… if we do that, that’s real?”

“He can’t sanction a deal without us. That’s legal fact,” Kendall said. “Block him and he’s fucked.”

With an air of finality, Shiv said, “Okay, we just rip the band-aid right off. Push him out. Get him on his own, say it was his urinary tract at the shareholder meeting—say he’s out of it. He’s fucking a twenty year old, and he’s planning for babies in jars. He’s gone loopy, and he’s tried to sell the shop while fucking his assistant. If we tell the board all that, he’s toast.”

“Burnt,” you agreed.

“Full coup,” Kendall said.

“Yeah. We have, say, Ken, chair? Rome or me, CEO? The other, COO, or whatever they want—studios, movies, TV. Equal.” There was a hopeful glint to her eyes. “Y/N takes CFO, maybe director of operations, maybe president of relations. Whichever floats your boat.”

You were quite happy with your quaint little title as general branch manager, but you nodded along to Shiv’s words, not wanting to argue with semantics. 

“Okay, but really equal. Like, actual equal. If we do this, I don’t want you two cunts trying to big-brother me out of my fucking piece, okay? And I want the dick pic stuff with Y/N cleared. We do shit like that. We like each other, alright? Deal with it.”

Shiv eyed you warily, but found herself in no position to turn him down, especially not with him in such a precarious position. You shot Roman a flattered smile, squeezing his hand. This was the most open Roman’s been about his relationship with you… ever.

“We can fight all the details out,” Shiv reassured. “It’ll… it’ll be fun.”

The siblings laughed, genuine and chesty. 

“Oh, fuck,” Roman breathed out. For a second, it seemed like his eyes seemed to glass over, but it was gone with his next blink. “I do think that, even though this literally makes me want to vomit and I wanna kill you both every day and it’s all going to end horribly… I do think that we—puke—could make a pretty good team.”

“So how do we feel about killing Dad?” Shiv asked.

Kendall smiled. “Pass me the fucking shotgun.”

By the time the four of you reached Logan, the sun had only barely set, and a heavy sort of darkness started stealing away the clouds. The rooms were full to the brim and bustling about with a frantic atmosphere. Lawyers and financiers and other powerful figures from the companies flitting to and fro.

Logan, however, was in a separate room. Empty, save for the few people at the very top. 

He called for the four of you to come in, all false smiles and honeyed tones.

“Hey. Hi, everyone,” Roman greeted, high-strung. “We’re just feeling a little out of the loop, Dad.”

“Oh, of course. Things have moved very fast, yes. Sit down, all of you.”

None of you sat down, but Roman stood across the table from his dad. “So, yeah, we’re, uh… we’re hearing some rumors about GoJo?”

“We heard that we might be the target now,” Shiv said in a far colder tone in comparison to her brother. “Is that right, Dad?”

Logan nodded once. “Okay. I’ve been looking at a few options.”

“Right. We might be affected with our positions, so we just wanted to get some clarity,” Shiv said.

A harsh glare was sent in Kendall’s direction. “Absolutely, but do you mind not with him in here giving me the fucking doggy-evils? Can you take him out, Romulus? I’ll fill in your sister and give you the angles.” Logan gestured vaguely at his second-eldest son. “I don’t trust him.”

Roman swallowed uneasily, unmoving.

Logan stared at him expectantly. “Roman?”

“You can tell us together, Dad,” Kendall said.

“I thought we had this figured out,” Logan deadpanned, fixing his angry glare onto Roman instead of Kendall.

Five different emotions seemed to flash across Roman’s face at once. “Yeah, no, we just… it might be better. If all of us heard.”

A steady breath. Finally, Logan acquiesced. “Okay. The market capitalizations of our firm have been on the move. Ours is a declining business. There’s a wave of consolidations happening, and that means this is the optimal moment, in my opinion, to make a deal with a serious tech operation like GoJo. That’s what I’ve been exploring, okay?”

Shiv stiffly put forth, “Okay, so, I would like to say, on behalf of all of us, can you ease up and let us in? Stop this until we see how exactly we’re impacted?”

“No, it has to be now,” Logan said.

“An hour to negotiate positions wouldn’t hurt,” you said, far icier than you were anticipating to be. 

Logan leveled his gaze with you, simultaneously curious and angry. “Aren’t you supposed to be fired? Or did Romulus have the balls to fucking sever things?”

You reared back a step, teeth gritted. Roman sucked in a cold breath.

“Why does it have to be now?” Shiv demanded.

“Because I can feel it in my bones,” said Logan. “And, at the end of the day, it’s all I fucking got.”

Shiv angrily narrowed her eyes. “Well, you know that’s bullshit.”

“Look, this is the best moment to sell. If I don’t do the best deal at any given point, what’s the point of anything? I don’t get out, I leave five billion on the table,” the father explained. 

“Come on, Dad. What are you gonna do with the five bil?” Kendall prodded. “Huh? Put it on your pile with all your other fucking bil?”

Logan frowned and nodded. “Mhm. Probably.”

“And what are we supposed to do?” Kendall asked.

“Make your own fucking pile,” hissed Logan. Then, after taking a pause to collect himself, Logan continued, “I know this is an adjustment, but our blood’s in the water and I need to make moves fast in order to control the situation and get myself and all of you assurances in the future.”

“Assurances?” Shiv echoed. “Once Matsson is calling the shots, we’re fucked!”

A dismissive wave of his hand. “No, nah. He rates you. And this is an opportunity for you kids to get an education in real life.”

“With you at the top, we can take over, but without you, we’re fucked,” Shiv said. The brothers stood side by side, quiet.

Abruptly, Logan stood up from his seat. “Come on, Roman. Let’s get away from these Jacobins. I’ve got you. We can discuss this.” Roman looked to you, and Logan clocked the exchange. “Y/N, my dear. We’ll work you in, of course. You are such a valuable asset to the company. The glue, as I recall all the papers we publish calling you.”

You stepped closer to Roman, putting a hand on his elbow.

This spurred him into saying, “Hey, look, Dad, I know what Matsson said, I was there. But, uhm, with Matsson calling the shots, we’re… we’re strung up in the town square.”

“No!” Logan asserted, making his way closer, standing less than an arm’s length away from Roman. “He likes you! You have my word. This is an opportunity son. A bit of fucking grit. Adversity, like me. You can trust me.”

These days, Logan Roy’s word seemed to mean very little. It was his money that held the power.

“You can’t trust him,” Shiv said, voice straining.

Roman’s hands shook. “Uhm…” His voice went all soft, almost a husky whisper. “We’re here to say, to ask, please… do not do this.”

Logan tilted his head. “And what if I decide not to listen to you?”

“We can stop you,” Shiv said. “And we will. Blow this up.”

“Kids have voting power over company control,” you told your godfather. “From the divorce.”

“Yeah,” agreed Shiv. “You need all of us. You need a super majority, and we can kill it.”

This time, Logan yelled, voice bellowing. “You’re playing toy fucking soldiers!” Roman flinched back into you, and you rubbed your thumb along the inside of his forearm. “Go on! Fuck off, all of you! I have you beat! You f—morons!”

Nose twitching with contempt, Shiv protested, “Well, no, because you need a super majority—”

Logan roared out a mocking imitation of Shiv’s voice, somehow still terrifying. He sighed then, pulling a hand over his weary features. He turned, asking Kerry something. Something you didn’t quite catch.

Then a phone was being pulled out, and you heard Caroline’s voice crackling through the line.

A heavy pit sunk down your stomach. It clicked for you before it clicked for the siblings—mostly because they were probably in such heavy denial.

Caroline had renegotiated the divorce agreement, effectively robbing the children of their say. Their voices. All three of their faces fell, crestfallen, as the weight of the realization slammed into them.

Shiv seemed the angriest of them, muttering expletives and yelling angrily at her mother through the phone. Caroline apologized, saying it was for the best, but she wouldn’t hear a single word of it. The call was hung up a second later.

“Dad,” Roman said, disrupting the eerie, tense silence. “Please?”

He was a child asking for a dog again. He was a teenager asking to come home from military school again. He was a young adult asking for his dad to stop hitting him again.

“Please?” Logan parroted, almost disbelieving. 

“Please,” he repeated, voice breaking.

“The seat sniffer gets a fucking leg up,” his father scoffed. “That’s a deal. What have you got in your fucking deck?”

“What have I got?” Roman asked. He reached back so the hand you had rested on his elbow laced with his. “I don’t know. Fucking… fucking love?”

When Logan repeated that word—love—it sounded so childish on his tongue. So frivolous and fanciful, as if it couldn’t possibly exist.

“You come for me… with love? You bust in here, guns in hand, and now you find they’ve turned into fucking sausages. You talk about love?” He worked a hand over his jaw. “You should’ve trusted me.”

Tears filled Roman’s eyes. “Dad, why?”

“Why?” Logan swept his gaze over his children, his goddaughter. “Because it works. I fucking win. 

A beat of unbearable silence. Your nose stung, a familiar sensation.

“Go on, go on. Fuck off. You nosy fucking pedestrians.”

A wave of nausea rolled over Roman. He called out for his father as Logan stormed off, disappearing behind the doors. Then, he rushed over to ask Gerri to help them out, as Shiv stressed on who had tipped Logan off that they were on their way to see him.

Gerri dismissed Roman, brushing him off as if he were a bread crumb on her jacket. Tom arrived then, asking if his wife was okay. Shiv seemed to piece something together that you didn’t quite understand yet.

Roman sank to the ground, and Kendall put his hands on his brother’s shoulders, just as Roman did for him hours ago. You sat down beside him, your side pressed up against his.

“I want to go home,” Roman muttered. “This was all for nothing. It meant nothing.”

“Okay, Rome,” you whispered in return. “We’ll go home.”

[wastelandmoony]

I have a Request. Best friends to lovers with James Potter. James potter stealing readers favourite shampoo. The reader notices this while she's in the shower. So angry she wraps a towel around her body and storms up to there marauders dorm with her hair soaking wet. She thinks that it was sirius who took and but she notices James in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped around his waist. Hair soaking wet. So she reaches to smell his hair only to find out that his hair smells like her shampoo

Hiya! I've actually never been sent a request before, so forgive me if it's rough <3

Summary: James is in love with Y/N, but has yet to make a move and the other Marauders are sick of it.

Genre: Fluff <3

Characters: James Potter x Y/N, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew

Warnings: language, sexual innuendo courtesy of Sirius

A/N: Reader also plays for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, if that wasn't clear.

------------------------------------

The sounds of Queen echoed off the walls of the dormitory as James walked in, hair dripping into his eyes as he pushed back the soaked locks with one hand. 

Peter looked up from his Transfiguration essay, “How was practice?”

James shook out his hair, returning his glasses to his face, “Brutal. I’m about to start scheduling doubles on game weeks—“

Remus glanced at the door, letting the book he was reading fall onto his lap, “Is Y/N behind you?” 

James turned around, confused, “No? I was just in the showers…”

Remus leaned back against the headboard, “Huh, weird. I thought I smelled her for a moment…”

Across the room, Sirius sat up from his lounged state, “I’d kill for those heightened senses Moony. Imagine how much it’d come in handy during our little…extracurricular excursions—“

“—Just call them what they are, Pads, they’re just pranks,” Remus deadpanned, going back to his book.

“—anyway, speaking of Y/N…Prongsy over here almost got completely decked by a bludger earlier because he couldn’t keep his eyes off her,” Sirius wagged his eyebrows at James.

“Shut it, I was just…making sure her maneuvers were correct,” he tried to control the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Oh, I’m sure she can maneuver just fine, mate,” Sirius laughed as he dodged a flying chocolate frog box courtesy of James.

James smirked and walked over to his trunk to find a clean jumper.

“SIRIUS FUCKING BLACK!” 

Sirius sat up abruptly, color draining from his face, “There’s no way she heard me—“ 

The door flew open to reveal a towel-clad, fuming Y/N, clutching an empty shampoo bottle in her hand. 

James spun around and immediately flushed at the sight of her soaking wet. 

She chucked the empty bottle at Sirius, who barely dodged it, throwing his hands up in confused anger.

“What the fuck did I do?!” He yelled as she stalked over to his bed.

“You used the rest of my shampoo, you fucking nob!” Her eyes narrowed.

Sirius laid back down, waving her off, “No I didn’t, it was probably Lily.”

“Let me smell your hair then,” she climbed onto his bed, trying to grab at his long black hair.

“Gerroff me,” he struggled, trying to push her hands away as she attempted to pin him down.

The other three watched in amusement as she finally gripped his head with two hands and smelled the top of Sirius’ scalp. 

She sat back on her heels, face contorted in confusion.

Sirius fixed his hair, shooting her a glare, “I bloody told you, it wasn’t me.”

James went back to rummaging through his trunk, a motion that caused her to zero in on his similarly towel-clad appearance.

“Jamie—“ she called, his head popping up from his search. She watched as his wet curls dripped onto his chest, the cogs in her brain starting to turn. Rising from Sirius’ bed, she walked over to James, who froze as she drew closer. 

She leaned in, smelling the familiar scent of strawberries on him, “—it was you?”

He scratched the back of his neck nervously, “Y-yeah…I ran out and it was the first thing I saw, I’m sorry.”

She smiled sweetly at him, “It’s okay, I have an extra bottle in my room if you want it?” 

He nodded a little too quickly, and she turned to run back to her dorm to retrieve the extra shampoo. 

The moment she disappeared, Sirius sat up and shot James a look, “You didn’t run out, there’s an entire bottle of that Sleekeazy shit in the shower, I used it earlier—“

“—he just wants to smell her,” Pete chimed in from the floor, eyes never leaving his essay.

James groaned, running both hands over his face.

“You’re hopeless, mate,” Remus sighed from his bed, “Just ask her to Hogsmeade already, put us all out of our misery…”

[icannotpickanamewtf]

ᴛᴡɪsᴛᴇᴅ ɴᴇʀᴠᴇs (PT. 2)

EVAN PETERS AHS x READER

SUMMARY: 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖫𝖠 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌. 𝖠 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅, 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗒𝗉𝗌𝖾, 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐…𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾.

Chapter Focus: Kai Anderson x Reader

🚨WARNINGS: 𝖠𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖧𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒, 𝖮𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖬𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖢𝗎𝗅𝗍, 𝖱𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝖲𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝖾𝗍𝖼…

You officially decide that Michigan is a complete bust. 

As soon as the plane landed and you’d made your way out of baggage claim, you were hit by a blasting cold. 

Is it possible for someone to shit out a block of ice? 

You had to pile on coat after coat, your grey fleece detective jacket rested on top of your layers. 

The service was awful, the people acted like NPC’s, and overall, your first impression was a 3/10. 

You held your suitcase and bags in one hand as you rung up your phone to call for an Uber, your motel was right outside Brookfield Heights but far enough so you wouldn’t run into any possible suspects while you were off-duty. 

After making a pit stop at an overpriced airport cafe for some mid-afternoon coffee, you hurriedly rushed to the front exit once you got a message from your Uber Driver that they’d arrived. 

The car was a silver chevy and was low to the ground, it had just barely enough room for your three bags in the trunk, but you were grateful nonetheless. 

An older man sat in the drivers seat and his grey hairs were slicked back to expose his wrinkled forehead. He seemed pretty jolly the whole ride to your motel, until you mentioned Brookfield Heights. 

“It ain’t the town for a vacation, that’s for sure.” Was all you managed to get after your numerous questions, clearly the news about Kai had followed all of Michigan and haunted the witnessing residents. 

The drive was mostly quiet after besides the Christian-pop that subtly played over the rusty car speaker, you resided to staring out the window. 

‘Welcome to Brookfield Heights!’ decorated the bright green sign outside of the ghost town. Trees flew past the window as you tried your best to absorb your surroundings.

The more you knew the better.

You’d already spent weeks holed up in your office studying the towns layout, from each fire-hydrant to large corporations and events. 

Fall had come in full swing, leaves were brown and the grass shook from the chilly breeze. 

The barren farmland and empty fields soon turned into old buildings and little country-side stores. If you weren’t investigating a cultist, you’d have thought it was a cute little town. 

The driver, whom you noticed you forgot to ask for his name, pulled over when your run down motel entered your sight. 

The older gentleman unlocked the doors and said his farewell to you as you left the Honda Civic. It felt weird to have both feet on the ground after traveling for so long, but it did absolute wonders to finally have some fresh air. 

The Honda Civic closed the doors from behind you and the Christian-pop faded in the distance as the car rolled out of the motel parking lot, leaving you to face your soon-to-be home for the next few months.

The motel’s sign was barely hanging on for dear life, the walls had chipped yellow-ish paint, and the doors were falling off their hinges. It was practically invisible amongst all the regal and historical hotels that littered Brookfield. It was perfect. 

You grabbed your small suitcase by the handle and made your way to the check in, a little hut outside of the motel. Your luggage bounced from the rickety cement and overgrown weeds, but your grip kept it from flopping over. 

The door to the check in creaked from the force of your palm, screaming in age as you stepped inside the small room. 

The floor was a dark mahogany, a vending machine ran brightly to your left with miscellaneous snacks, and dust covered the few chairs that lined up on the wall to your right. But the main attraction, was the older woman standing behind the reception desk in front of you. 

She had red curly hair, down to her shoulders, and her eyes sagged with exhaustion. Her skin could be compared to a sickly green but the bright red lipstick she adorned made you think that it was a thick application of make up. 

Oh, and the resting bitch face. Yep, you were definitely going to enjoy this woman’s presence. 

“Uh–Hello, I’m here to check in for a room?” You had made your way up to the counter, standing awkwardly in front of the woman who continued to apply the same bright red color of her lips to her fingernails. This made you half-ponder when was the last time you painted your own nails. 

The woman’s crooked name tag read “Louise” as she blatantly ignored your attempt at interacting. Louise barely even looked up to meet your eyes as she slowly turned to grab what you assumed as your room key from behind her. 

Louise spoke with a know-it-all tone, a snide grin lit up her features, “There. No parties. No dealing before seven A.M. and no fucking past eight.”

Part of wondered why she announced the last rule like it was a pointed remark at you, but the other half of you knew exactly what she was trying to get at.

Fortunately for her, you hated confrontation in these situations. 

You were also jet-lagged as all hell. 

So you just kept your mouth shut and dragged your deranged detective ass out the check in door and to the stairs that led to your room. 

The key read “17B” indicating it was on the second floor and almost all the way on the other side. The wooden stairs wobbled under your feet and you almost thought they would completely give out, but you carried your suit case all the way up the two-flights of stairs. 

When you made it to your room, you haphazardly threw your clothes into one of the drawers (locking the door and moving the chain above it) and practically collapsed onto the old bed. It was fairly small for a motel room, and the same yellow paint donned the walls but with a 80’s pattern of lines and crescents. 

You laid with your back on the mattress, feeling all the lumps and creaky springs underneath. 

It was quiet in the room. 

It’s not that you weren’t used to quiet. 

But this time, you were completely alone. Your leather shoes felt heavy on your feet, and you could sense that a migraine was well on its way to your skull. 

You were so fucking tired. 

But you had a cultist to expose, lives were at stake, you couldn’t just sit here and rest.

A dark corner of your mind infested with guilt shunned you for thinking that you could possibly deserve the comfort of a bed. Or the comfort of a job. 

Or the fact your alive–

“Fuck this.” You stood quickly and shrugged off your large trench coat, opting to brace the cold and sit down in the shaky chair in front of the wooden desk the laid in front of the bed. You flung open your laptop and spread out your papers. 

A room temperature energy drink that you packed found its way in your hands as you typed away. 

You didn’t sleep at all that night. 

———————

Morning came slowly, and with it a fresh pair of deep circles engraved themselves under your eyes. 

But with morning, came more opportunities to explore. 

You freshened up, applied some dry-shampoo and washed your face, before heading out to explore Brookfield. 

You had to get a sense of your surroundings in person, online maps and insane amounts of internet research could barely compare to being able to experience the real thing. 

Your trench coat sagged on your shoulders, but without it, the fall-chill would’ve given you a cold so you tiredly walked your way into town. Your bag with your laptop, recording device, and USB drive sat heavily on your shoulder. 

You easily mixed into the crowd of locals, sneakily taking time to take pictures with your phone of the posters of Kai Anderson that popped up every now and then. 

All of which had “FEAR” written in at least one sentence, you’d think he’d be more subtle but it was almost like he was trying to get more negative attention than positive. 

Hm. Weird. 

After about an hour of just walking around and exploring Brookfield Heights, your lack of sleep caught up to you. So you decided it was time to get a nice something to eat and a whole lot of espresso. 

Thankfully, there was a tiny cafe near the Butchery that was owned by the victim of a majority of Kai Andersons harassment, Ally Mayfair-Richards. 

You glanced back at the restaurant before making your way into the little cafe, the warm scent of coffee and scones filled your nose at your entrance. The cold chill turned warm and you were finally able to take off your coat. 

It was quaint but reminded you of a cabin in the woods with their wooden accents and architecture on the inside. It was a nice comparison to the modernized celeb hubs in LA. 

There were few people inside, all were seated and kept to themselves. You quietly stepped up to the counter, deciding to order a large black coffee with four shots of espresso, and a blueberry muffin to nibble on while you worked. 

The teenager behind the counter smiled at you before preparing your order, there were only two people working but they seemed eager. 

Did they feel the impact of what was happening around them? Were they in his cult? What would happen the the kids if Kai Anderson succeeded? 

Would it be your fault–

Again, your thoughts were cut off as the teenager handed you your drink and treat. Allowing the person behind you to place their own order after you paid. 

Wait, person behind you? 

You didn’t even notice the man that had made his way to the line, becoming the sixth customer inside the shop. 

When you backed away from the counter, you were able to soak in his appearance. 

Kai. Fucking. Anderson. 

You pretended to find a seat and load up your laptop, but sweat pooled at the back of your neck. 

What if he caught you? What if he busted you? 

You had to act normal. Like it was a regular day in Brookfield Heights, and you were just a local getting some coffee. 

You sipped anxiously at your caffeinated monster of black coffee as you subtly analyzed his appearance. 

The cultist wore a black beanie, letting his oily blue hair dangle freely. His sweater was black, his shirt was black, his pants were black, and he wore black combat boots. 

Was he trying to scream out that he was some kind of villain? 

What was this guys fucking problem? 

You knew he was on adderall and taking an inhumanly sized dose, but god, so much for inconspicuous killer. 

But eventually you realized that if you didn’t have all the information you collected on this little town, you would’ve just thought it was a regular guy with eccentric style. 

He ordered a large cinnamon latte, extra espresso with no whipped cream and low-fat milk. He poured one creamer and no sugar. 

He carried his own papers and phone in one hand, while collecting his drink in the other. Kai Anderson walked over to the table right next to yours and sat down, scrolling aimlessly while taking notes? You couldn’t get a clear shot of what he was writing. 

So, you were literally sitting in the same space as a serial killer and cultist. Life was great!

You managed to get away with a few more glances before exiting out of your tabs, all of which had extreme dirt on Kai, and opened a decoy word document that looked like boring tax papers. 

You pretended to work on fucking taxes for twenty minutes without interacting with him at all, until Kai stood up from his chair (the only way you could tell was from the chair sliding against the floor) and sat in front of you. 

You barely looked up from your laptop until he fully made himself comfortable in front of you, propping his arms on the table and staring directly at you. 

Sometimes you wondered if fate had it out for you. 

“Hey.” Kai cleared his throat, which indicated that you should probably stop ignoring the elephant in the room and look up at him. 

In doing so, you got a clear glance at his face. Little bits of stubble decorated his cheeks, and his eyes were wide as they looked at you. 

“Oh, Hi?” The silence was much better than talking, but this guy would probably slit your throat if you didn’t respond. 

You tilted your head a little in faux innocence as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

Kai seemed to fall for your act completely, “Are you new around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” 

Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck–

TO BE CONTINUED.

[likely-moony]

hi, how you doing? can i ask for some headcanons for clingy yandere boyfriend peter parker?

Okay, so I'm a blind Dumb-ass so I didn't read the headcanon part and instead wrote a short fic 💀💀

Anyway, hiii I'm doing great, and I hope you enjoy it!! <3

(Also, let's pretend I'm not casually returning as if nothing happened and I didn't disappear for 7 months)

Gaslight

Gaslight

Paring: Yandere Peter Parker x Reader

Type/words: Short Story ~ 888 Words

Synopsis: Peter doesn't like you going out to parties, so one night, when you're getting ready for a college reunion, Peter pulls out his big guns of toxic manipulation to get you to stay with him.

TW!!: Yandere-Themes, Yandere Characters, Abuse Of Power (Supernaturally, Scientifically??), Obsessive Characters, Unhealthy Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Abusive Relationships, Cheating Accusation, Toxic Relationship, Toxic Boyfriend Peter.

⚠️ YOU HAVE HAVE BEEN WARNED ⚠️

Masterlist

Rules For Requesting

Taglist

“Where’re you going?”

Peter’s voice rang out from the living room couch as you sat on your little chair in front of your dressing room mirror.

“What?”

You could hear Peter shift uncomfortably on the sofa as you pinned your hair into place.

“Well, you wearing that little skirt that I got you the other day and-”

With a sigh, you put your pins down and turned to him as he turn his head around to face you, not even bothering to get up.

“What are you talking about, Peter, I told you?” You began asking, your eyebrows slowing stitching together at his confusion. “I have a college reunion party tonight.”

Peter placed a sour expression on his face.

“You didn’t say that it was on tonight?” He muttered, seemingly disappointed.

“I did, Pete. A billion times over.” You said back to him, you face stone cold with determination. Ever since you’d moved in with him, or hell even before that, it was like you barely left your place.

Your appearances at party and gathering were starting to lower drastically. You never noticed it at first, which was how Pete liked it, but he got too greedy. He restricted you a little too muchf ro you to let it slide and he was starting to show his real face more and more.

But it didn’t worry peter too much. There’ wasn’t anything a nice lovely date with some expensive champagne, a bouquet of your favourite flowers and a billion kisses won’t fix. And if that didn’t cut it, he resorted to straight up gas lighting you. That always worked, and he’d simply do it again.

“No. You didn’t.” Peter said softly, ever so slightly shaking his head. Peter looked innocent and so left out that it made even you start to question your sanity and memory. Had you really not told him? Were the hundred notes you’ve left him made up, or were the billion messages you sent him fake?

“But- But I did. And I promised them I would go, tonight, Petey.” You said back to him, just as softly as you go up from your chair.

“So who is it for?” Peter’s sudden change in tone confused you.

“What..?” Peter seemed somewhat unconvinced at your confusion.

“It's just that- you never really wear those kind of skirts around me and suddenly you’re going to a college reunion wearing them, so-”

“What’re you trying to say, Peter?” You pressed on, inching towards him.

“So what I'm saying is- Who’s the other guy?” Those few words left you speechless. Did Peter really think you were screwing around with other guys behind his back simply because you wanted to go to a party with your friends?

“There is no other guy, Peter, I just wanted to go to a party with my ladies and have some fun!” You said, desperately.

Peter let out a shaky breath and he looked at the time on his phone.

“Fine then, go and enjoy your party love,” Peter said lovingly, looking at you with those same pair of glossy eyes you fell in love with. “I’ll just cancel it and reschedule it for another day,” He added almost silently at the end. It was a bait, obviously. It was a bait and you caught on like the adorable little thing that you are.

“Cancel what?” you asked, starting to sound worried.

“Oh, it’s really nothing.” Peter smiled, “Don’t worry about it and go enjoy your party.” Peter turned back to the tv and listen to your footsteps intently. That was also bait, and the real question now was are you going to try to catch it too?

Peter watched you intently in the reflection of the tv to see what you were going to do and when he saw you step forward, he had to hold himself back from smiling, because you had fallen straight into his trap yet once again.

“No, tell me.”

Peter faked an exhausted sigh.

“It’s dumb really. I just planned for us to have a sweet date night so I could cook you dinner while we relax and maybe even watch a movie together?” Peter looked up at you, his shiny doe eyes ever so slightly growing glossier.

They weren’t real tears of course, but Peter had mastered the art of fake tears and it always came in handy when you were being stubborn.

“Don’t worry about it though,” He said quickly, turning away from you, and back to the tv.

Peter watched you from the corner of his eyes and when he felt you wrap your arms around his chest, he knew you had fallen straight into his intricately webbed trap, yet once again.

“There’s so way I’d let you cancel such a romantic event.” You whispered into his ear as his hand instinctively came up and grabbed yours in a loving way. You kissed him on the cheek, “I’m sure I can skip this party. It’s not that important anyway.”

Good. That’s how Peter liked it. So pretty and compliant, he just loves you so much.

A little too much.

Peter took your hand and led you to take a seat next to him on the couch. He wrapped his arm around you as you landed your head on his chest.

“You’re just so adorable sometimes. I love you so much,”

Hope you enjoyed it :)

[jamneuromain]

I Knew You Were Trouble

Steve Rogers x Reader (You)

Life Lesson:  There's always going to be a coworker that you don't like.

Warning: Cursing? A lot of cursing (?

A/N: This is my entry to @ronearoundblindly's Ro's 1-1-1 Challenge <3 Based on the inspiration from Eclipness. I mostly do the editing work :3 Basically some short snippets of your life being a task force leader in the Avengers.

*

Past

You heard of the funny business, that Rhodey commenting on Peter Quill, the legendary Star Lord, “So he’s an idiot?” To be honest, even if you are barely the type to joke around and have fun at the workplace – mind you, you work for the Avengers, the place that a single mistake could cost the lives of millions if not billions - you could barely keep the amusement off your face for three full days after you heard the anecdote.

“You’re laughing now, but I’m telling ya’,” Rhodey sipped his coffee, his words were more of a warning and a piece of advice to you, when you both and seven new recruits happened to be in the coffee room during the break and Rhodey shared his experiences in past missions, “sooner or later you’d figure there’s someone dumb as hell and you’ll feel the exact same way.”

The new recruits burst out a new round of laughter, but you shook your head with a small smile. The warmth of your coffee mug prickled your fingers slightly as you picked it up, “I’m sure it is not as bad as it sounds. We have the best agents here in the compound. They are the best of the best of the best.”

You knew Rhodey for a long while now. In fact, he was one of the instructors in your early years of army life. However, it wasn’t until later that the Avengers Initiative became more stable that he introduced you to this line of work, when all the other Avengers are either too busy or too incompetent (and yes, Rhodey was referring to Tony when he used this word) to lead a special task force that dealt with missions that were not quite Avenger’s level, but tricky if put in the hands of normal agents and squads.

And for the record, Rhodey wasn’t talking about anyone specific this time when he said “someone”.

While you thought otherwise. Sure, there will always be an annoying coworker or colleague at work, but you were certain that you could keep it professional.

Oh boy Oh. How wrong you were.

**

Now

“Cap has been on this mission for six months, and now he needs your help on this lead.” Sam, who has been like a big brother since your arrival, and even more brother-like when he knew about your army life, opens the conference room door for you. He flashes his pearl white teeth, “Debriefing starts in two minutes. I know this is your first time working with him. Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite.”

The glass door opens, and there stands Maria, mission dispatch officer of the Avengers Initiative, who simply nods and gestures you to sit down, checking her tablet and probably taking notes on her brief later. Your task force teammates sit on either side of the table, talking or minding their own business.

“Good luck!” Sam waves and disappears down in the corridor.

A few seconds and Maria still hasn’t started debriefing.

“Maria, do you need a couple of minutes?” You ask in confusion, seeing that Maria has no intention of introducing your next mission.

Maria raises her head from the tablet, blinks in confusion, before realization hits her, “we’re still waiting for one more.”

Debriefing was supposed to start three minutes ago.

No matter who comes through that door next, you’re going to show him, or her …

“Sorry everyone. There’s been a little incident downtown.” Steve Rogers, the blonde bulky super soldier rushes through the door, crashing himself down the chair beside you, “hello, you must be the leader of the task force. I’m Steve. Nice working with ya.” As he extends his hand.

You shake his hand out of politeness, while Maria starts pulling out the map of hostile locations where the lead points to.

It’s hardly likely for you to show him … some moves or anything.

But Captain Rogers is one of the greatest soldiers ever walk the Earth.

It’s going to be pleasant working with him, right?

… right?

***

The first mission that your task force is on this lead, you hand Steve full authority of commanding you and your unit.

Literally every recon mission you have been on, whether leading the task force or when you were in the military, was orchestrated perfectly. You get in, gather the info, and get out. Easy peasy.

But no.

You heard of the saying that goes around in the compound. “Every recon will turn into a full-on engagement.”

Whoever says that remains anonymous, but it’s no secret that these missions refer to Captain Steve Rogers.

It was an urban myth, you thought. How can someone as experienced as Steve Rogers, a man who has been through actual World War II, could make mistakes and blow up a simple recon?

You were proven wrong.

“Coming in hot, four o’clock!” Steve shouts as he blocks an RPG with his vibranium shield, explosion and dust wrap around him and engulf him in flames.

You curse under your breath, hands steady on your sniper rifle and take out another guard on the gate.

It wasn’t his fault, nor your teammates’. When the recon became an engagement with hostile members of this organization. It was … purely bad luck?

When some guard hit the panic button, setting the entire place in lockdown, and yelling in the comms that he couldn’t see his pal heading to the bathroom on the security cams.

But still, this NEVER happened before.

You join the messed up battle field as Captain Rogers plans for extraction, which includes getting in the RV (seriously, RV? These bad guys sure know how to have fun) and blasting the concrete walls using the new plasma cannon that you snatched from the bad guys’ weaponry room.

“Do we know how far is the blast radius of this thing?” You are in favor of getting out, but you aren’t in favor of killing yourself when getting out.

“We’d have to wait and see then.” Captain Rogers says in extreme optimism, covering your six when you and your teammates cram in the bus-like RV.

David, the mechanic expert in your team, plops up the skylight with the help of his teammates, holding the dangerous cannon and nodding to you, “we’re ready.”

“On my mark, go!” Captain Rogers hops on the RV as well, and tells you to drive.

The firing gradually ceased, as the enemy agents sure are baffled as well why you are driving towards a wall.

“NOW!” He shouts to David, who steadies himself and fires the cannon with a spectacular aim.

Oh, the plasma bomb-thing hits the wall alright. It blasts a hole with a radius of ten miles, taking down the whole wall with it, and burning a few yards of trees near the castle as well.

You hit the gas pedal and go through the hole – technically there isn’t a hole. There used to be a wall. You take the RV through the empty space which used to be a wall, and get out of sight of the enemy agents.

While your teammates lie down and rest, some taking care of their wounds with a first aid kit they found somewhere, you spare a glance at Captain Rogers. Ash and dust smear his pretty face, hair all tousled and his helmet lost – again, you heard that the equipment room produces ten helmets per month for him, just because he’d lost one somewhere almost on a daily basis during the mission.

And you know. You just know.

He’s reckless as hell and you won’t enjoy working with him.

Not one bit.

****

He hurries on the Quinjet before you and your task force take off.

“What’s this mission?” He speaks to you in a low voice, placing his shield near his feet, taking a seat right next to you.

“Caribbeans. For the felon codename ‘Tower Gate’.” You fasten your seatbelt, instructing the pilot to take off, “I thought you were on another mission?”

“Tower Gate? I thought he was in Spain?” He furrows his brow in confusion.

You clench your jaw, trying to make your voice sound calm, “the last mission when we,” you point at you and him separately, “were pursuing Tower Gate in Spain, and he got away, was six months ago.”

“Oh, right.” He pauses for a moment, clearly taking in you and your teammates suit up as divers, “what’s with the suit?”

Inner peace. You tell yourself. Inner peace. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“You didn’t get briefed?” You eye him, almost speechless, trying not to sound mad, “we are going to dive into the ocean to approach the island. Does your heavy armor…” work in the ocean? Won’t it drown him???

That would be tons of reports to write.

“I’ll figure something out.” He smiles, leaning back against the cockpit when the plane hits a small turbulence and he sucks in air and rubs the back of his head with a painful expression.

You kind of know where he gets his crazy ideas from.

He probably banged his head a lot during missions without his helmet.

Speaking of, “where on Earth is your helmet?” You can’t help but ask.

An embarrassed smile lingers on his lips, “kind of … lost it. During the last mission, and equipment room hasn’t produced the new batch yet.”

“Lost it???” You raise your voice by an octave, “and you’re going on missions like this?? Without your helmet?”

He definitely banged his head a lot.

……

“I’m telling you, Maria. He has the worst intel, rushes in front of the whole team without even a proper plan in mind, and he keeps putting himself in danger, which I will not tolerate when I’m running missions.” You complain to Maria Hill, who looks thoughtfully on hearing your reasons to kick Steve out of your team, or stop running missions with you at least.

“I’m sorry, but Steve can pick his own missions.” Maria shrugs, “however, I can forward your opinion to him, if it helps.”

If it helps?

You huff and leave the room.

*****

“Hey, I think we’re supposed to go over the briefing for the mission tomorrow.” You are stopped by Steve Rogers on your way to mission dispatch center. He taps your shoulder and asks if you could join him in the conference room.

“But there’s no mission tomorrow?” You shake your head for clarity, “what’s the codename for this mission?”

“Code name Streetlamp.”

“That’s … Agent O’ Hare. O’ Hare is working on ‘Streetlamp’.”

“Uh… where can I find Agent O’ Hare?”

You know O’ Hare. Not so well, but you know him. He’s one of the new recruits at the time you were brought in. His office is right next to yours and you occasionally bump into each other in the coffee room.

“He’s … on leave.” You choose your words carefully.

“When will he be back?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“He’s got a mission tomorrow. Who authorized this?” Steve furrows his brows. Even though he’s extremely handsome, you still want to punch him in the face.

And you are extremely sorry for O’ Hare too.

You bet Steve is going to wake up in the middle of tonight and think about how he should have NOT asked you this.

“His father passed away and he headed back to his home to arrange the funeral.” You sigh, feeling the blood pumping in your head, “and you authorized his leave. You are the only person who can authorize senior agents’ leave.”

“Wait I do?”

“GO ASK THE HR NOT ME!” You exclaim in frustration, “I’m not your secretary!”

“Oh. Umm… okay. Have a nice day.” Steve looks apologetic. And it seems he is heading towards the HR department.

Jesus Christ. He needs a secretary or an assistant or something.

Why doesn’t he have one?

Why doesn’t anyone see that?

Is Avengers Initiative that broke?

******

Steve was wounded in action during a mission together.

Apparently, he still has the power to choose which mission he participates in.

Sure, he was wounded when he was crazy enough to draw fire from half of your opponents.

Two ribs, a cracked skull – see, you knew he’d get hurt when you realized his helmet has gone missing again – and a broken arm.

Touching. Truly. But you prefer it if no one gets hurt.

You went to the medic bay and sent flowers and shit, leaving shortly because you have leave for the mission briefing.

Out of curiosity.

Just out of curiosity.

That Steve decides to poke around the phone.

It should take two days to heal and he can’t really paint or read, with his headaches and the cast on his arm.

The small and handy phone seems like a way to kill time.

See, no one, and you mean no normal person, would check other people’s Whatsapp signature.

But Steve, being completely ignorant to modern day social rules, accidentally clicks in your profile and reads your signature: SGR is a big dumbass.

And your twitter, which he almost magically found, your twitter that was unattached to the rest of your social media, but he stumbled upon.

“Jesus F Christ pay ATTENTION this is YOUR mission brief???!!!”

“You are the team leader??? Could you TRY NOT to get us killed????”

The dates of the post miraculously click with the missions you went on together.

“Parachute. The fucking dude jumps off without a parachute. From the plane. WITHOUT A FUCKING PARACHUTE!!!”

“THAT FUCKING SHIELD ALMOST KILLED ME YOU CAN JUST TELL ME IF YOU WANT TO SPEAK AT MY FUNERAL”

“I should resign JFC I might get an aneurism for working with this dumbass”

“The helmet the helmet the helmet how many times do I have to say put the FUCKING HELMET ON”

And the one from the very start: “Maria asked me why the enemy fortress seems different on satellite image. What can I say? Because we BLEW THE FUCKING WALL and BURNT the ENTIRE FOREST DOWN???”

Steve would argue that he’s not a dumbass before he read all the posts on your twitter.

But now he doesn’t have any evidence to back him up.

He does sound like a dumbass when you repeat his actions in your tweets.

*******

You were hauled up in the middle of a night in your bed for new updates on your last mission. Afterall, villains work 24/7 and don’t care what time zone you are in.

You yawn behind your coffee mug, but the rest of the participants seem energetic when they are in Russia, adjusted to the local time zone already.

Steve, not surprising, was also in the meeting. The background of this online conference looks like his office in the Avengers compound. Clearly, he too is a bit disturbed by the conference at 2 am, as he tries to focus but you can still see the tiredness on his face.

Your phone pings with one new message as you yawn again, failing to cover your tiredness with your mug this time.

Steve Rogers: I heard that the Avengers Compound is haunted in the middle of the night ;)

You double check your surroundings.

You are at home, only that your online meeting background was set with a virtual office background, looking like as if you are in your office right now.

Focus on “AS IF”.

You chew on your lower lip not to reveal the smugness as you type back.

You: I’m at my house. But is there something just floated behind your back just now?

The next second, you see Steve panics and looking over his shoulders frequently, having Maria and Tony stop and ask him if everything is alright.

Nope. Everything is not alright.

You are completely wide awake at this point, as Steve blushes and tells them to continue.

You did not miss that he adds a jacket to his thin T-shirt as soon as the briefing continues. The super soldier serum does nothing to compete with the chillness coming from the bottom of his heart for fear of ghosts.

You hide your smug smile behind your coffee mug.

Steve Rogers. Fear of ghosts. HA!

Is Steve cute? Do you like him when you are not on missions? Sure.

Do you still think he’s dumb as hell and want to punch him in the face whenever you are on missions together? Hell yeah.

A work I hold dear: Attached

This, absolute this. This is the fic that started my madness of (writing for) Steve Rogers and dragged me down to hell of sinfully hot Professor Rogers :3 This is an absolute masterpiece that I'll forever hold dear (and definitely rush back to if I ever get an email saying that another chapter has been updated)

My work that I hope gets more attention: Wishful Thinking

I know it's yet to finish and dark and everything but def I hoped for more responses to a fic with a few chapters that I haven't managed to work out ;_;

[cozza-frenzy]

I know some of y'all's tastes, but I'd love to know what everyone's favourite bands/artists/musical genres are. <3

Tough question to ask! For some of these we've gone for vibes more than solid genres; since we're all parts of what should be one personality, we're like a group of people that grew up together. So we've kind of narrowed it down to what music makes us think "X would like this" or "this is X's vibe", as well as a few songs they (sometimes exclusively) like. Terry Moods: Duality, contradiction, mix of soft & harsh sounds, pass the aux cord at your peril because it's going to get weird Genres: Experimental, Glitch, Prog Rock, House Music, Nu Disco, Vaporwave, Outsider Music Examples: Deuteronomy - Clair De Lune Pink Floyd - Brain Damage Blank Banshee - Eco Zones

Chaos Moods: Psychedelic, Chaotic, Bassy, bouncing-off-the-wall madness Genres: Hair Metal, Bass Music, Moombahton, Drum & Bass, Jungle, Plunderphonics Examples: Bassnectar feat. Amp Live - Ugly The Prodigy - No Good (Start The Dance) Extreme - Play With Me Taffy Moods: "Spacey" vibes, themes of isolation, distance, and nature Genres: Braindance, Psychedelic Rock, Prog Rock, Prog House, Ambient Examples: Greenhouse - levällään David Bowie - Space Oddity Peter Gabriel - Down To Earth Andy Moods: Hyperactive, colorful, happy and nostalgic Genres: Speedcore, Happy Hardcore, Chiptune, Bubblegum Pop, Rock Examples: Anamanaguchi - Endless Fantasy Furries In A Blender - Wind Me Up Galactikraken - Best Band In The Universe Roy Moods: Lust, anger, violence, dark and moody, lyrics about yearning to be understood Genres: Dubstep, Power Metal, Harsh Noise, Neurofunk, Metalcore Examples: Bring Me The Horizon - Can You Feel My Heart Powerwolf - The Sacrament Of Sin Cookie Monsta - Mosh Pit VIP Dagwood Moods: Party time! Anything that's catchy or good to sing along to; happy, nostalgic, with a sense of bringing people together Genres: Pop, Parody, Electro Swing, Jazz Examples: Dexys Midnight Runners - Come On Eileen Lionel Hampton - It Don't Mean a Thing (Jazz Reconstruction Club Mix) Weird Al Yankovic - My Bologna Martin Moods: Simple and comforting; songs that are good to sing along to or emphasize a sense of togetherness, simplicity, and nostalgia. Genres: Indie, Melodic Pop, Europop Examples: Sleeping At Last - North Sigur Ros - Hoppipolla ABBA - Mamma Mia Vivien Moods: A sense of longing, or waiting for better times. Also likes songs that are good to sing along to, maybe to overcome those feelings that form the "basis" of their tastes. Genres: Synth Pop, Alternative, Britpop, Disco, Glam Rock Examples: Gorillaz - Melancholy Hill Coldplay - Paradise Red Hot Chilli Peppers - Black Summer Jenova Moods: Soft acoustic guitar and drums, soft lyrics, magical and fey-like Genres: Alternative, Indie, Pop, Folk Examples: Nirvana - Something In The Way Dodie - Ready Now Loreena McKennitt - The Mummers' Dance Thirteen Moods: Heartbreak, loneliness, distance, but with a hopeful tone Genres: Alternative, Pop, Geek Rock, Prog Rock, Jazz Fusion Examples: The Cure - Just Like Heaven Ludo - Drunken Lament Journey - Faithfully

Roses Moods: Feeling dissatisfied, leaving things behind, soft 80's-style synths and heartfelt lyrics and melodies Genres: Electropop, City Pop, Synthwave, Synth Pop, Melodic Rock Examples: Magic Dance - Restless Nights Porter Robinson - Something Comforting The Killers - Human

[railingsofsorrow]

sorry for not updating any of my fics I'm too busy missing duskwood and buried in a fucking academic dump

[winniethewife]

Jewels made of stardust 

(Poe Dameron x OC! Rhoswen Jewelace.)

Holiday special: And why can't we just hold on?

A/N: An Extra Update for the Holidays! Takes place in the same universe but out of the story order.

Words:  889

It was Life day, and Roshwen had forgotten. She had her hands full with everything that was happening, the forming of a new form of Galactic government, All of their friends scattered to the edges of the galaxy, it had just slipped her mind. Well that’s what she was probably subconsciously telling herself. But her Husband Poe Dameron who was watching as she busied herself with a hundred things on a day when nothing would be open, and no one would be replying to her messages, He knew exactly why she had forgotten. Her family was gone. It was just the two of them. He knew “forgetting” about life day was just a way to cope with the absence of her parents, uncle and brother, maybe if she had friends and found family around her she would be more likely to have remembered but with everyone busy these days, she had no reason to remember, no reason to feel the joy of the holiday. Except for him. He walks over to her from behind and slides his hands around her waist.

“Hey.” He murmurs into her neck as she stood at the window of their home on Yavin 4. “what are you thinking about?”

“Hm…Oh nothing really. Just…I feel like something is missing here. I’m forgetting something.” She says softly as her emerald eyes scan the horizon. She leans into his embrace.

“Are you? I can’t think of anything” Poe says, No point in antagonizing her with the forgotten holiday.

“I guess not.” She chuckles and rests her head back on his chest. “Do you ever wonder, when will the good times run out? When will the Galaxy find itself at odds again?”

“Do they have to end? I was just starting to get used to a little peace and quiet around here.” He runs his fingers through her long hair as he holds her close.

“You know how it is Poe, its only a matter of time before something happens, another group of dissatisfied Imperial or first order remnants show up to ruin everyones day.” Roshwen sighs. “but you know this time…this time we wouldn’t be holding up someone elses legacy, we’d be defending our own.” She doesn’t even have to say the other part, the part where there are no Rebel hero’s from the time before to show them the way. It would just be them, and everything they had learned the time before. Poe rests his head on her shoulder and lets out a sigh of his own.

“Why don’t we just, hold on, to this, to now? Let’s not worry about that, just keep the good of today to last throughout the rest of our lives.” He suggests, ever the optimist. Roshwen smiles and reaches her hand up to caress his face.

“I like the Idea of that. Just…” her voice trails off as she closes her eyes. Her stomach does a flip and she feels nauseous, leaning back on Poe to keep balance. “Woah. Not that again.”

“You alright Red?” He asked holding her closer. “You coming down with something?”

“Maybe…I don’t know I’ve just been feeling kinda off lately, probably just stress. I missed a cycle too.”

“You what?” Poe felt his heart skip a beat as she said that. Roshwen had been so busy she hadn’t even taken a second to realize the implications.

“I…I missed my Cycle.” She says more slowly this time, turning to look at him.

“Maker…Ro…Do you think?” He holds her shoulders as his dark doe eyes meet hers.

“I…I have no idea! I can’t…I haven’t…Oh…Poe…” Rhoswen felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. This…this was something else.

“Maker…I…this would make a difference. A baby, Roshwen!” Poe laughs and lifts her, spinning around before kissing her softly, gently placing her back on her feet as he kisses her. She pulls away after a moment.

“Wait…we don’t know for sure…we should…” she couldn’t even finish her sentence before he’s kissing her again.

Poe mangaged to get a pregnancy test despite the holiday by finding the local general store owner who he had known as a child, and begging him to keep it a secret. Rhoswen took a second to breathe before using the small device to prick her finger, then they both watched as the small device measured the HGC in her blood. It only took a moment for the test to flash a green light. Positive… they both look at each other.

“It’s…” Poe could barely speak

“Yes…My love…it is.” She smiles at him. He pulls her into a tight embrace.

“This has to be the best Life day in all my life!” Poe says softly

“Wait! Its life day? And you didn’t even tell me??” Roshwen Laughs taking a step away from him to look at him with a smirk on her face.

“Uh…It slipped my mind?” He tried to come up with an excuse on the spot.

“Uh-huh. Right.” She rolls her eyes and Shakes her head at him as he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. She stands on tip toe to kiss his cheek. “Happy life day Poe.”

“Happy Life Day Red.” He says before pulling her in for another kiss, his hand gently grazing her abdomen.

A time to be joyful when all is calm and all is bright.

~

Masterlist

@femmeanonymelives

[nekoannie-chan]

Week 23 Reblog Masterlist

Welcome to Week 23 2023 or Week 179, as always, fics would be listed in the order I read them.

I hope you enjoy it!

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

♥ You can check my reading guidelines here.

♥ You can check my masterlist here.

♥ You can check my main reblog masterlist 2023 here.

♥ You can check my June reblog masterlist 2023 here.

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

𝙺𝚎𝚢𝚜: 💛 ᵒʳᶤᵍᶤᶰᵃˡ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ

💜 ʰᵒʳʳᵒʳ

🖤 ᵈᵃʳᵏ

❤️ ˢᵐᵘᵗ

💚 ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ

💙 ᵃᶰᵍˢᵗ

🧡 ᶜᵒᵐᵉᵈʸ

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

This is the list of the fics I read and recommend in Week 23 2023:

 A single action (Dottie Underwood X Reader) by @ghostofskywalker​ 💚💙

Everything will be fine (Peter Maximoff X Reader) by @youreobsessedwithtoomanyfandoms​ 💚💙

Nice to be kneaded part I: Welcome to Greenwood (Steve Rogers X Reader) by @rogersideup​💚

No good at goodbyes part III (Scott Lang X Reader) by @there-goes-thefighter​ 💚💙

Die Besessenheit one-shot: Die Authorität (Dark!Steve Rogers X Reader) by @imanuglywombat​❤️🖤

Night kisses (Steve Rogers X Reader) by @incorrectmarvelquotesss​ 💚💙❤️

My saviour chapter 52: I love you, Y/N! (Brock Rumlow X Reader) by @talia-rumlow​ 💚💙❤️🖤

Nice to be kneaded part II: Inhale, Exhale (Steve Rogers X Reader) by @rogersideup​💚

No good at goodbyes part IV (Scott Lang X Reader) by @there-goes-thefighter​ 💚💙

A-Z NSFW Headcanons (Adam Warlock X Reader) by @tom-whore-dleston​❤️

My saviour chapter 53: Where are your parents? (Brock Rumlow X Reader) by @talia-rumlow​ 💚💙❤️🖤

Nice to be kneaded part III: Nice to be needed (Steve Rogers X Reader) by @rogersideup​💚

No good at goodbyes part V (Scott Lang X Reader) by @there-goes-thefighter​ 💚💙

Breakfast is served (Stucky X Reader) by @ro-is-struggling​❤️

My saviour chapter 54: Anything you want, Brock! (Brock Rumlow X Reader) by @talia-rumlow​ 💚💙❤️🖤

Nice to be kneaded part IV: Captain what’s-his-butt (Steve Rogers X Reader) by @rogersideup​💚

No good at goodbyes part VI (Scott Lang X Reader) by @there-goes-thefighter​ 💚💙

As the dust settled (Steve Rogers X Reader) by @crazyunsexycool​ 💚💙❤️

Second time around (Steve Rogers X Reader) by @cockslutpadalecki​❤️🖤

My saviour chapter 55: Good girl! (Brock Rumlow X Reader) by @talia-rumlow​ 💚💙❤️🖤

No good at goodbyes part VII (Scott Lang X Reader) by @there-goes-thefighter​ 💚💙

How Steve falls in love with you (Steve Rogers X Reader) by  @chennqingg​ 💚

Late night meeting (Pietro Maximoff X Reader) by @little-miss-dilf-lover​❤️

My saviour chapter 56: Not you, Agent! (Brock Rumlow X Reader) by @talia-rumlow​ 💚💙❤️🖤

No good at goodbyes part VIII (Scott Lang X Reader) by @there-goes-thefighter​ 💚💙

In a world of black and white (Ransom Drysdale X Reader) by @chasingmarvel​ 💚💙❤️

Distorted (Dark! Hydra Steve Rogers X Reader X Dark!Lloyd Hansen; Dark! Peter Parker X Reader (platonic), Dark! Superior! Tony Stark X Reader) by @ironlady1993​❤️🖤

My saviour chapter 57: NOT HER! (Brock Rumlow X Reader) by @talia-rumlow​ 💚💙❤️🖤

No good at goodbyes part IX (Scott Lang X Reader) by @there-goes-thefighter​ 💚💙

[pavedinashes-if]

I know this isn't an MC ask, but the last MC ask made me think of this question (as always, please ignore this if you don't feel like answering it 🤗)

What are the ROs race/nationalities?

Your Neighbour (S Peters) - German

Your Ex (F Nowak) - American / German

Your Bestie (N Cho) - American / Korean

Your Bestie's BF/GF (F Moretti) - Italian

Your Childhood Friend (B Wolf) - American

Your New Friend (X Hoffmann) - German

Your New Foe (A Czernacki) - Polish

Your Rival (L Svenson) - German / Swedish

Your Boss (D Petrov) - Russian

Your Doctor (Dr. M Sturm) - German

Your Dealer (Sparks) - Brazilian / German

A Stranger (P Gerwig) - German

[yourultraarchive]

i love love love your blog!! you have a few posts about japanese names, like how to make them and where they fit in but,,, i was wondering how an american name would fit in (like class number, alphabetically, etc.) or how to translate one, if at all. and do you think its a good idea to have an american oc actually attending UA at all? i know you've said you're not an authority, so its totally fine if you dont know. thank youuuu! your templates are amazing btw

Hi, sorry for the late reply! (I actually haven't been on tumblr in like... months. Life and all.)

Foreign/non-Japanese OCs attending UA wouldn't be weird at all--there are canonically at least 3 foreign exchange/transfer/descent/immigrant students (or something of the sort)! Aoyama from 1-A and Pony and Rin from 1-B are all foreigners in some capacity.

As for how they'd fit alphabetically--well, it'd be just like any alphabetical order you'd think of, it's just that it'd be based on the Japanese alphabet instead of English. Here is a good reference for the general rules of that order, including voiced consonants:

In Romaji, these kana are phonetically ordered as: a, i, u, e, o, ka, ga, ki, gi, ku, gu, ke, ge, ko, go, sa, za, shi, ji, su, zu, se, ze, so, zo, ta, da, chi, di/ji, tsu, du/dzu, te, de, to, do, na, ni, nu, ne, no, ha, ba, pa, hi, bi, pi, fu/hu, bu, pu, he, be, pe, ho, bo, po, ma, mi, mu, me, mo, ya, yu, yo, ra, ri, ru, re, ro, wa, wo, n (This is ignoring "little" variants since those are never going to be at the start of a word, but it does determine the order of words that do have them in the middle somewhere.)

It may look weird to people used to the English alphabet (you may think it's strange that "pa" comes before "bi" right?) but do keep in mind that Japanese is... well. Not English. This is normal to them!

For a name that doesn't easily fit the Japanese phonetic structure, you'd have to sound it out with kana (and write it out with katakana, since it's a foreign name). Some examples:

Pony, written as ポニー, is read "po-ni-i" (since long vowel sounds are translated in katakana as a long dash), and since it's a name starting with a voiced consonant (po), it would go after names starting with "he" (and its voiced versions) and before names starting with "ma". (If we were sorting characters by first name anyway.)

Peter Parker, written as ピーター・パーカー, is read "pi-i-ta-a / pa-a-ka-a" (again with long dashes translating as long vowels), and would alphabetically go before Pony (in either case of first or last name, since "pi" and "pa" both come before "po"). Also, in case you didn't catch the pattern, the "er" ending in English is most often translated as a long "a" sound!

Richard Grayson, written as リチャード・グレイソン, is read "ri-cha-a-do / gu-re-i-so-n". This is an example of sounds like "gr" that don't translate well in Japanese, so you kind of have to squish two syllables together to get it, with the vowel in the middle being somewhat "silent". The most common "silent" character in Japanese is "u", but I've seen "o" a few times too (see next example).

Mytho or Mute, written as みゅうと or ミュート, is read as "myu-u-to", and can be translated as either of the aforementioned "English" names (because translations aren't a 1-to-1 thing after all). In the example of the "Mute" translation, the silent "o" just kind of sounds better at the end than a "u" does in cases like this.

Thanatos, written as タナトス, is read "ta-na-to-su", and is an example of a name with that silent "u" at the end.

Anthony Stark, written as アントニー・スターク, is read as "a-n-so-ni-i / su-ta-a-ku", and is another example of translating sounds that don't exist in Japanese ("th" in English becomes "s" or "z" in Japanese, and "st[x]" becomes "sut[x]") and the silent "u".

Jason Stryker, written as ジェイソン・ストライカー, is read as "je-i-so-n / su-to-ra-i-ka-a", and is another example of translating sounds that don't exist in Japanese, with "Stryker" showcasing that it uses the "st[x] -> sut[x]" rule AS WELL AS a silent "o" rather than the usual silent "u".

Class number is just based on where they are in the alphabetical order (ie. Aoyama is No.1 because he has the earliest alphabetical character in his surname, "a". Ashido is No.2 because, while she also has an "a" surname, "shi" comes after "o" in the Japanese alphabet).

So for instance, if Richard Grayson was added to 1-A, he would have a seat between Kirishima and Koda since his surname starts with "gu" (in the Japanese writing system!), and his class number would be No.9! Koda and everyone else after him would have their number pushed accordingly. If Peter Parker were added to this same class, he would be between Bakugou and Midoriya!

I hope this helped, and will help others too. Thanks for the ask! (Also thanks for saying so, I feel like no one actually uses the templates at all...)

Anyway, plus ultra and all that!

[missoneminute]

I’m wondering what’s happened between Pete and Paul Ro?? he kept posting abt Pete owing him money and other weird stuff

Hello, nothing is happening between them. Peter got clean, and cut him off. Paul is no longer welcome at shows, and where possible is actively being kept away from Peter, since he turns up at his gigs and yells at him about money. Paul claims Peter owes him large sums for various things he did for him, most of them invented in his own mind. Paul profited off Peter for many years, on many fronts: he sold drugs to him, he sold tabloid stories about him, he sold intimate photos and videos of him, he sold his art works, and to this day he sells material from his private diaries, of which he has an entire crate full - and it's likely half that shit was stolen. He's lost his meal ticket and he's fuming, so he's hoping by slandering Peter online he can get his attention - it's just an attempt at bribery. But no one with a single braincell gives one fuck what Paul says, because he's a known liar, delusional, and dangerous. Best we all ignore him until he dies. x