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artemfication · 2 years

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“MC goes Buzzfeed Unsolved with the demon brothers while fucking with the entire human realm internet!” Part 1

CW: swearing. Lots of swearing, mentions of death/murder, all the typical stuff related to summoning entities, haunted places, live streaming, not proof read.

MC goes ghost hunting in the human realm

“What’s up everyone, it’s…around five in the afternoon, I just arrived at this abandoned school, which is said to be haunted by the students who were murdered by the janitor if they stayed too late. I heard about it from some people who went here before and so, I decided to check for myself! I got my ghost communicator with me, my camera, extra batteries and my camping gear, so we’re going to spend the night and see what happens!” MC turns the camera to the view ahead of them as they approach the school and takes some nice shots from the building as a whole. They decided to make it a live video instead of an edited one so all the raw footage would be there for everyone to see. It’s quite misty already as it’s fall, dead leaves scattered across the ground and the enormous trees stand leafless on the side of the concrete school walls. Once MC reaches the door, they slowly push it open, triggering the creaking sound. The chat is going crazy with anticipation and are asking them to explore the school.

“You guys ready to set up camp to spend the night?”

Chat enthusiastically tells them they’re all ready, before MC starts putting all of their stuff behind the secretary desk next to the school’s entrance.

“”Why do you always go by yourself?” I don’t really have a reason for that to be honest. Perhaps it’s because I don’t get scared easily? Hmm…I’m not even so sure myself. But the thrill of doing all this alone it probably what makes it worth doing these kind of livestreams!”

“Oi MC, is there really no way ya can just spend the holidays in Devildom?”

“I would have loved to, but I got to make the content too y’know. Don’t worry I’ll be back before you know it! In the mean time, why don’t you study up on the place I’m camping at? You gotta make it all believable for the humans to get a good scare.”

“I gotta say, you’re videos are way better than the series “I died while saving a cat from an incoming train and now I’m the guardian angel of a ghost hunter, but he believes I am an actual ghost so now I have to do ghosty things”, I can’t wait to see how your next video is going to turn out.”

“MC, don’t forget the promise about the food…”

“No worries Beel, I got you! When I travel back, I’ll make sure to pick up some additional fast food on the way.”

Looking back on their time in Devildom, they smile as they remember how the seven brothers and the Purgatory crew always tried to stall them from leaving. Making many promises to ensure their return and trying to become their favorite.

“Hmm…does the building still have electricity?” They mumble in wonder and plug in the charger of one of the battery chargers. A faint buzz can be heard, but surprisingly the building does have electricity.

“Oh right, I heard that in one of the classrooms a student got killed, there was said to be a drawing of a pentagram of some sort. I’m not sure if it was done by students themselves, as this building has been visited by other people or if some mad ass cult tried to summon Caspar the friendly ghost. But hey, if we can make use of that, why not try it out?”

To the rest of the human world, MC might be the craziest person in existence. Why would you giggle and bat your lashes in front of a possible demon, while filming with some tiny 4K camera for a living?

Chat is losing it and trying to predict any possible outcomes, some saying it’s a hoax while others try not to claim any evil energy.

MC is casually looking around the empty hallways that echo their footsteps as they proceed deeper inside the enormous building which was once a boarding school.

A sudden bonk makes MC jump and they look around to find any movement or clue about the source of the sound. When there is nothing but silence, they start discussing with chat what it could’ve possibly been. Some suggest something breaking, like a part of the vent, or perhaps something that fell from the wall. Some say it could just be a window or door slamming shut.

“A-alright, how about we go back to camp, eat something and perhaps I could tell you a fun story about the underworld, hmm?” MC won’t lie and say that was an unexpectedly scary moment, even for them.

“Y’know how I filmed with this other ghostuber a while back? I recently spoke to him again and he told me he completely stopped with the ghosthunting videos. He was way too freaked out when he went with me, holding his holy watergun and saying prayers. I guess encountering an actual demon was a but too much for him…do you think it was because I challenged the demon to take my soul? Mmh…? “Didn’t you sell your soul to capitalism?” Fuck you’re right, my poor wallet and my back, why must I suffer like this while I’m still so young!? Let’s not talk about the fucking minimum wage and the damn prices of homes! I’m sorry god, I said damn, won’t happen again, oh wait fuck I just said it the second time, nevermind…” the sudden sound of a door closing makes MC jump a little and they fall silent instantly, turning off their light and looking over their shoulder as they try to catch another sound to identify the presence of another person. The bang echoes through the building.

“God if that was you, I deserved that.” MC whispers, mentally apologizing to Simeon and Luke for provoking their lord, while chat is kekeing in the comments. They absolutely love to see their favorite ghoststreamer suffer. MC once tripped over absolutely nothing and the day after, people had made memes of them falling, spreading them all over the internet. Even the demon brothers got ahold of them and frequently use them in their groupchat. Mammon tried capitalizing on the meme, but failed as they were already everywhere. Took MC a week to get him out of his sulky mood about lost Grimm. But some cuddles made it better.

“Okay so this is the point where we start whispering, y’know…because now that it’s dark, there’s a big chance entities will start becoming active through the soul of those murdered students…” MC gulps quietly as they silence themselves to catch any sound. It is deadly quiet for a few moments until MC hears the faint sound of footsteps. They continue for a while and they dare to guess it comes from the stairway.

“Fuck…I think those were actual footsteps…it might be the ghost of the janitor…looking for anyone who is still up past curfew…” quickly turning off the light, they sneak a peek around the corner of the frontdesk, but they are met by an empty hallway with lockers on the side as usual. The sound has faded and it is as quiet as it was before.

“Shit, shit, shit, okay…we need to find a way to not run into the janitor…if it is the actual ghost. I have no idea how we’re going to be able to identify him, but I do know that the janitor’s room is on the second floor….”

“Ah there you are!”

Part 2

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sonnysonder · 7 months

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yello! tis me again :D

Ramón is the smallest of the triplets and one of the smaller eggs in general

Ramón's little whiskers, y'know, like Chinese dragon kind, help him detect Cucurucho and the Federation

he almost gave Fit a heart attack when one night he gave himself a buzz cut, and then another when he admitted it was to look more like his dad

cats really like Fit

since eggs disappeared, the nights he isn't working himself to the point of passing out, Fit spends just sitting next to Ramón's bed. and more recently he lets Ramón's cats sleep on his lap. and maybe it makes him a little less lonely

and another little theory! maaybe the reason the Code dropped the clocks only to Fit is because it somewhat respects Fit? like, he was the first, and for quite a while the only person who was able to kill it? idk it's just pure speculation and perhaps it's the lack of sleep talking lmao

have a great day/night! o/

Ramon is definitely tiny. He's a little baby. A baby waby even. A little boy. He is babying and wabying all the time every day 24/7

I saw fanart of Ramon giving himself a buzzcut and I like the hc so much you don't get it ahahbedmnwkfnwkrblkrbw

I have my own headcanon that Fit is TERRIBLE at doing hair. He sucks ASS at it. Of course he does, he's bald. This wouldn't be so much of a problem if he didn't have a son that DOES have hair.

(Queue Ramon running away from Fit, who is brandishing a hairbrush)

Fit loves his son, so he TRIES. And he FAILS. And then, when visiting Phil and Missa's house, Phil takes one look at the dreadlocks haphazardly tied to Ramon's head and goes "Oh hell no, this won't stand."

And so he sits Ramon down and ties his hair into lovely braids, like he had done with his sons before him. What he does with his children now.

He tries teaching Fit how to braid. Fit tries and fumbles, tries and fumbles, but somehow it's alright.

He'll get it one day.

#qsmp #fitmc #qsmp fitmc #fitmc qsmp #ramon qsmp #qfit #philza #qsmp philza

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redrabbitspod · 1 year

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YOU GOT ROBBED ?! Can we have a story time ?

Um, no? Andrew fucking stabbed him before he robbed us?

Okay, here's a story time for you since I know you've missed them.

To start, let me just say we have a ridiculous security system. Like, they probably don't have this shit at the most secure locations okay. My uncle procured it and idk from where, we'll leave it at that. Now, because of this, we've had to tinker with it so we don't get an alert every time one of the chickens beaks a worm to death (RIP worm). Because of that it basically just alerts us when something sets off the security lights.

Now, we're in bed. It's like 3AM and we're sleeping soundly AT THE SAME TIME which happens a lot but it also doesn't happen enough that we appreciate it when it does (trauma lol). Both our phones start buzzing and Andrew fucking ninja kicks out of the bed like someone's burst through our bedroom door and not at all like his phone is softly buzzing near his head. I don't move at all because honestly I'm tired and Andrew seems like he has it handled. A few seconds later I hear who the fuck and that's when I also karate somersault out of the bed to find myself holding a weapon and ready to go. Because that meant a PERSON was setting our shit off.

Andrew's all grimly pulling his arm bands on like 'stay here' and after I got done laughing in his face we crept downstairs. We were watching this person go from shadow to shadow like they thought they could avoid the security lights and it would've been funny if it weren't so sad. We watched him sidle up to the back doors and try the handle and then pull something out like he was going to try to pick the lock. The alarm only hadn't gone off at this point because Andrew disabled it on his phone before it could. So we let him try to pick it. Because why not right? It was laughable. It's an electronic automatic lock like, my brother in Christ. It was never going to work.

Meanwhile Andrew pulls out a donut from somewhere istg I have no idea I guess they were just there in the kitchen which is where the back doors are and we're just hanging out listening to this fucker cursing at the door. Eventually Andrew shoves the last of the donut in his mouth, straightens his armbands and throws the door open.

Okay so listen. Andrew doesn't just stab people unless they deserve it, you know? We were just going to scare the shit out of this guy but then he pulls a gun when he sees us and barrels his way into the house like he's a one man swat team or some shit. Andrew wasn't even phased but AS SOON as that guy pointed a gun at me? Whew. WHEW. It's still gray sweatpant season friends and Andrew sleeps shirtless so this idiot is fucking HALF NAKED with his LONG ASS HAIR everywhere with BLACK ARMBANDS and he pulls a knife out so fast and just stabs THE FUCK out of this guy. Portrait of a small hot man titled 'don't touch my things'.

I'm laughing just thinking about this.

Like right in his side. He crumples to the kitchen floor and I look at Andrew and he looks at the guy and I'm like we're never going to get the blood out of the grout 😭 and Andrew's like he could have killed you you fucking idiot and I was like that gun isn't loaded. The guy at this point is trying to like crawl away so I put a foot on his back to hold him in place. Where tf do you think you're going?! Anyway so Andrew checks the gun and yeah. Not loaded. Like I said. I could just tell idk.

So then what do we do? We COULD call the cops but who wants to deal with the cops? Not perfectly law abiding citizens like us. And let's be real idk why this guy is breaking into houses. He sure broke into the wrong one and he was lucky he didn't step on a cat or something bc I'm not sure he'd have lived to tell this tale. But Andrew calls Aaron 1. To make sure they're okay and no one tried anything over there because The Nieces live there and 2. He didn't want to bloody the Maz or the GS so Aaron's shitty Honda would have to do.

We tie the guy up, load him into Aaron's Honda (I drove because I'm a great getaway driver and Aaron threw the keys out of his front door and said I DONT WANNA KNOW before slamming it again) and dumped him in front of a hospital. At this point Andrew had a shirt on but it was fine because he let me be the one to threaten the guy and if there's something I'm great at (besides being a getaway driver) it's making people believe my threats.

Anyway the guy pissed himself in Aaron's trunk and we're just waiting for him to realize it ☺️

THE END -N

#story time #rr answers 2 #Neil answers 2 #jk fbi guy haha lol

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calciseptinefic · 11 months

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then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 12 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

← previous: Part 11

Wade’s head is a mess as Peter tells the story of him and the other Wade.

It begins the way Wade already knows it does: Peter was fifteen when he was bitten by a radioactive spider and got his unique powers. It was a thrill, at first; he was strong when he had once been weak, and the possibilities of being someone more than poor, puny Peter Parker went to his head. Doing good for nothing more than the sake of helping others did not cross his mind until his inaction led to the death of his uncle.

"I was angry," Peter tells them softly. "One of the people I loved the most in the world was suddenly gone and the man who did it was still... out there. Sure, I stopped purse snatchers and returned stolen bicycles and got the occasional cat out of a tree, but I was definitely looking for that man. Looking for trouble. And I found both, eventually."

Wade tries to listen. Tries to pay attention and tries to follow along. Tries to imagine Peter younger and smaller, shaking with guilt and rage as he confronted the man who murdered his uncle, tries to empathize with how easy it would be to kill—not just because Peter had the proportional strength and agility of a spider, but because killing was easy when revenge felt like justice.

"I didn't know the guy was involved in bigger things, and I got in over my head," Peter explains. "Sixteen and already on Kingpin's radar. They put a hit out on me and... well..."

Peter is telling Wade this story for a reason. To apologize, maybe, or to explain why he kept the truth from Wade. He sits on the edge of the couch cushion, folded hands tucked between his knees, and tells them that, in his universe, Wade Wilson is a mercenary infamously known as Deadpool. He was contracted by the mob to bring Spiderman to them, dead or alive, and when he accepted the job, he didn't know that Spiderman was a teenager. He knew, several hours after, because Peter didn't realize that the low level buzzing in his brain was a warning that someone was following him; he just went home, tired from a long day of classes and patrol, and collapsed onto his bed while Deadpool watched him from the opposite rooftop.

But this story doesn’t make Wade feel any better or any less lied to.

In fact, it might be making him feel worse.

"I hated him, at first," Peter says, smiling sweetly down at his ring. "I thought he was crude and obnoxious and a little holier-than-thou than warranted, given that he was a mercenary for hire. But under that he was funny and sincere and always tried his best. Life had dealt him one of the shittiest hands it could and yet there he was, protecting a stupid teenager from the mob, buying me tacos and keeping me safe despite the danger it put him in."

"A big marshmallow," rePete says, turning his gaze to Wade.

"Don't look at me," Wade says, shaking his head. "I’m not him."

"Yeah, sure." Peter rolls his eyes. "That's why you immediately let me sleep on your couch. Fed me. Sheltered me. That's why you let me drag you all over New York even though you didn't believe me."

Surprised, Wade says, "You knew?"

"What, that you didn't believe me?" Peter snorts. "Come on, Wade. I've known you for ten years. I know what you look like when you're analyzing a situation from every angle—"

Ten years.

For Wade, it's the last straw. For the past two days, he's been hyper-vigilant: trying to keep Peter safe while constantly running into wall after wall after wall; trying to ignore a surge of inappropriate feelings every time Peter smiled at him; trying to wrap his brain around the reality of alternate universes and super powers and magic. All he’s been doing is trying and he’s exhausted to learn that most of it was for nothing. The sudden loss of that stress leaves a vacuum behind, an emptiness that's easily filled by his confused and aimless anger. He interrupts Peter with a snarl, slamming a fist down on the coffee table with a loud bang.

"But you don't," Wade snaps viciously. "You don't know me. You can't know me. You just—you broke into my apartment, and I tried to shoot you, for fuck's sake, and you decided, 'Oh, this man is my husband in my universe, so that's alright'?" Wade's voice has steadily risen to a shout, and his throat tight with the force of it, face hot. "You made all these blind assumptions about who you thought I was, Pete! Do you even know how fucking stupid that is? I could have killed you!"

Wade knows he looks terrifying—teeth bared in frustration, scar stark against his skin, shoulders rounded for a fight—but neither Peter seems to be scared. They're just staring at him with their big doe eyes, mouths pinched into identical frowns, clearly upset but not at him.

For him.

"Fuck you both," Wade snarls, getting to his feet. It's hard beneath the weight of their combined stare, but he needs to get away. Not out of the apartment but just—away. Mindlessly, Wade snatches the dirty plates and utensils off the coffee table before storming into the kitchen; he dumps everything into the sink, cranks on the hot water and squeezes out some dish soap. There's no real division between Wade and the Peters except for the kitchen island, but having his back turned to them is enough.

You're a good man, Wade Wilson, Peter had said. In every universe.

A big marshmallow on the inside, rePete had said.

You make it very hard to love you, Vanessa had cried.

Wade waits until the sink is full to turn off the tap, suds threatening to spill over the sides. When he dips his hands in, the water is scalding; he hisses at the prickling sensation, but doesn't pull out. The key is acclimation. Soon, his body will adjust, and he'll forget that it's supposed to hurt.

The apartment is quiet as Wade starts on the veritable mountain of dishes that has been building up for the past two days. He grabs the green scouring pad and begins to scrub, and scrub, and scrub at crusted-on food and coffee stains. Having something to do with his hands helps—he’s always been a doer—but as his fury seeps from him, he begins to feel the soreness of resentment and exhaustion.

Peter comes over when most of Wade's anger has faded. He pulls a clean towel out of a nearby drawer and silently starts to take the washed dishes from Wade, drying them and putting them away. There is no hesitation as he does so; maybe he and the other Wade—Peter's husband—keep them in the same places.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Wade asks as the dishes dwindle steadily down. He’s calm enough now to ask the question that sits at the root of his sudden rage, but it still leaves his mouth like an accusation. "That you're married to... other me."

Peter finishes wiping down the stainless steel pan in his hands. Puts it back. Waits for Wade to give him another dish to dry and huffs when Wade purposefully keeps his hands submerged in the water.

"A few reasons," Peter admits begrudgingly. "At first, it was because I didn't want you to treat me differently or feel obligated to help me. You were already being so nice to me—flirting with me—and I didn't want to come out and say, hey! Guess what! You're my husband in my universe!" Peter sighs. "You were already giving me so much that it felt... selfish, to want more."

"You totally could have," Wade tells Peter, handing him a wet plate. "I was already invested."

"But that's why I couldn't, you know?" Peter wipes the plate more thoroughly than necessary before putting it in the cabinet. "You had already decided to help me and I know that when you decide to do something, you give maximum effort. Not telling you was also a way to remind myself that you aren't my husband, because you two are honestly so similar. I'm sorry I flirted with you constantly, but—"

"Wait, what?" Wade frowns, turning his attention away from the other plate in his hands to Peter. "You were flirting with me?"

"Since I got here," Peter drawls. "Thanks for noticing."

From the couch, rePete stifles a snort of highly amused laughter.

"Huh," Wade says. "I thought you were just comfortable with me."

"I am comfortable with you," Peter says, "because I've been married to my Wade for five years and—before that—we dated on and off since I graduated high school. And I know you don't want to hear it, but you're really not that different. Not in the ways that matter."

Wade gives Peter the last plate, letting him dry it and put it away, before saying, "I'm sorry I shouted." Staring down into the sink, Wade watches the suds break slowly on the surface of the water. "It's been a long two days."

"Tell me about it," Peter commiserates, bumping his hip gently against Wade's. It's a mirror of the movement rePete did earlier, and any hard feelings Wade might have still harbored for being compared to his other self vanishes. He can't fault Peter for drawing parallels when he does the same thing for Peter and rePete. Wade knows and appreciates that they're individual beings with unique experiences, but it's impossible not to acknowledge their similarities.

Argument settled, Wade and Peter fall into a comfortable silence as they finish the dishes. Or—that's what would have happened, if Peter's head didn't snap up, suddenly and brutally alert. Wade puts the mug he was holding out back into the sink.

"Pete?"

"Do you feel that?" Peter asks stiffly. He steps away from the sink and turns in a slow circle, eyes darting to every corner of Wade's apartment. "My spidey-sense is going crazy, but I can't pinpoint where it's coming from."

Wade doesn't feel anything. He briefly closes his eyes to try and use his own intuition to feel what Peter's feeling. Nothing. He opens his eyes, and is about to tell Peter as much, when a huge wave of not-right washes over him. It makes every hair on his body stand up, gooseflesh breaking out on his arms and the back of his neck.

"Baldy?" Wade gasps.

"No," Peter answers, still looking around frantically. "Still in the tub."

"Then what—"

A roar just beyond the edge of audibility forms from no direction. It is more sensation than sound, a mute noise that makes Wade think of damp construction paper being slowly torn down the middle, but infinitely magnified. It doesn't hurt—not in the way pain hurts—but the nerves in Wade's body are misfiring as something grows larger and larger between the atoms in the air.

"Umm, guys?" rePete all but yelps, clambering off the couch. He points a shaking finger at a thin shimmer sliced into an empty space by the wall. "What the hell is that?"

Both Peter and Wade dash into the living room. Hands still damp from washing dishes, Wade reaches under the couch to yank out the glock and spare magazine he has strapped to the underside of the frame; he slaps the magazine in place and unlocks the safety, lining the sight up with the steadily growing disturbance in his living room. The bigger it gets, the more unignorable that sensation of not-right becomes, a nauseating drone that settles into the hollows of Wade’s teeth and bones.

"Stay behind me," Wade barks at rePete, who is already behind him, fingers clutched in the fabric of Wade's sweater.

"Don't have to tell me twice," rePete says.

Next to Wade, Peter has shifted into a ready stance, his attention focused solely on the strange phenomenon occurring before them. The vague shimmer distorting the air becomes a roil and begins to spark. The small specks of light flare brightly, briefly, before breaking away harmlessly and disappearing. They are like the ones produced when Baldy used his magic, though these are warm gold instead of sickly green.

"Another spell?" Wade asks.

"Yeah," Peter answers. He’s still crouched, ready to attack or defend, yet the tightness in his shoulders have loosened. "But—Wade—I think these are—"

The shimmering cut in the air explodes without sound or heat, cutting Peter off. RePete yelps, moving completely behind Wade, as the golden sparks multiply to a near blinding shine. They whirl madly in a wide circle and—within it—there is an alleyway, empty and dim.

For a moment, nothing.

Then—

A tall, broad man steps through. His huge boots make no sound as they touch the floor. He's dressed in red and black leathers from head to toe, wearing a full cowl mask and a tactical belt; he’s armed to the teeth, carrying enough weaponry to take out a small squadron, including small knives and explosives and a pair of katanas. He also has a huge gun in each hand, the metal gleaming, and he radiates so much wrath and ill-intent that Wade's finger twitches on the trigger of his pistol. In Wade's experience, situations like these end better if he shoots first. Wade might have gone through with it too if—at the same time the man stepped through the glowing circle—Peter didn't step between them, arms flung out wide, and shout,

"Wade! Not an enemy!"

In tandem, Wade and the masked man who stepped through the portal point their guns at the floor.

What the fuck? Wade thinks at the same time the man in red-and-black asks, "Pete? Are you—"

"I'm okay," Peter answers quickly. His voice is high and thin, like it was last night, before he began to cry. "Wade, I'm—"

Wade watches as the other man holsters both guns and opens his arms. Peter lets out a single, choked sob—his only hesitation—then launches himself across the living room, over the coffee table, and into the man's arms. The man doesn't even stagger as Peter’s full weight hits him. He just holds Peter easily, wrapping his bulky arms around Peter's torso and tucking his face into the crook of Peter's neck. For a moment, they just hold each other tightly, relief evident in every line of their bodies.

Shock replaces every single one of Wade's thoughts. He knows that he's missing something—something important—but the past hour has left him emotionally exhausted. That fatigue combined with the sight of Peter clinging to some weirdo who just came through a magic portal is currently putting a serious strain on his mental processing power.

"God, baby boy, I'm so glad we found you," the man says, his low and raspy voice sounding as though his vocal chords went through a rock tumbler. One of his big, gloved hands runs up and down the length of Peter's exposed spine. "I fucking missed you."

"I missed you more," Peter burbles back, voice thick with unshed tears.

"I missed you mostest—"

"Break it up," interjects a third, new voice.

Wade automatically swings his glock back up and points it at the second person coming through the portal. This man is handsome, in an evil magician sort of way, with a pointed goatee and flashes of pure white at his temples. He's wearing dark blue robes of extremely ambiguous ethnicity and a crimson cloak. The long length of the cloak flutters gently in a non-existent wind while the man literally floats further into Wade's apartment, his feet hovering several inches off the floor.

"Strange," Peter greets. He lifts his head from the shoulder of the man holding him to do so, but otherwise stays put. "Good to see you too."

Strange. Wade's tired brain restarts with a twitch. Stephen Strange.

The Sorcerer Supreme from another universe.

Levitating in Wade's apartment in Queens.

"Holy shit," Wade says, lowering his gun. Every bizarre thing that happened within the last ninety seconds shifts into a frame of perfect understanding. His stare swings away from Strange's face—seriously, that perfectly arched eyebrow is a paid actor—to Peter and the man holding him. To his alternate self. Who... winks at him.

"Hey there, handsome," Deadpool croons. "First time?"

"Wade," Peter warns, finally untangling his limbs from his husband's body. "Be nice."

"I was being nice," Deadpool mumbles as he lets go of Peter just enough so Peter can slide to the floor. They're still pressed together, bodies a line from chest to thigh, Peter's curls brushing Deadpool's chin. "I was being complimentary, even! That hair: swoon-worthy! Those eyebrows: smoldering! Clear skin highlighted by a dashing, debonair scar—"

Peter elbows Deadpool in the ribs. Hard. Wade winces in sympathy—Peter's elbows are dangerous, and he has the bruises to prove it.

"As charming as this all is," Strange interrupts, raising his voice as he floats further into Wade's living room, "this portal will not hold indefinitely. We are here to bring Peter back to his universe. The sooner he returns, the more likely we will be able to prevent the untold tragedy of an Incursion, a world-ending cataclysm that will end the lives of trillions—"

"Christ," Wade mutters, resisting the urge to scrub at his tired eyes. "He talks Shakespeare worse than Baldy."

Behind Wade, rePete adds dryly, "It must be part of the core curriculum at wizard school."

RePete is still largely hidden behind Wade, but he's gotten to his tip-toes to peer over Wade's shoulder at the scene unfolding before them; he has both hands on Wade's back, using Wade as a balance. When Wade giggles at his commentary, Deadpool's head snaps back towards them, spotting rePete for the first time.

"Oh. Em. Gee." The white eyes of Deadpool's mask widen and he covers his mouth with one hand dramatically. "Is that... Petey-Pie, take two?"

"That's offensive," rePete says. "How do you know I'm not the original?"

The noise Deadpool releases is caught between what a human throat is capable of and the shriek of a deflating balloon. His head swings from Peter—who is pinching the bridge of his nose—and rePete, who takes a tentative half-step forward and waves.

"I'm pretty sure I've died again," Deadpool says in disbelief, one hand clutching at his suit over his heart. "Not one but two baby boys? Both of them sassy and sexy? There's no way I'm sneaking past the pearly gates to get into that kind of heaven, so maybe I'm hallucinating again?"

"Alternate universe, Wade," Peter reminds his husband gently.

"Right." Deadpool straightens, one arm still slung around Peter's shoulders. The wide and charming grin he dons is the same one Wade uses when he wants to fight or fuck. Wade doesn't know what's more disturbing: the fact that he and Deadpool share mannerisms or that Deadpool can emote clearly through his mask. "This might be a little off the cuff, but… You guys come here often?"

What, Wade thinks as rePete chirps, "Nah, first time," and Peter simultaneously hisses, "Wade, no—"

"I did not open an interdimensional portal for you to proposition your alternate selves," the Sorcerer Supreme says icily. He floats further into the living room and holds out his arms, palms upturned and spitting more golden sparks in a display of power. It would be impressive if his shin didn't accidentally bump the corner of Wade's coffee table. "Ahh—goddamnit—"

Wade and Deadpool burst into identical giggles. Strange drops to the floor and glares at them, attempting to straighten his still fluttering cloak. The cloak must have a mind of its own because it continues to roll in gentle waves despite Strange's tugging.

"Come on, funky magic man," Deadpool wheedles. "An orgy of this caliber is like, a once in a lifetime opportunity! Or—wait. I dimension hopped in December and met my zombie counterpart, so I guess it's more like a once in a yearly occurrence?" Deadpool shrugs. "Didn't fuck, though. That guy was even uglier than I am, sheesh."

"Be that as it may," Strange interjects, raising his voice above Deadpool's continued muttering. "We have come to retrieve you, Peter, before your presence in this universe causes permanent damage. The sooner we return, the smaller the ripple effects will be."

"What about the guy in my bathtub? I don't know how much longer he's gonna remain unconscious and I really don't know how to handle non-metaphorical Death Eaters." Wade asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "He's from your universe too, isn't he? Don't you need to take him?"

"Bathtub?" Strange repeats, as though that was the weirdest detail in Wade's sentence and not the 'from your universe' bit.

"Yeeeeah," Wade says slowly. "Do you not have bathtubs in your universe?"

Strange opens his mouth to answer. He's clearly frustrated—Wade can see it in the downward angle of his eyebrows and the tightness of his mouth—but he does not let Wade goad him further. He simply stops himself and takes a deep, calming breath, and says faux serenely, "We have bathtubs."

Next to Wade, rePete does a very bad job at turning his laugh into a cough.

"We had to incapacitate him, earlier," Peter explains to Strange. "He attacked Peter, thinking he was you in disguise, and after we knocked him out, we brought him here. His magic is kinda like yours, but green. And not nearly as strong."

"Perversions of the natural forces used by magic manifest as different colors." Strange looks past Wade and rePete to the bathroom, the door partially ajar. "Purple and red are the most common, derived respectively from the teachings of the Dormammu or Cththon. Green is indicative of the Order of the Forsaken Ones, who were cast out by the first Sorcerer Supreme, Agamotto, for their heresy." He pauses for dramatic effect, though the gravity of his words is ruined by his still moving cape, the red cloth jerking around like the tail of a dying fish. "It is… lucky, then, that you fell into this universe."

Peter tilts his head to the side and asks, "Considering?"

"This world, Earth-82467, is not devoid of magic. No world is. But it is hidden here, buried deep and far, and incredibly hard to access. In our universe, a member of the Forsaken Ones would be a formidable opponent. Here, they would only be able to access a fraction of their usual power." Strange looks down at his hands; Wade can see that the fingers are scarred and trembling. "Yet since I am bound by different laws than the Forsaken Ones, it is possible that—in this reality—I would have been unable to defeat them."

"So you're saying that my precious Petey Pie saved your ass," Deadpool sing-songs.

"By accident and happenstance, yes," Strange snaps. Then, to Peter, he dips his head in acknowledgement. "But I am not ungrateful. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Peter returns.

Clearly done with the awkwardness of gratitude, Strange crosses the living room threshold, passes Wade and rePete, and enters the bathroom. With his back turned, it's difficult to see what he is doing, but the large, expanding motions of his arms are reminiscent of the way Baldy spellcast. Warm light fills the small space—a literal sparkle of magic—and the webbed-up body of the Forsaken One rises out of the tub. When Strange exits the bathroom and heads back towards the portal, the body bobs along behind him; both Wade and rePete take a step back from it, perturbed.

"Strange," Peter says.

The Sorcerer Supreme pauses at the threshold of the portal, cocking an eyebrow.

"Can we have five minutes?" asks Peter. When Strange hesitates, Peter adds, "I'll keep it PG. Promise."

Strange's gaze flickers from Peter's face to Deadpool. Deadpool kicks up a foot and flattens a hand under his chin; add in a halo and a set of baby angel wings, and he'd be the leather-wearing, katana-wielding picture of innocence. It isn't fooling anyone.

"Five minutes," Strange concedes. "And if you are not back in our dimension by that time—"

"I thought we were keeping it PG?" says Deadpool. "I mean, the fic rating is M for Mature Audiences, so it could have adult content. [ Proceed ] or [ Go Back ]? Myself, I'm always logged in on multiple devices—"

"I will never understand you," Strange hisses. Then—with a dramatic whirl hindered by asynchronous twitching of his cloak—the Sorcerer Supreme and the unconscious form of the Forsaken Dipshit cross the portal back into their original dimension.

"We bonded," Deadpool says into the silence.

RePete barks a laugh. "Does bonding mean something different in your universe or…"

"No, it definitely means the same thing," Peter says. "It just means something else to Wade."

"I've been thrown out a window three times in the past twenty-four hours," Deadpool tells them cheerfully. "One time, the window was actually open first!"

Wade legitimately does not know if Deadpool is joking or not. He himself has been defenestrated a half dozen times, and none of them have been fun overtures of friendship. Wade considers asking, but before he can even open his mouth, Peter reaches up towards his husband's masked cheek and gently says, "Wade."

Deadpool tilts his head downwards.

"We don't have a lot of time," Peter says. "And I want to talk to Wade before we have to go."

"Leaving me for the better looking version, baby boy?" Deadpool teases. "I thought you liked the forgotten slice of salami that is my face."

"Forever my favorite kind of meat," Peter grins. Then, more seriously, "Without commentary, please. It's important."

"Ugh, fine," Deadpool whines. "The things I do for that ass."

Peter rises onto his tiptoes and presses a kiss against Deadpool's mouth. It's a small gesture, but it speaks to the years they've been together; it's the kind of kiss that can only be given after it has been given a thousand times. It should make Wade jealous, as the other things concerning Peter and his spouse have made him jealous, yet it does not. Seeing this kiss only makes Wade ache.

Falling back to his heels, Peter and Deadpool separate for the first time since the portal opened. Peter's hand skims down Deadpool's arm, a reassurance, before he turns around and walks towards Wade. Over the top of Peter's head, Wade makes eye contact with Deadpool; Deadpool smiles and gives Wade a thumbs up. He's startlingly blasé about the fact that he's interacting with an alternate version of himself, though Wade supposes that, after a while, one gets used to the weirdness.

"Kitchen?" Peter suggests.

It's as good a place as any, and Wade follows Peter back to where they had been minutes before. The sink is still filled with water, though most of the suds have dissolved, leaving behind a murky sheen. In the living room, Deadpool has approached rePete; whatever conversation they're having is no more than a low, undecipherable murmur.

"So." Wade rubs the back of his neck, unable to look at Peter directly for fear of what his face will give away. "I guess this is goodbye—"

Peter makes the same high, choked noise he made when Deadpool came through the portal, and flings his arms around Wade's shoulders, face tucked into Wade's throat. Wade immediately wraps his arms around Peter's waist, closes his eyes and dips his own head down, hiding himself in Peter's embrace. Wade hasn't been hugged like this in years. Not since Vanessa. He feels a small part of him break as he hugs back, uncaring that he's holding Peter too tight.

"I'm so glad you broke into my apartment," Wade tells him, voice low. He can feel the hot threat of tears building behind his eyes. "Pete—"

"I know, Wade," Peter whispers. "I know."

For a minute, they say nothing. They just stand there and hold each other. Wade—who has a reputation for being a chatterbox even in the most dire of situations—finds himself unable to speak. He wants to tell Peter everything he feels roiling in his chest, but articulating those feelings into the right words is impossible. It shouldn't be. Wade's only known Peter for two days. Two long, odd days in which he's done things he's never done before: he's shot at a shadow; made a spider-themed superhero some pancakes; attempted to read several scientific papers about space-time; tried to track down the most powerful sorcerer in the universe; participated in a fight with a wizard from another dimension; met an alternate version of himself; and found himself here, back in his apartment where it all started, saying good-bye to the man who changed his life.

"I'm never gonna see you again, am I?" Wade croaks.

"Probably not," Peter says. His voice is as gentle as Wade has ever heard it, but each syllable still feels like a blow. Wade knew, conceptually at least, that he would have to eventually say goodbye to Peter; he just didn't think it would be so soon, and the sense of sudden loss swells in his chest.

"It's just…" Wade swallows. "You made me feel… less alone."

Peter inhales shakily. Loosens his arms. Falls back just far enough so he can reach up with both hands and cradle Wade's jaw. His thumbs are under Wade's still closed eyes, brushing away the tears that have managed to escape. The tenderness of his touch is a contrast to the crushing weight of Wade's loneliness; Peter's presence had kept the worst of it away and, for the first time in years, Wade had been unburdened and happy, if not carefree. To go back to the way things were even forty-eight hours ago feels cruel.

"Wade," Peter says, smudging more of Wade's tears from his cheeks. "Baby, please. Look at me."

Helpless to do anything but obey, Wade opens his eyes. Peter's own eyes are glassy and his mouth trembles as he attempts a watery smile.

"I'm so happy I got to meet you," Peter tells him. "Both again, and for the first time. But we both know that I don't belong here. This isn't my universe, and I need to go home."

"I know." Wade's hands briefly tighten around Peter's waist in contradiction. "I just… wish we had more time. I'm not ready to be alone again."

"You won't be." Peter's hands slide further back, fingers overlapping on the nap of Wade's neck, and give a reassuring squeeze. "I don't know if you noticed, but this universe's version of me is standing in your living room, flirting with my husband, who is another version of you. And maybe it's corny of me, but I like to think that in every universe that has a me and a you, we're… together."

"That is corny," Wade admits. "But I like to think that too."

Peter smiles again, and it's more solid than the last one. He says, "It will be okay," and slowly releases Wade. A wild thought tears through Wade's brain—what if he grabbed Peter and just never let go—but he knows Peter's right. No matter how much Wade wants him to stay, Peter needs to return to his universe. Wade's hands slide from Peter's body and fall limp to his sides.

"Five minutes, Peter," Deadpool says, raising his voice slightly.

"Alright," Peter answers. He touches Wade's cheek one more time—the side of his face that's marred by his scar—then heads back to the living room. Wade follows as though he's being tugged along by an invisible string. He watches unblinkingly as Peter gathers the folded remnants of his Spiderman costume from underneath the coffee table, bundling the red and blue spandex beneath one arm, then goes to stand by his husband. The portal shines golden around them, illuminating their bodies in warmth.

"Got everything?" Deadpool asks, holding out a gloved hand.

"Yeah." Peter slips his hand into Deadpool's. "Let's go home."

Both of them look back as they go through the portal. Deadpool gives a wink and a jaunty salute—the same thing Wade would have done, if their roles were switched—while Peter gives a small wave. He says, "Thank you for everything, Wade," and then—

And then they're gone.

The portal fades without fanfare. The circle shrinks, cutting off the bridge between their dimensions, and the golden sparks of magic fade to nonexistence. All that remains is Wade's familiar apartment and the two people who stayed.

For a long moment, Wade stares at the negative space where the portal had been. His glimpse into the world beyond and the lives it contained feels like a metaphor. It probably is a metaphor—something about love, something about chance, something about possibility, blah blah blah—but Wade doesn't want to think about it right now. Right now, it still hurts. Hurts not because he lost it, but because it happened. It's a clean hurt, though, the kind Wade knows he'll get over once enough time has passed; the kind of hurt that will be eventually forgotten, and replaced by fondness and nostalgia.

"So," rePete says gently, walking over to Wade.

Burying his hurt for later, Wade scrubs the last of the damp from his face and turns to look at rePete. No, that's not fair. Wade turns to look at this universe's Peter Benjamin Parker. Peter, who doesn't trust Wade like other Peter did. Peter, who doesn't know Wade like other Peter did. Peter, who likes Wade enough to flirt with him, but remains both a stranger and a potential future.

"So," Wade echoes.

They stare at one another silently. Assessing. Acknowledging. Wade's seen how in love Other-Wade and other-Peter are, and he can admit that he wants that. He wants it so badly he can feel it like a knife that's been left in him for too long, deep and aching and bleeding sluggishly. But as much as he wants to be known—like he is, in another universe, by another Peter—Wade is completely, soul-shakingly terrified. He's been alone for years. Not just in the three years since he and Vanessa broke up, but in the years before that:

As a dishonorably discharged fuck-up taking odd jobs to meet ends.

As a soldier who learned a million ways to kill someone but couldn't form a single genuine emotional connection.

As a snotty teen who broke rules and had his bones broken.

As a scared kid who missed his mom.

Wade wants to be somebody to someone. And he knows he might have that with the Peter in front of him, if he can take this small leap of faith, if he can put in the work, if he can allow himself to be vulnerable enough to be known. It's not like it was with the other Peter—who already trusted him, knew him—but if it means having something like that? If it means not being alone?

Wade can be brave.

"Okay, elephant in the room," Wade says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes slide from Peter's face to the coffee table, still a little off-kilter from where Strange had slammed his shin into the corner. "But our alternate universe selves are like, super in love and happily married, and frankly, I'm jealous of those assholes. And I'm not saying that we're obligated to... follow in their footsteps, because I know that I'm not exactly like that Wade Wilson and that you're not exactly like that Peter Parker, but honestly? Cards on the table?" Wade gives a small, choked laugh. "You're overwhelmingly the kind of guy I go for—in multiple universes, it seems—and I would absolutely kick myself if I didn't at least try to get your number."

"Are you... asking me out on a date?" Peter asks, his tone vaguely unsure.

"Uh, badly, but yes." Wade takes a deep breath. Squares his shoulders. Looks up at Peter, with his big doe eyes and his freckles and his thick brown curls, and says, "I, Wade Wilson of Earth-867-5309 or whatever the fuck that wizard man said, am formally asking you, Peter Parker, out for an awkward dinner of greasy wings and cheap beer, whichever night you are available."

Peter bites his bottom lip and tilts his head to the side, and asks, "Whichever night?"

He still sounds unsure. Wade tries very hard not to deflate and jokes, "Too desperate?"

"Well, it's only..." Peter checks his watch. "Four in the afternoon, and we did just eat, but I could really go for that beer. This afternoon has been an absolute clusterfuck, and I don't want to process it until I'm alone in my shower."

"Gonna have a little existential crisis?"

"Medium sized one, probably." Peter drags a hand through his hair before grinning at Wade. There's a mischievous twist to it that makes Wade go weak at the knees. "Anyway, there's a pub near my place that does three-dollar domestic pitchers until six. Unless… you want to wait?"

"Fuck that," Wade replies. "Let's go get crunk on cheap beer and make awkward small talk. Talk about the weather. Talk about our exes. Religion, politics—literally anything but the multiverse, please."

"Agreed. The multiverse is definitely third date material."

Third date. Just the suggestion of it makes Wade smile so wide that his scar hurts. It makes him think that Peter wants this as much as he does, that Peter saw the same thing Wade saw when their counterparts came together. It won't be easy—no strong relationship is built without testing its foundations—but it will be worth it. Wade and Peter have seen that.

"Oh, and Wade?" Peter says. "One more thing before we go."

"What is it?" Wade asks, raising an eyebrow. "It's too late for take-backsies, you know."

"Not a take-backsie," Peter assures.

"Okay then." Wade spreads out his arms wide, as though daring Peter to give it his best shot. "Lay it on me, Parker."

Peter grins. Takes a step forward. Both of his hands slide around Wade's neck, pulling him down, and then Peter is kissing him, firm and sure. Surprise keeps Wade still for less than a second—but surprise cannot hold against the rush of happiness and giddy delight that quickly follows. Wade tilts his head to deepen the kiss and his fingers come up to clutch at Peter's denim clad hips; he can hear the way Peter's breath hitches, feel the way Peter smiles against his mouth. It's their first kiss but, somehow, it's like they've done it before. Like the kiss is an infinite constant within infinite possibilities.

And as they fall further into one another—standing together in the apartment where it all began, and then continued—Wade decides he can live with those odds.

end.

#spideypool #deadpool #spiderman #wade wilson #peter parker #pairing: wade wilson/peter parker #rating: m #fandom: marvel

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catgirlpuppy · 11 months

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First Meeting: Joule's Journey p.1

A short fic of how my OCs Joule, Mocha and Paprika first met.

After a long, exasperating morning at work, Joule was ready for a bit of relaxation. But first, she had a meeting to attend.

Her current landlord, a scummy old lady who Joule never got along with, was kicking her out at the end of the month. There was no love lost between the catgirl and the crotchety human lady, but it never felt nice to have your home taken away from you.

Well, it was never quite a home, though Joule had tried to make it one. She mentally crossed her fingers, hoping that this meetup with her potential new roommates would go well. If it did, she would have a place to move after she was kicked out. If it didn’t… well, let’s hope it does. No point planning for failure.

Walking down the street, the catgirl was coming up on the coffee shop where the meeting would take place. She instantly spotted the two girls she was here for through the window: a tall, curvy cow with cream-colored fur, a cropped pink blazer and an all-business blouse clearly modified to show a tasteful amount of her ample cleavage; and leaning affectionately against her in the booth, a short orange tabby in a loose white tank emblazoned with the phrase “THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.”

The cowgirl immediately spotted Joule as she walked in the doors, and raised her hand in a friendly wave and a warm greeting smile. Joule waved back and thought, Wow, she’s gorgeous.

***

“Pap, she’s here,” said Mocha, nudging her girlfriend out of the purring reverie she had sunk into. She gestured with her snout towards the cat that had just walked inside, and was now ordering a drink at the counter. She’s lanky, thought the cow. And her hair could use some work. Still, she’s got some soft edges to her. And she’s pretty cute in an awkward sort of way…

“Oh fuck, she is hot!” Paprika whispered through her teeth as she smiled. The girl was now approaching, drink in hand. “I told you she would be! Look at that coat!”

Mocha had to agree; if the girl had a defining characteristic, it was her lustrous coat. Light gray, with darker stripes running down the back and patterning the face, with a near-white front-coat. Between the stripes, an undercoat of dark orange shone through in places, most prominently on her cute little nose and the tips of her short, wavy hair.

Mocha began to think her initial assessment of the girl was a tad unfair. Pap’s right, she actually is quite—

Mocha’s train of thought was cut short when the cat stubbed her paw on a wet floor sign and, as she was righting herself, slipped with her other paw in a puddle of coffee. Her lanky feet flew upwards, and her head took their place on the floor.

***

After Joule fell, about half a dozen people rushed over to her. It was all she could do to yell “Don’t touch me!” It came out far more harshly than she had intended, but it worked. The couple she was meeting, as well as the barista and several other patrons, stopped in their tracks. Paprika knelt down a few feet away, giving her plenty of space. Joule’s hackles were already standing up from the stress, and her curly hair was beginning to tingle and stand straight out.

Okay, now just calm down. You can do that. No need to zap anyone. Joule began the breathing exercises, but it was a paltry effort. Oh god, they think I’m stupid. And an asshole. There goes my chances with them… fuck. She could feel the static buzzing around her now, building in a sphere that would shock anyone who got too close.

She heard a voice, saying, “Wait, Mocha, don’t get too close. Hey, Joule, right? Are you okay? Can we help at all?”

Can she see my aura? “No! I mean, thank you… I just need to calm down. Then it’ll go away.”

“Alright. I’m Paprika, by the way. This is Mocha.” The tabby gestured upward towards the cowgirl, who was now standing at full height nearby. And her height was full indeed—she must be over six feet tall, and it’s curves all the way down!

”Anyway,” Paprika continued, “We just wanted to mention that we think your coat is gorgeous! Do you groom it yourself?”

In between her rhythmic in- and ex-halations, Joule answered, “Ahh… yeah, I guess. I just… do whatever…”

“That’s cool. I mostly self-groom, but every couple of months Mocha and I go to this salon down the street. They specialize in felines, so they really know how to treat a girl. Which reminds me, what are your pronouns? We’re both she—mostly, anyway, but sometimes I feel a little they/themmy, you know?”

“Uhm… yeah, sure, that makes sense. I’m she/her too.”

Mocha reached down an elegant hand to touch Paprika’s shoulder. “Love, we’re all set. Joule, honey, how are you feeling?”

To Joule’s surprise, she was feeling quite well. Weirdly well. She looked up at the cow.

Mocha simply winked.

***

“So your aura is electric?”

Mocha watched Joule intently as her girlfriend took the lead in the conversation, disguising her keen observation behind her genuine curiosity. The girl let out a weary sigh, and answered.

“Yeah. When I get anxious it builds up around me. Other emotions, too, but that's the big one. Most of the time it's not much more than a static shock, but it can be dangerous if I don’t keep a handle on it.”

Pap nodded. “Mine is similar. Things around me start to heat up, and if I’m not careful I can start fires.”

Joule offered a commiseratory expression, eyes locked on Pap. After staring for just a moment too long, she collected herself and turned to Mocha. “And you?”

Mocha sighed internally, outwardly maintaining the same cool, warm regard. Let’s hope this goes well. “My aura is emotional. If I’m not careful, my emotions project onto others.”

“So back there, that was..?”

“Mm hmm. But you did most of the hard work yourself. I just gave you a little nudge.” Mocha tried not to look sheepish. “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.”

“Are you kidding? You’re a lifesaver!” the gray cat was ecstatic. “That sounds incredibly useful!”

Mocha winced a bit, hoping it wasn’t too obvious. Pap glanced at her, and Mocha gave a small smile to say it's alright. “It can be.”

Now it was Joule’s turn to look sheepish. “Ah, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to imply… I know what it’s like, I was just really thankful that you helped me.”

“Really,” Mocha assured her, “It’s okay. I’ve had some bad experiences with it though, and it makes some people… uncomfortable.”

Mocha shook her head, and quickly changed the subject.

“To be honest, Joule, we’re pretty happy to find out that you’re a demi.”

Paprika perked up at this. “Yeah, our last roommate was a human and it didn’t go that great. She couldn’t handle the aura stuff, even though she kept insisting it was fine. It ended in a big argument, and I ended up—*accidentally*—setting her dress on fire.” The tabby looked down ashamedly at that last detail. “Anyway, we’re hoping that a demihuman will be easier. Someone who knows what they’re in for, and has a shared experience.”

Joule’s ears had perked up during the conversation. She was clearly struggling to hold in a giggle at the image of the roommate’s flaming dress. “I can imagine. I’m pretty excited about possibly living with other demihumans, too. Actually, I haven’t met many other cats outside of my family, and that’s just my parents.”

“And now you’ve met two more!”

“Oh!” Joule turned to Mocha. “Are you mixed, then?”

The cream-furred girl nodded. “My mother was a cow, but my father’s a cat.”

Joule smiled. “That’s great! I’ve just doubled the number of cats I’ve met, then!”

Then the gray cat’s face turned quite serious.

***

Okay, Joule, it’s showtime. Don’t mess this up! She took a steadying breath.

“Alright, so. I’m very quiet, and I don’t need a lot of space. I can contribute to groceries, and of course I’ll pay my share of rent and utilities every month on time. I can give you references to past roommates I’ve had, and they’ll all tell you that I’m very easy and reliable to live with. You don’t have to worry about my aura causing any damage, so—”

Paprika interrupted. ”—Whoa, slow down!”

Joule gulped. Fuck, goddamn it fuck, I ruined it, shit…

“How soon can you move in?”

Joule’s ears jumped straight up. “What?”

The tabby shared a glance with her girlfriend, who nodded with a warm smile. “We think you’re perfect. Do you want to move in with us?”

“Yes! Yes, I’d love to!” Joule calmed herself, steepling her fingers. “I mean, yeah, that works for me. I can move in as early as next week, and I can give you the first month’s rent right away.”

“Fuck yeah!” Paprika looked right into Joule’s eyes, and smiled. “Can’t wait to live with a cutie like you.”

“...What?”

“I said I can’t wait for you to move in!”

Mocha was rolling her eyes. “I think we’re all going to get along quite well.”

***

I'll be writing more about these three, and some other characters as well! Stories on this blog will be mostly fluff, lore and backstory, while @catgirltitty is where I'll post the smut. Thanks for reading!

So here's an introduction to my OCs and a bit of the lore surrounding them. I haven't touched on all of their powers yet, as I just wanted this to be an introduction to the concept of demihumans in this world having magic effects tied to their emotions.

#meow #gay #moo #trans #poly #story #fursona #mocha #paprika #joule #catgirl #cowgirl #furry #fic #fluff

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michaelmilligan · 2 years

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Endversetober Day 12: Drunk

(explanation post) (compilation post - now with AO3 link)

Hey, uh... Michael?

HM?

The zombie in front of them screeched and exploded as Michael snapped his fingers. Adam cringed when a clump of flesh hit his cheek, but Michael didn't even blink.

Um. Are we still after Balthazar?

The answer came just a beat too slow. SURE.

U-huh. So he's in Dublin?

HE MIGHT BE, Michael said testily, and stabbed another zombie.

Well, are you gonna be done with all these critters soon? Because I have an idea.

OH, YOU MEAN THESE 'POOR ZOMBIES'?

God. Michael was never going to let him live this down, was he?

Yeah, those assholes. Now do you wanna hear my idea or not?

Maybe taunting a literal archangel wasn't the best idea, but at this point, Adam had gotten tired of holding back. If Michael wanted to kill him or something, there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Though it didn't seem like he was going to, even if he did get annoyed every now and then.

SURE, LET'S HEAR IT. WHAT'S YOUR PLAN, MASTERMIND?

Not a plan, just an idea. Like. This dude we're following ran off with some of your stuff-

YES, THE ANGEL BALTHAZAR FLED HEAVEN WITH SOME INVALUABLE ITEMS.

Adam rolled his eyes, or at least did whatever the mental equivalent was. He wasn't immune to annoyance, either.

Yeah, that's what I said. So, he's kind of a bad angel, yeah? Does that mean he does other sinful stuff too? Like get drunk?

Michael actually stopped to think about it, a zombie struggling helplessly in his iron grip as he held it away from his body. POSSIBLY. WHY?

Uh, because we're in Dublin? Home of Guinness?

The zombie screeched and gurgled. It almost sounded like an upset cat.

HOME OF WHAT? Michael crushed the zombie's windpipe.

Oh my God. Okay. We have GOT to find a pub.

They did find a pub. Several, in fact, though most of them had been raided, either emptied out by looters or absolutely trashed by zombies, pieces of barrels and bottles littering the floors. But then there was one still relatively intact, on the fringes of the city.

The lights weren't working, of course, and likely hadn't for a long time, but Michael simply miracled them into functioning. Pretty useful, especially when the whole front of the pub was boarded up, so no sunlight would be getting in any time soon.

When Adam tried the tab labelled Guinness, the dark liquid gushed into the glass he was holding.

“Awesome.”

I DON'T THINK BALTHAZAR IS HERE.

“Who knows, he might still be coming,” Adam said aloud, tired of only ever using his mental voice. “He might have ransacked the other places.”

I'M NOT SURE THIS BEER WOULD BE QUITE HIS STYLE. Adam could feel Michael's attention roaming around the room, even though his own eyes were still focused on the now fully filled glass. OR THE DECOR, FOR THAT MATTER.

“A fancy angel, huh? Too bad. Well, while we're here, why don't we have a pint or two?”

I DON'T SEE THE APPEAL.

“Well, for one, we'll get drunk.”

HIGHLY UNLIKELY. MY PRESENCE MAKES YOU IMMUNE TO A WIDE VARIETY OF THINGS, INCLUDING NEUROTOXINS.

Adam gaped at his glass. “Did you just call alcohol a neurotoxin?”

THAT'S WHAT IT IS.

“Okay. Look. Scientifically, you might be right. I've seen the PSAs. But having a beer and getting buzzed every now and then is totally fine, ya know. Everyone does it.” Adam licked his lips and made to take a sip, but then hesitated. “Did you say you neutralize it? All of it?”

YES.

“Can you just choose, um, not to?”

There was annoyance again, but Adam thought it wasn't directed at him. Was this the archangelic equivalent of a frown?

NO.

“What if we just drink a lot? Do you have a limit for your neutralization?”

NO, Michael said again, but he had hesitated long enough to give Adam hope.

“You've never tried, right?”

THERE WAS HARDLY A NEED.

“But aren't you even the least bit curious? You don't even know if you can get drunk!”

THERE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN FAR MORE IMPORTANT TASKS AT HAND.

Instead of voicing his suspicions that there weren't any at hand right now, considering Michael didn't seem all too concerned with his lance, Adam said: “Wouldn't this be the scientific breakthrough of the century, though? What if you can get drunk?”

Michael seemed to think about it.

I STILL HIGHLY DOUBT IT.

“Oh, yeah? How much do you bet?”

BET?

“Yeah. I bet you can get drunk, you bet you can't. What do I get when I win?”

YOU MEAN IF YOU WIN.

“Sure. So?”

THIS IS STUPID.

“Oops. Didn't know archangels were such chickens.”

This may have been less brave and more absolutely stupid, Adam thought for a second, but he squashed that down quickly. He'd already been dead before, and he didn't want to live in a zombie-infested world anyway, so if Michael wanted to send him back to Heaven and get another vessel, so be it.

I'M NOT- Michael cut himself off and grumbled something unintelligible instead. Adam wasn't sure what language he was even using. WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY OFFER ME FOR THE EXTREMELY LIKELY CASE THAT I WIN?

“Well.” Adam floundered a bit. He really had nothing to offer an archangel. His body was already in use by Michael. “I would... let you kill all the zombies you want without complaining?”

Michael huffed. THE LAST TIME YOU PROMISED TO BE SILENT, YOU LASTED FOR ABOUT TWO MINUTES.

“Hey. It was at least twenty minutes. If not more.”

DEFINITELY NOT MORE.

“You're just scared you'll lose.”

… YOU'RE ON.

“And then he said – and I shit you not! – he said...” Adam took another swig of Guinness, noticed the glass was empty, and got up to pour a new one, leaning on the bar counter.

WHAT DID HE SAY? Michael asked, sloshing around inside him the way the beer should have, moving, swaying, his glaring fire somewhat dimmed.

“He said...” Adam took another swig of beer and settled back down onto the ground, propped against the back of the bar. “He said 'I've never seen that cat before in my life, ma'am'. That asshole!”

Amusement spilled over Adam, a tide lapping at his feet, and Michael continued moving in him, up and down, down and up.

“Stop that. You're giving me vertigo,” he mumbled.

STOP WHAT? Michael asked, his movements not stilling but getting slower, like water gurgling in a creek.

“You move so much. And you sparkle like a Christmas tree.”

It was true – with Michael's light a little lower, it was easier to look at him and actually see the changes inside him. Instead of a steady floodlight, he was now more of a brightly illuminated house, with multiple light sources, some of them flashing.

I DON'T SPARKLE, Michael said indignantly, but there was little heat behind it. (Ha! Adam thought. There was always a lot of heat behind a being made of liquid fire.)

“Yeah, you do. And it's fine. At least you're not burning my metaphorical eyes out.” Adam waved a hand dismissively and took another long swig of beer. He'd lost count somewhere after Guinness no. 131. If Michael had kept track, he didn't say anything. “You want another whiskey?”

IS THERE EVEN ANY LEFT?

They both surveyed the array of empty bottles around them, then turned their focus to the cabinet above them. With a sigh, Adam got up again to raid the remaining contents.

There wasn't much left – one half-empty bottle of whiskey and one bottle full of a green liquid. Adam opened it to sniff it, then shrugged and drank half the bottle in one go.

Inside him, Michael swirled and tumbled again.

VERMOUTH. AND ANIS, he said, and it took a moment for Adam to realize that he was listing ingredients, not just saying random words. ALSO FENNEL.

It's called absinthe, Adam said after checking the bottle again, in what he'd labelled his 'inside voice'. Then, after he'd finished tracing the inside of his own mouth with his tongue, he continued aloud: “Oh, I've heard of that. Never got to drink it though. Not before my-” He hiccuped. “-my untimely demise.”

He snorted at himself. It was easier to say it like that, even in his inebriated state. Calling it what it was might have made him realize the horror of the situation, which was something he tried to avoid, just on principle.

Plus, he definitely didn't want to have a break-down about it with an archangel inside of him.

HOW DID YOU DIE? Michael suddenly asked, having apparently finished his laps around Adam's body. While he was constantly in motion, just in general, energy coursing through Adam's veins, his core being now seemed to have slowed down considerably. He was drifting now, rather than speeding, and Adam thought it might be nice to just float alongside him.

“You don't know?” he asked, not eager to get into that topic.

NO. I WAS ONLY TOLD THAT YOU DIED OF 'UNNATURAL CAUSES'.

Adam couldn't help it – he laughed. “Yeah, I'd say that being eaten alive is a pretty unnatural cause,” he quipped. “You could even call it supernatural, since there was a literal monster involved.”

ONE OF EVE'S SPAWN? INTERESTING.

“Yeah, truly riveting,” Adam muttered, and drank more of the absinthe.

I SUPPOSE WE NEVER PAID MUCH ATTENTION TO YOU, SEEING AS YOU WEREN'T LIKELY TO BE THE PROPHESIED VESSEL. MIGHT HAVE BEEN AN OVERSIGHT ON OUR PART.

Adam snorted. “Dude, did you just give me the equivalent of 'oops, my bad'?”

A few seconds of silence passed, but Adam couldn't detect any annoyance. Maybe he was just too drunk for that, or maybe Michael had finally found his chill.

PRETTY MUCH, Michael eventually said. I BELIEVE THE TERM IS 'OOPSY DAISY'.

Again, Adam laughed, and almost keeled over when a wave of the must insufferable smugness hit him. Holy shit, that joke had been intentional!

“You're so stupid,” Adam managed to say between continuing giggles.

YOU LAUGHED. IN FACT, YOU'RE STILL LAUGHING.

“Yeah, out of pity.” Adam shook his head, but couldn't keep a grin off his face. “God. Didn't think I'd ever laugh about my own death.”

PEOPLE DIE ALL THE TIME, Michael said, giving the equivalent of a shrug as he kept floating, grace slightly bumping against Adam's soul.

It should have hurt, probably, the contact between a wildfire and a fragile leaf, but instead it was... oddly comforting. Warm. Very warm.

“Well, I don't die all the time. At least I hope so. Man... I don't wanna do that a second time. If a zombie ever gets us, just roast me or something. No more biting, please.”

Instead of addressing that, Michael asked: WHAT IS IT THAT KILLED YOU, EXACTLY?

“Man, I don't know. Something that eats people.”

THAT... DOESN'T EXACTLY NARROW IT DOWN MUCH.

Adam groaned. “This world is so much worse than I ever thought. You know, you grow up being told that monsters aren't real, and then something eats your mom and then looks like her and you're telling me that's really not uncommon enough to say what it was?”

THAT SOUNDS LIKE A GHOUL. THEY TAKE THE APPEARANCE OF THOSE THEY EAT. THOUGH OFTEN, THEIR FOOD IS ALREADY DEAD.

“So they're scavengers?”

YES. GRAVE ROBBERS, TO BE EXACT.

“Jesus Christ.”

NO, HE WASN'T A GHOUL.

“Oh, shut up.”

More smugness.

“Asshole. Don't enjoy talking about the thing that killed me, come on. Have some decency.”

ANYTHING CAN KILL A HUMAN. TOO MUCH WIND CAN KILL A HUMAN. GHOULS AREN'T SPECIAL THAT WAY.

“Hey!” Adam pointed an accusing finger – at the bar. He huffed and lowered his hand again.

I'M RIGHT.

“Yeah, you're right, but you shouldn't say it.”

THAT'S STUPID.

“You're stupid.”

WELL, YOU'RE STUPIDER.

“And you're stupider times ten!”

THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE. Michael moved inside him, focus shifting outward. IS THERE MORE ABSINTH?

Adam groped around for the bottle, which he'd apparently put on the floor at some point. As he wiggled it when picking it up, a remnant of green liquid sloshed in it. “Oh. Yeah, there is.��

They drank it, then got another Guinness.

“So,” Adam said as he slumped back to the floor, his head hitting the back of the bar with a thunk. He barely felt it. Whether that was due to the alcohol, the resident archangel, or both, was anyone's guess. “Um. So... hey, are you listening to me?”

HM? Michael, who had been sort of swaying inside him again, twisted into complicated knots to turn his attention back to Adam.

“Dude, you're drunk.”

YOU'RE DRUNK.

“Cheers, I'll drink to that.” Adam downed half the Guinness in one go. “So anyway, what I wanted to say is... what about you?”

ME?

If he didn't know any better, Adam would have thought Michael was humming. Or maybe there was just a Gregorian choir stuck in Adam's head, singing intricate melodies he had never heard before.

“Yeah, you.” Adam tried to nudge him, and instead kicked his foot into empty air. Whoops. “I told you about my lowest moment, what about yours?”

YOU SPECIFICALLY DID NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT YOUR DEATH. WHY SHOULD I WANT TO TALK ABOUT MY WORST MOMENT?

“Because-” Adam thought about it for a moment. “-it's only fair!”

Michael huffed, but then hummed again, a continuous, multi-voiced tone.

WELL. LETTING A ZOMBIE PLAGUE BREAK OUT WAS NOT ONE OF MY PROUDEST MOMENTS.

Adam snorted. “Yeah, I bet.” After a beat, he somehow had the clarity to ask: “Why did you?”

Michael sighed, and twisted into even weirder knots. THINGS WEREN'T GOING VERY WELL.

“U-huh.”

EVEN BEFORE THE OUTBREAK OF THE VIRUS. I MEAN, SEALS WERE BEING BROKEN, BUT THAT WAS KIND OF THE POINT... ANYWAY, DEAN WASN'T SAYING YES.

“Who?”

MY PROPHESIED VESSEL.

Somewhere through the haze, Adam located a memory of the angels who had come to him in Heaven. Had Michael mentioned him too? “Oh, that's like. The guy who's supposed to be my brother, right?”

YES. JOHN WINCHESTER'S FIRST-BORN SON.

“Yeah. Thanks for telling me about that one, dad!” Adam yelled at the ceiling.

YOUR FATHER CAN'T HEAR YOU, Michael said, but it sounded distracted. SO, THINGS WEREN'T LOOKING TOO HOT, AND WE DECIDED TO LOCK UP THE HEAVENLY GATES-

“Wait, what? You put Heaven on lock down? Why?”

LIKE I SAID, DEAN WAS BEING A STUBBORN ASS.

Adam snorted out a laugh. “That's not what you said! But it sounds about right.”

IF HE HAD JUST SAID YES LIKE OUR FATHER WANTED HIM TO...

“Yeah. I mean, don't get me wrong, this whole vessel thing is weird, but it's really not that bad once you get used to it.” Adam shrugged, lifted his glass and found that somehow, the beer was already empty again. “Like, without you, I'd never be able to drink a whole bar.”

IT'S CURIOUS. MOST PEOPLE WOULD BE IN SEVERE PAIN IF ANY ANGEL POSSESSED THEM, MUCH LESS AN ARCHANGEL. OF COURSE I'M MORE CAREFUL THAN MOST OF MY BRETHREN, BUT... Michael prodded him with a piece of his grace.

“Hey,” Adam grumbled.

DOES THAT HURT?

“No? I mean, it burns a bit, but, meh.”

MEH?

“I've had worse. And I like heat.”

GOOD, BECAUSE I BURN VERY BRIGHT.

“You know, I can't tell if you're bragging or actually underselling yourself with that.”

DEFINITELY UNDERCEILING.

“... Under-what?”

UNDERSEEL... THE THING YOU SAID.

“Are you slurring your words??”

Michael was still an illuminated house around him, but the mental Christmas lights were growing sluggish, flashing out of sync.

“Dude, are you okay?”

'M GREAT. IS THERE MORE BEER?

“Uuuuh, no. All out.” If even the archangel in his body was getting drunk as fuck, they'd really had enough.

THERE WAS WHISKEY, Michael unfortunately remembered.

“Okay, look.” Adam glanced at the whiskey bottle. Actually, maybe a little more couldn't hurt... “You're only getting that if you tell me why you closed off Heaven.”

AH, YEAH. SO, FUNNY STORY-

By the end of the explanation, Adam was abruptly sober again.

#I've been looking forward to posting this one hehe #Love to bounce around between serious and silly these two can do it all #Midam #Quick writing #Endversetober

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the-narrators-ramblings · 2 years

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I can't believe I'm doing this.

I just don't get it. Why does everyone insist I have feelings for Stanley? I hate him! I've made that so very, very clear, and yet they simply don't stop? They pester me with their thoughts, baring their teeth when I stand my ground. I mean, really?

I get that we're stuck together, but does that really mean that I would inevitably think of him that way? For most of my existence, I haven't even been human! For us to be together is simply preposterous.

Oh, who am I kidding? Clearly, nobody. Everyone else has either acknowledged it or tried to convince me of it. I've tried so hard to really, truly believe that I could ever see Stanley as anything more than my enemy, but the longer I try not to think about it, the worse it's going to nag at me akin to a fly buzzing about a room.

I think that- just maybe- I might love Stanley. It's just...God, I'm being over-dramatic about all of this. I just don't know what to do about it! As much as I know him, as much as I may insist to myself that I can read him like lines on a script, I cannot. I don't understand what goes on in his head.

This is all so confusing! At most, maybe we could be friends. No matter how many colours I paint the sunset, it will continue to be beautiful in it's own way. I cannot change my thoughts on Stanley. I've left them sit and rot for so long that, now that I have finally picked them up and dusted them off, they've cemented themselves in their corner of my brain. All I can do is move them forward.

Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get.

Addition #1 (because I know I'm going to make more of these eventually.)

When I had declared that I was going to stop looking at Tumblr to search for Stanley, I really was being honest, but...

I had something I've now been able to identify as a "mental breakdown". I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see, I was back to square one. I forgot that I was human. I sat on the floor, and I cried. I haven't been able to pinpoint why, but I remember that it hurt. It hurt more than I had ever hurt before- and really, I hadn't. I was able to block those feelings out, but now?

Why is this so difficult? I cannot properly articulate what happened to me then, however long it was. I must have spent hours sitting there, attempting to ground myself to no avail. I don't know what brought me out of it, but I'm thankful to whatever it was. I might've never gotten anywhere without it.

Addition #2

I do not know for sure, but I believe it may have been the imaginary kittens that made me feel better. Such small creatures that unknowingly hold so much joy!

Yes, I feel infinitely better just thinking about them. How peculiar, how simple kittens bring so much happiness. I suppose I will have to study this some other time.

Addition #3

I don't know how to feel.

He said he would kiss me. He said

He lied. He didn't mean it. He didn't fucking mean it. He never meant any of it. He lied to me. Why did he lie to me? Does he hate me that much? I thought we had finally decided to turn over a new leaf, he said he was sorry.

I really, really don't know how to feel. This is different. I just don't want to talk to him right now. Not for a while. I don't know how long "a while" will last, but I just hope that he doesn't come and bother me.

Addition #4

I'll be honest, I forgot about this. Probably not for the best.

I am a terrible, horrible person. I've come to that conclusion a few times. I want to think that I have come to peace with it. Going back to that chocolate analogy I made earlier; I feel as though I have picked one out of the box older than others. The sugar has settled and has gone rotten.

Curiosity does really kill the cat, doesn't it? I wanted to know who I was, and look what that's brought me. I don't even know what my thoughts on Stanley are anymore. Surely, he hates me, there's no denying it. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Addition #5

I'm worried about Stanley. I wanted to forget about him. I wanted to return to the life I had before, because at least that made sense. At least I knew where it was going. I hated that life, but at the very least, it made sense.

It hurts.

Addition #6

I don't think there's a much worse scenario than this. I can't let him get hurt, but at the same time, I could get both of us killed.

Why? Why did this happen? Why did it have to be me?

...

Six wouldn't mind taking another favor, would he?

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fayeelikefairie · 8 months

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♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.the start of bright star episode:7!♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴:

"Softness and understanding"

01:57 ━━━━●───── 02:55

◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻

TW:Mentions of not eating,self harming behaviors,crying,cigarettes,neglect,the normal brightst☆r stuff,mentions of calories

Akira walked home,80s music playing in her headphones as she walked the small distance to her mother's apartment. Guilt filled her as she thought about things,the music being drowned out by her thoughts. "Why am I like this? It's just a cheesecake slice? Im so stupid. I probably concerned one of them." She thought as she opened the apartment building door going up the stairs and unlocking her mother and aunts apartment,and entering. With a pet greeting to her cat, Mimi she held him "awww!! Did you wait for mee?" She said petting the cat who purred "awww so sweett!" She put the cat down. Hearing her phone buzz she took it out of her pocket,seeing it was Sora she was confused.

Why did Sora care? What would Sora need from her? She went to her room,awnsering. "Hey Sora! Ya need something?" She asked,smiling.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. Sora felt worry in her heart as she heard Akiras voice "uhm...yeah." she said,trying to sound stotic as always "are you alright? You look sick as hell." She heard Akira let out a deep breath "yep,just.. uh.. tired.." she said with a shaky voice,Like was about to cry. "You sure? You sure you don't have any problems? You seemed nervous about eating,is something up with that?" Sora asked,her worry becoming more and more obvious. Akira felt annoyed,why did she even care "i..I said I'm fine,don't fucking worry about it." She said. Sora heard the sadness in her voice,the tears. "I'm not gonna sit here and let my friend just hurt themselves!" Sora yelled at the phone "I know we only know eachother through tutoring,but talk to me. Please." She begged.

Akira let out a sniffle,a sign she was crying. Sora frowned she hated yelling and doing that to her friends but she needed to make her point. "Y..you . W..why will you tell anyone?..." Sora sighed, a concerned one,not annoyed "nope. I promise you." Akira took a deep breath "o..okay but if you tell.someone.. just.. please dont." Akira begged with a tearful voice. "Hey,hey calm down,okay.. I wont,just tell me.." Akira took another deep breath "okay... uh.. I don't like myself,I don't like my grades,or my brain... I don't wanna eat,I don't Wanna be okay.. food has so much c.." she stopped,Sora listened. "I.. understand in a way.. I don't like food either,. It has to much,I agree. But we shouldn't be counting it. That's harmful,and it'll fucking kill you or hosphospitalize you. You don't deserve that Akira."

Sora said,genuinely "i.. " Akira just cried over the phone. "Let me help you out.. I've been where your at. It sucks. I know it does,and you never wanna get better. But If you wanna live past 16 you have to. You have dreams don't you" Akira replied, "y..yeah to be in a band.. to be famous.." Sora hummed In response. "If you want to be able to do that you have to get better. In all honesty.. I have that dream to,.. we can work to that dream together,yeah?" Sora tried to assure her. Akira let out a small,soft,shaky "y..yeah.. hey.. can you stay on call with me.. I'm sorry if it's all to much.. i..I understa-" Sora replied with "im okay with that. Your not okay and in a right mindset right now. Let's change the topic to something more bright,okay?" Akira said "o..okay uh.. favorite show,honestly.." she let out a soft laugh.

"Promise not to laugh at me?" Sora asked,embarrassment in her tone, Akira hummed in response "mhm.." Sora laughed a little "okay.. okay.. Magical mayaki.." Akira felt herself smile,she gasped "you know that show!? Oh my gosh! I love that show so much!"

#project sekai #project sekai oc #brightst☆r #project sekai fanfic #project sekai fangroup #hastune miku colorful stage #oc x oc #canon x oc #leo/need

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loracarol · 2 years

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Friend invited me to go see Lightyear the other day; spoilery thoughts under the cut in no particular order.

I will say, I probably turned to my friend and whispered, "I Would Die For Sox", three or four times? (The theater was pretty empty and there was no one around us.)

I liked it. Probably won't go to see it in theaters again, but I liked it.

The music was lovely.

Chris Evens was lovely.

BUZZ LIGHTYEAR IS A GIANT FUCKING NERD LMAO

NEEEEEEEEERD

The puppy dog eyes lmao

He would have gone along with the new management until they tried to kill decommission his robot cat lmao

The newbie team!! I loved all of them!! Especially that old lady on parole.

Taika Waititi's character.... Can you imagine though, if your nerd, accountant friend/boyfriend/husband/whatever went on a fun scouting weekend thingy, and then aliens attacked while he was outside of the safety bubble and you think he's probably dead but you hope not but you're pretty and then the bad guy is defeated and everyone is safe and your nerd shows up and is like, "oh actually I helped!! with a pen!! and now I'm joining fictional NASA to be a space ranger." Like???

Bless him

I'm not an animation person, but I thought that the hair on the Black characters was well done? Like, texture wise, and it looked, to me, like the light reflection was done correctly for the hair texture.

Izzy is wonderful and I loved her. I would watch a sequel movie just about her tbh.

I get why they didn't do the whole "Zurg is Lightyear's father" thing like from Toy Story 2; in that movie it felt like an obvious Star Wars joke. In the Toy Story universe, Star Wars had been out for ~20 years, and out of it it's been out for over 40? Years? If they played that straight either in or out of universe, it would feel less like a funny joke and more like a blatant rip-off.

As for the lesbian character

Is this Bury Your Gays? On one hand, she does die relatively early into the movie, but that's due to time dilation shenanigans; in universe she dies at like, 70 or 80 with a loving family, a kid and a grand kid. Buzz is the one that misses her life due to time dilation, she's still there living it.

Anyone mad about it for homophobic reasons.... You're fucking stupid

Basically, Buzz keeps trying to fix his mistake which involves doing a bunch of experimental space flights that mess with time dilation and he refuses to give up; we see time going by by him seeing Alisha and her wife's lives change - once when he comes back, they're engaged, once married, once pregnant, once congratulating kid for graduation, etc.

At one point, Alisha tells Buzz that she probably would never have met her wife, Kiko, if Buzz hadn't messed up in the first place and landed them all on this island. Put a pin in that.

Also, when Alisha says she's engaged, Buzz immediately asks who "she" is, so Alisha was already out/comfortable with Buzz knowing, which I thought I was cute.

One could argue that her example of lesbian love is what literally saves the day in the end; the bad guy has Buzz convinced that they can go back in time and fix everything. Buzz is tempted, but then he remembers that that would destroy Alisha's happy life with Kiko and he can't bring himself to go through with it. It's literally thinking about Alisha's lesbian life that saves the day.

I mean, could I write an academic paper on this? No. Do I think it was intentional? It's Disney. But if you told me to make a 5 minute improvisational speech about it, I think I could do it.

It's a cute movie. I enjoyed it.

#Lightyear #Lightyear spoilers

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knightley--phillip · 2 months

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The Curious Case of Madellaine || closed

in which Edelgard Knightley calls Phillip up on Feb. 15 in confusion ...

cw: discussions of infidelity, references to typical order bs, references to phil being a thot in regency au

Phillip’s first thought upon waking up in the morning of February 15th was that he was never ever ever having sex again.

That thought went away very quickly, and was replaced with thank god for modern contraceptives.

And then, unfortunately, that thought went away immediately, because his phone started buzzing.

He ignored it for a moment, trying to eek out another couple minutes of sleep, but it continued to vibrate, even after the call ended, which meant that the person on the other line had immediately dialed back, and there was only one person who would ever do that —

Phillip groaned, blinking at the 11 missed calls from his mother and answering the 12th.

“Hello?”

“Phillip?! I had the most ridiculous dream. But then I heard that everyone had the same dream?”

It had just occurred to him that his mother was in town for the week, and had been staying at the Tipton. Which meant that she had experienced her first ever Swynlake Collective Dream. Christ — he needed more coffee before he could explain to his mother what was going on.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, as his mother rambled about how she’d gone downstairs for breakfast and heard people talking about their time as Regency socialites, then started brewing coffee right around when she started scolding him for sleeping around with “all those women.” (Phillip didn’t want to correct her and point out that there had also been men; that seemed like the sort of conversation to have at a separate time).

“And then — there was that girl. The one who was in our house. Do you know her?”

“Madellaine?” Phillip recalled. “Not at all. Never met her. Probably some poor girl caught up in this.”

“I think she was your father’s daughter.”

“I thought she was our cousin,” said Phillip, taking a sip of his coffee. "Except our uncle was John’s dad for some reason.”

“No, no. That’s what she told you, but I knew. The former Duke was actually her father. Oh my goodness Phillip … you don’t think…” His mother sounded on the verge of tears. “You don’t think your father actually had a child —”

“What? God — Mum, please I just woke up.” Phillip did not want to think about his dad having sex with another woman. “Besides, the town just does this. I mean, Tom and John aren’t actually your sons, right?”

“Yes, but I know them. Why on earth would this girl be with us like this?!”

“Mum, don’t worry about it. Swynlake is weird like this.”

Phillip normally wouldn’t think much of this random Madellaine girl appearing as his maybe-illegitimate sister, since Swynlake had certainly done weirder. There’d been that time he’d been killed by a giant boulder, for instance, or that time they were all cats. Once he’d been a youth pastor married to Aquata Triton, and there was another time Rose had been his actual sister.

But his mum really sounded worried. Maybe there was some distant possibility that his dad had slept around enough to father some bastard child. Phillip wouldn’t put it beneath the scumbag. But he didn’t want his mother to get all worked up about that pathetic excuse for a man, so he tried to calm her down.

“Besides why do you care if Dad fathered a —”

“Don’t!” she nearly screamed. “I do not want to talk about it.”

“You brought it up!”

“And now I do not want to think about it! Do not bring this up to me. Unless you meet this Madellaine girl, she seems very sweet.”

“Right, right. Don’t you have a spa appointment in a bit?”

“Yes, so stop taking up my time!”

Phillip laughed.

“Love you, too, Mum.”

#closed #the curious case of madellaine

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stephenjaymorrisblog · 1 year

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Goodbye To Our Angelic Feline

(Gemma Has Crossed the Rainbow Bridge)

Stephen Jay Morris & Pamela Amodeo-Morris

April 15, 2023

©Scientific Morality

Our two cats are almost 18 years old. Sammy is a domestic shorthair, Tabby, and his “brother,” Nicky” is a Siamese mix, Tuxedo breed. They’ve lived a long life primarily because they have been indoor cats ever since we brought them home. We’d lost our former cats to disease and vehicles before and had since decided, never again. Once in San Jacinto, California, Nicky ran out of the house—he’d been a lifelong, wanna-be, escape artist. I tried to catch him, but he kept running just out of my reach. While observing him, I could see that he was scared; he was in unfamiliar surroundings. His ears were flat, his fur stood up, and his tail was down. After a while, dusk approached and I gave up on trying to catch him. Thankfully, three hours later, he was meowing outside our front door. We let him in and he didn’t try to venture out again for a long time. In recent years, however, he has continued to try and get outside. At what he must view as his best opportunity, he will dash between my legs through the door, when I’ve barely opened it to step out. Otherwise, at his age, he just wants to sleep all day and eat. He’s also bonded strongly with me and frequently pesters me for attention.

As I stated in a past article, the most difficult part of my belief system is the desire to end child abuse or cruelty to animals through authoritarian measures. For me, it’s an emotional thing: i.e. those who engage in those sorts of behaviors should be jailed or shot. Logically, of course, I don’t subscribe to that. But, emotionally, I embrace the feeling. Which brings me to my topics here.

My next door neighbors, whom I shall call, “the Zoomer Family,” are a 20-something, unmarried couple with two young children. The male, whom I’ll call, “Moe,” appears at times, to be a hyperactive person. I have never seen him complete any outdoor task he starts. If he is mowing his lawn, he’ll stop in the middle of the job to take a break. Afterward, he’ll do something else and leave the mower to sit where he’d left it for three days. The driveway side of his property that faces ours is cluttered with discarded paint buckets, plastic beverage bottles, trash cans, an old, non-running pick-up truck, and other assorted debris. He’ll come outside, move an item, or set another upright, and then go back inside. On many occasions, I’ve seen him emerge in his pajamas, shirtless—in any weather, mind you—half-awake, call out for his cats, or drag his two trash cans to the curb.

Moe is the perennial politician. He carefully words his sentences to manipulate you. He once asked to borrow my truck to do some chore. I said no, and he’s resented me for it, ever since. It’s apparent that he hates fatherhood as he can often be heard and seen yelling at his kids. Then there are the issues with his cats.

There is a hillside forest behind both of our houses and a busy state highway in the front. A loose pet here could be an easy target for a predator animal or get hit by a passing vehicle. Regardless, his policy is to let his cats roam, day or night, at any time. When he and his family moved in next door, in early 2020, we came to learn that he had a few cats. Later that year, he told us how one of his cats had been hit and killed by a passing car, which he blamed on the driver. We asked him, and my wife challenged him on a few occasions, about his choice to allow his cats to roam free. He emphatically declared that he does not want his cats “cooped up,” because they are meant to be free. Well, if you ask me, he doesn’t want to clean a litter box. He also claimed that, in roaming, his cats keep their house rodent-free. Post-script: his backdoor porch is filled with trash and other discarded objects, flies buzzing atop it all. He is too lazy to clear it all away, too cheap to hire an exterminator, or just plain negligent about dealing with trash, so he leaves it to his cats to kill the vermin it attracts. Thus, all of his philosophies are a cover up for his indolence. What a politician.

In the summer of 2021, we learned that he’d acquired three young kittens, about eight weeks of age. One nice, August day, I was doing some landscaping on our side yard when I saw the kittens playing with one another just a few yards from me. Then one of them, a black kitten, came closer and started to dig at the soil where I was digging. Eventually, the kitten started to rub against me. I immediately fell in love! It stayed close by until I finished and went inside. I later found out that the black kitten was a female and that her name was Gemma.

Well, true to Moe’s policy, Gemma and her siblings were outside daily, playing on our lawn and in the backyard. Gemma was especially sociable and visited us often. The more Pamela and I saw her, the more we were enamored with her. As time went on, we began giving her kibble and water on the back porch and spending time with her. Eventually, we started to let her come inside. All of this, BTW, we’d cleared with Moe. In fact, he frequently came by to ask after her, which we thought made no sense, since he maintained that his cats could leave and return to his house as they wished. As Gemma got closer to six months old, we began to worry about her going into heat and becoming pregnant. To our astonishment and relief, we saw one day—and Moe confirmed—that she’d been spayed! Another problem that surfaced, however, was that Gemma scratched and scratched and scratched. Before long, I discovered worms coming out of her anus. At that point, we decided not to have her inside, in the off chance that our cats could get infested. We informed Moe, who annoyingly replied, “I’ll take care of it.” As far as we could tell, he never did. We were dealing with a real incompetent, selfish, freak!

It really pissed me off how Moe would let Gemma wander out in the snow, rain, and cold. When we asked him why he didn’t have her stay inside, he would say, “Oh, they are animals, they like being outside.” This schmuck couldn’t differentiate between a domesticated and a feral cat! I’ll bet he voted for Trump.

Gemma was a shining, short haired, Bombay black cat. That breed came into existence in 1975 Her yellow eyes were the cynosure of her whole shiny, black coat. They were as alluring as those of an Egyptian queen of the ancient past. She exuded love if she liked you, and she did so every time she saw us. It was apparent that she didn’t really like Moe. We watched as he tried to catch her a few times, and she would just wiggle out of his arms. She never did that to me. She just let me hold her.

Late last December, on a 4 degree day following a heavy snow storm, Pamela carried Gemma to Moe’s back door, where she confronted Moe’s girlfriend over their having let Gemma out in such weather. As so many times before, it turned into a futile attempt at logic. She even went so far as to report Pamela to the local police for interference and harassment, which resulted in a visit from a Deputy Sheriff. From there forward, we stopped having Gemma inside or offering her food. Still, she returned almost daily to sit upon our back porch railing. She loved coming to our backdoor and sitting there. Every morning, I’d see her lovely face. I continuously wished that she was ours.

Last night, while I barely opened the door, Gemma seized her chance and dashed into the house! It was as if she was escaping something. After she ran through the kitchen and into the familiar room where she’d napped many times before, I scooped her up and returned her outside.

This morning, the fateful event happened. Gemma showed up around 7:00, as usual, and I went out to greet her. As the morning went on, we heard Moe calling for her. Around 9:30, he came to our backdoor to ask, “Have you seen Gemma?” Pamela replied that she’d been here the night before, and that she was also here this morning.” I remember how the last time he’d come over to ask that question, Gemma had gone missing for three weeks. Another neighbor later told us that someone had found her wandering around the local Post Office—let me add that she’d never had any I.D. on her collar, nor was she microchipped—and had turned her over to animal control. Luckily, somebody tipped off her owner and they retrieved her. You’d think Moe would have learned from that experience. Hell no to the yes! Well, about 45 minutes later, we heard Moe let out a blood curdling scream, “WHY!!! WHY!!! He turned around and we saw Gemma was cradled, motionless, in his arms. Then, he ran into his house in hysterics, yelling incoherently. His girlfriend, carrying their two-year-old daughter, came out with him, they got into their car, and rapidly drove off. We assumed they were heading to the vet. When they returned within an hour, Pamela went out to ask Moe how Gemma was. “She’s DEAD!” he proclaimed.

It was over. We will never again see her languishing on the railing on our back porch, or running to greet us as we pull up in our pick-up, or sitting atop the trash can just outside the small kitchen window, or rolling around at the back door, looking for pets and getting her beautiful coat covered in debris, or... I could tell many charming stories about Gemma. Like the time she gingerly approached a deer as it was grazing in our backyard. When the deer tried to sniff her, she took off like lightning!

Gemma, you’ve crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. Pamela and I love you forever!

#stephenjaymorris #poets of tumblr #beautiful cats #anarchism #anarchocommunism #anarchopunk #anarcho primitivism #animal death #animal rights

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seancekitsch · 2 years

Text

pure evil: richie kirsch x reader

warnings/AN: used santa rosa for geographic location of woodsboro, rough sex, richie is a switch, alcohol consumption, murder talk bc of course, ghost face wins au, i have opinions abt things and include them, spoilers for scream 5

Richie Kirsch uses the edge of the bar to itch the edge of his bandage. It's the thousandth time he’s done this while trying to nurse this drink. He wishes he could relax, knowing Woodsboro is seven hours away and it's been a week since the news buzz has died down. It was weird, being poked and prodded by reporters. He never wanted that, only to fix his favorite series, only to right a wrong. Now, he finds himself hiding here amongst a city of millions, just another face in the crowd so someone can tell the story he gave them. He thinks about the drive here every time he itches this fucking bandage on his arm. The stitches are almost completely dissolved, but no one at the hospital had told him they would itch like all hell when they were offering him a world of counseling. Every time the stitches itch, he wonders if he was convincing enough; wonders if the role of traumatized only survivor was filled correctly. He fixates on the whisky neat in front of him, tries to block out the fact that this is the third Tame Impala song in a row this dive has played. He likes Tame, but, c’mon.

It feels like I only go backwards, baby

Every part of me says, "Go ahead"

I got my hopes up again, oh no, not again

Feels like we only go backwards, darling

Richie needs to start going to another bar.

“Hey, Tall, nerdy and handsome” a smooth voice startles him, and he turns.

Just a woman, he thinks, and un-tenses his shoulders as she settles onto the bar stool next to him.

“Hey, uh, Stealthy, rude, and beautiful?” Smoooooth Rich. She laughs, tosses her hair, and almost slams her glass onto the bar. She’s drinking a negroni. Harsh.

“So, listen,” she starts, “My friends and I,”

She gestures over her shoulder, but in no discernible direction. It’s a crowded bar, he wouldn’t even be able to pick them out, even if he was trying to look at anyone else. He was focused on her. She’s, surprisingly, the first person besides the short term landlord and the bartenders who have talked to him since he’s gotten here.

“We have this little bet going, and they offered me to get to the bottom of it.” She grins like a cat who’s gotten the canary.

“So what’s this bet? Shy guy or serial killer?”

Great joke! Killers wouldn’t make jokes like that. She laughs again, this time he can tell, it’s more genuine.

“No, silly! They don’t think they’ve seen you before. But I do. See, we watch the news,” she takes a sip, prolonging her sentence until his palms itch as much as his stitches.

“They don’t think you’re Richie Kirsch. I do.”

He gulps. What the fuck.

“Why- Why do you think that?”

“Well, mostly because they know you, at least as much as the news has shown.”

Oh he doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this at all. She takes a big sip of her negroni.

“And what does the news show?”

Might as well ask, might as well see what the perception of him is. Her friends will only bolster his alibi. She sighs, shoulders sagging, before tilting her chin towards him.

“Well they- and the news- say you’re a shy, devoted boyfriend, pulled into all of this mess, almost killed by his girlfriend and her kid sister. You’re completely in shock by the event and just trying to remember how to be a person again. You’re lucky to be alive,” she takes another sip off the rim of her glass, “They don’t think you’re you because really, why would you be here? Nobody comes here to blend in.”

Damn, spot on. Thats exactly what he wanted people to think. He’s safe.

“And uh… Not saying they’re wrong, but why do you think they’re wrong?” Richie asks, not trying to seem eager. Bolster, he remembers, bolster your alibi.

She smiles that Cheshire cat grin again, like she was there that night.

“I know the real you,” she states, matter of factly.

“IF-“ he pauses, holding up both hands, “If I’m Richie Kirsch, who is the real me?”

Might as well ask her, see if he’s still getting away with it.

“I think you’re not shy, just calculated. You’re not making a move without seeing the pieces on the board. I think you decided you couldn’t be small town anymore because you’d be like the Harry Styles of whatever shit job you had. I think you’re here, specifically Silver Lake and not West Hollywood, because you’d want to see what happens now that you're a star,” she gestures with her hands, mocking. “You wanna watch the aftermath from a safe distance.”

This was what he could afford, it was crowded, a lot of public spaces, and touristy enough to hide without being the epicenter of where people who care about social media were. At least he hoped his assessment of Silver Lake was correct. He doesn't want to be a star, just the inspiration for the plot.

“No one comes to this city to hide, everyone wants to be seen. I think you want someone to see you, Kirsch.”

He counters.

“And what about you? Are you here to be seen? Or just to judge people passing through?”

She smirks, points at him.

“A diversion! Clever. I’ll answer, but I’m not letting you off the hook.”

She gestures at the bartender with a flick of her ring finger, and she brings her another negroni immediately. This woman is a local.

“If you must know, Richard,” Fuck, the full name, “I’m a writer. Came all the way out here for a pilot for my passion project that got canceled at the last minute by production.”

Richie winces. That's gotta hurt.

“And uh, what was that passion project?” he asks, wanting her to avoid himself as conversation topic at all cost.

“If you’re not who I really think you are—“ there she goes again with that shit, “you might find it offensive.”

This intrigues him. Richie turns himself on the stool fully towards her, downing the rest of his whisky in confidence.

“And why would some guy,” not himself, “find it offensive?”

She challenges him, waving to the bartender to refill his drink as well.

“I wrote out a Stab TV series. Totally faithful to the originals. I wanted to take the final kills, and then have a season dedicated to recovering from them. Worrying about a killer around the corner. Flashbacks. More psychological horror because slashers can’t play out in a serial setting like television.”

Fuck, Richie thinks he’s fallen in love.

“But it all got cancelled,” you say with a grimace, sipping agin on your negroni, “The reception that that fucking abomination of a last installment left me dead in the water.”

“That sucks, I hated that one too,” he says, hoping he didn’t tell any news outlets that he wasn’t familiar with Stab.

“Well you got to live it. Now I edit scripts for a Hulu Seinfeld reboot following Elaine’s kids. There’s a stupid fucking plot line that they could be Kramer’s kids.” She sighs dramatically, throwing her head into her hand before lifting herself up. He laughs, genuinely.

“But I’m sorry,” he pauses, “about your show,” he forces down one last chuckle about the reboot.

“But why would you think I wouldn’t find that offensive?”

“Because I know you, actually know you.”

Richie shifts in his seat, rests his forearm on the bar, but his bandage doesn't itch him anymore.If she’s going to blow up his alibi, he’s gotta get out or diffuse this fast.

“You just met me, and you didn’t even ask my name.”

“You didn’t ask mine either,” she winks at him, and jabs toward him with her little drink stirrer.

“I guess— I guess I didn’t really have time before you started psychoanalysis,” he offers as his only excuse.

“You’re smart, Not-Richie-Kirsch, but I’m not done with you. Actually!” she exclaims, throwing her drink stirrer into his glass, “I have a bit of a confession.”

Richie has to raise a brow at that. His face scrunches up in confusion, and he pats the back rest of her bar stool to urge her to continue.

“Ah— that got you! There’s no friends. No bet. I’ve been watching you for all of happy hour.” She gestures grandly with her hands, like she’s a genius for coming up with that opening line to get him talking.

“Do you normally do this when you're hitting on guys?” he asks, easing his glass for a big sip, “Like, does this normally work for you?”

He’s flirting, and he’s not sure that's such a good idea. But she’s hot, and probably the most interesting person in this city for him. She smiles that devious smile again, batting her lashes at him.

“Well I’ve never tried it on you before.” Smooth. She reaches perfectly manicured fingers over and plucks her drink stirrer back from his glass, and puts it up to her lips, her tongue slowly licking the warm whisky off of it. She never breaks eye contact. Richie shifts on his stool again, this time adjusting the lap of his pants. She’s evil.

“I know exactly who you are, stranger. I can read you like an open book. And…” she trails off, finishing her drink before turning back to him, shifting so close to him he can feel her body heat. Sickening, just like how hot this city was; but Richie wanted to be burned by it.

“I’m about to invite you back to my place based on how you answer this last question.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Okay, Richie thinks. This is happening. Richie hasn’t had sex he’s actually wanted in so long. He had to use sex as a tool to get to where he is now, but maybe he can live a little, have some fun.

“And that is…?”

She tilts her head until her lips brush his earlobe. He shivers, and grips his glass so hard it might shatter in his hand.

“What did it feel like when you did it?” she whispers in his ear, and his blood runs cold.

“Wh-what?” he struggles to find the words.

“Don’t lie, I know you, remember? I know what you did.”

Her soft lips, her body heat, the way she saw him plainly, it was almost too much. Richie has to hold himself back from grabbing her right here and now.

Fuck it, fuck. She understands. She’s someone just like me, he thinks. She gets it. Stab TV woman, I’m ready to risk it all for you.

She drags her nail across his thigh, drawing a line right above his knee and to a smaller wound and watches as his jaw tenses. She pulls back slightly, just enough to see the look in his eyes, and there’s something dark in his expression. He’s right where he wants her.

“It felt fucking amazing,” he practically growls, and she goes in for the kill. She captures Richie’s lips with her own quickly seeking out to bite at his bottom lip; he tastes copper.

She almost trips up the steps to her loft. It clearly was an apartment carved out of one of those large early 1900s houses in the hills, one of those rentals with a shitty landlord that lives below you. It's very similar to the one Richie now has. He stares at her ass in the tight little skirt she’s wearing. Did she know he was here? Dress up specifically to entice him and get him here? He banishes the thought from his mind by raising his hand, and striking her ass as hard as he can. She yelps as she pitches forward, and then it melts into that laugh he's starting to love.

“I’ll get you for that, Rich!” she calls back over her shoulder, not even looking back at him as she fumbles for her keys. It's all so familiar and so new at the same time, and Richie wonders what she's doing to him. Already giving him nicknames, driving him wild, the promise of a night that could rival an arthouse porno, her nonchalance at his confession to her.

Richie more or less pushes her through the door frame the moment she has the keys worked through the lock, he lifts her top and flings it across the dark room. Her lips capture his own again, violent and passionate, and he groans into the kiss. She's a wildfire. Her arms snake around his neck, fingers coming to scratch against his scalp as he grips her hard by the hips. His lips move to her neck, kissing the underside of her jaw, wet and sloppy. He moans against the column of her throat, savoring the taste of her salty skin. Fuck, more more more. Richie searches for her pulsepoint, licking it before he bits down, hard, punctuating it with a grind of his hips into her. She moans, loud and uninhibited, and her body arches into him.

“When-” she sighs, breathless when she pulls away, “When you uh- did your girlfriend, how did you do it?”

Richie couldn't possibly get harder, but she was trying to make it happen. This woman is pure evil, fucked up.

“Do you want me to show you how I did it?” Richie asks, voice low and husky, trying to choke back a groan when her hand reaches down to cup him through his jeans.

“Uh huh,” she nods.

“Lay down then,” he commands, and her eyes dart over to the couch, “On the floor.”

She lets out a breathy little giggle as she obeys his command, making a show of getting on her knees first. Oh, she's probably so good at sucking cock, he thinks. She lays down on the floor, hair splaying out around her like a halo though she's far from angelic.

He slowly joins her on the ground, one of his knees slotting between her thighs right where they meet. She sighs at the contact.

“It was just,”

He makes a fist, curling his fingers around an imaginary knife.

“Like this.”

He slowly brings the fist down against her breast, her flimsy mesh bralette leaving nothing to his imagination. She's warm; Sam didn't feel warm by the time he did this to her. She looks up at him, eyes blown wide and lips swollen from all the kissing. He keeps moving, opening his fist to grasp a handful of her breast, hard. She whines, and he decides wants to hear that noise over and over again. She grinds against his knee, needy and panting now, her hands planted firmly on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his shirt, her tight little skirt riding up her hips to show off her matching underwear. That got her wet.

“Listen,” he says, trying to keep it together, “Your boobs are perfect. Like, hands down, best I've ever seen. They're cinematic.”

Her back arches off of the wooden floor, blooming at the sound of praise. She likes that, good.

“Good enough to be your final girl?”

Shit, how does she manage to sound so put together when he can feel how messed up he’s making her?

He chuckles, hand flexing and squeezing again.

“Of course, female empowerment and elevated horror or whatever.”

She arches her back again under him, this time in cackling laughter.

“Elevated horror is a word invented to pretend that horror only just recently started saying shit with meaning. Elevated horror is gen z shit,” she says between giggles.

Richie’s chest tightens.

“I can’t believe you just said that. Will you marry me?” he jokes, and she bites her lip. Fuck, that’s sexy.

“Get your dick out, Kirsch”

She doesn't have to tell him twice. Richie pulls back, wincing as his knees rock against the wooden floors. He makes quick work of his belt buckle, but fumbles with the button of his fly. He curses his nerves, the fact he cannot remember a time he was ever this fucking hard in his lifetime. She wiggles out from under him, quickly pushing herself to her knees as well, shimmying her bralette straps down off of her shoulders. The flimsy mesh and lace hangs, a useless garment across her ribcage now as she waits eagerly for him.

Richie stands as he finally gets the fucking button, and the zipper is a breeze. She leans forward, eye level at his hips as she hooks her fingers around not only his jeans but his boxers too.

Holy fuck, this is happening. He’s been thinking about exactly this from the second she stuck her drink stirrer in his whisky. Wanted her mouth all over, wanted her to take whatever she wanted from him. Even without her confession, her little game of cat and mouse, her dangerous level of information, he wanted this specifically to be happening. Ghostface wins again.

She yanks the fabric down to his ankles, and he helps by kicking his vans off and helping her get his feet out of the jeans to fling off to some unknown corner of the room.

She almost gasps at the sight of him, rock hard and straining, already leaking and needy for her. Her hands plant themselves on his thighs, right above the knee. She looks up, and he’s trapped under her gaze. She doesn’t blink as she licks the entirety of the underside of his length, never tearing her eyes off his.

This is it, he thinks, he’s gonna embarrass himself in front of this woman.

His cock twitches, and that’s all the encouragement she needs. She wraps her lips around his tip, and then presses forward. He can feel himself hit the back of her throat, but she doesn’t gag.

This woman is otherworldly, he thinks. She bobs her head up and down on his length, taking meticulous care to swirl her tongue around the tip every time. She wants this to be good for Richie, wants to give him everything. He’s more attractive than he looked on the news, something she’s grateful for. She wants to see how far this really goes. He watches her intently, and she can tell he’s holding back his moans. That won’t do.

Richie is trying to hold on for dear life, knowing that she’s in control of him here. Her mouth is so hot and wet and welcomes him in, he could literally pass out from how good she’s making him feel. He has to hold on, he thinks, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands that he’s balled up into fists.

It’s when she cups his balls that she gets her first reaction out of him. A full body shiver runs up his spine, ending in a harsh moan he can’t bite back. There we go, she thinks.

His hands hastily gather up her hair, holding it back clutched in his right fist as she continues. He tries not to pull too hard, but when she looks at him like that it’s hard not to give in to those urges. She takes it like a champ, actually moaning around him as he gets rougher, his hips starting to thrust on their own accord. She hollows out her cheeks around the head of his cock, and that's almost enough to send him over the edge right there.

“Oh, I knew you’d be good at this,” he moans, letting his head fall back as he does.

She wants to chuckle, wants to ask ‘So you were thinking about this too?’ but she doesn't, only moans again and takes him deeper into her mouth.

That's the last straw for Richie, who can feel every muscle in his body tensing, every nerve pulsing, the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

He pulls her off of him by her hair, not caring really if it hurts anymore. She stares up at him the way a tourist stares at the statue of David. He would let her finish the job, she should, she’s talented. But Richie only has one thing on his mind.

“Ffffuck that feels amazing but listen, honey, I have to get inside you right now,” he groans, trying to hold back ragged breaths. Something in her eyes changes, something primal. Is this what he looked like before he did Sam in?

She nods her head slowly, mouthing ‘okay’ but not saying anything. She slowly rises to her feet to join him, and now the setting sun casts her in red, makes her something otherworldly.

“Your turn to get on the floor,” her voice is raspy, and he’s almost proud that he did that to her throat.

“Yeah?” he asks, as if he has time to question her, as if he didn’t need to split her open thirty seconds ago.

“You don’t fuck me, I fuck you.” she states with finality.

Holy fuck this girl is gonna kill him. He wastes no time getting down onto the floor, the wood against his bare ass as he whips his tee shirt off over his head, not being careful of the bandage on his arm. Oh well, he’ll deal with that later. She stops pulling her skirt down to admire him, he watches as her eyes trace all of the healing cuts on his chest sure to scar. Entry wounds, exit wounds, in, out. She’s got this sweet smile on her face, something he can’t fully place. Admiration? He leans forward to grab the skirt bunched up in her hands, and pulls it the rest of the way down to her ankles so she can step out of it. In milliseconds, her panties are off and she’s straddled on top of him, heat radiating from her and he’s so, so close.

“Be a good boy, okay?” she asks, a sweet tone to match that smile she gave him. He wants to obey her, every word, just as much as he wants to break her. He wants to destroy her, fuck her so hard he mangles her for anyone else who would even think of touching her. But he will obey, he decides; he nods eagerly at her and holds her hands as she sinks down onto his length.

She doesn’t hold back any of her moans, he notices. Doesn’t try to control or suppress her feelings or urges. She places his hands back on her chest as she starts to rise and fall in his lap. He watches the muscles in her legs as they tense and work and fuck, the entire thing is art. It could be a shot from an HBOMax original, maybe a Stab themed Natural Born Killers type show.

“Fuck— Richie, another question?” she says after a particularly deep thrust down, earning him a whine that he won’t ever erase from his memory.

“Yeah?” he pants, shifting his weight so he can thrust up into her as well; a pleasant look of shock flashes across her face, then that wicked smile again as she adjusts her pace to keep up with him.

“Ever get hard while you did it?” She refuses to say the word kill, but even still, he chuckles and nods his head, hands sliding from her chest to her hips to hold her in place. He feels her clench around him at his confession. Oh, this woman’s a fucking psycho like him.

“Oh, did you like that?” Richie teases, feeling sweat start to trickle down his shoulders.

Without warning, her perfectly manicured hand finds its way around his throat, pressing down against his windpipe. It isn’t the sexy kind of choking, it’s the kind that kills brain cells.

“I’d like it more if you made me cum,” she practically hisses at him. If Richie wasn’t already harder than solid steel, he would probably die.

His fingers dig into her hips, hard enough to bruise as he starts to thrust up into her with vigor. He wants to be good, for her. He holds her as she bounces, rolling his hips every few thrusts to get that whine to fall from her lips again. He’s eager to please, apparently, and he realizes he would do anything she asked if she asked him like this.

“I probably-” he stutters, still thrusting, still choking, “I probably won't last long”

She meets his admission by throwing her head back, giving him a show.

“Then don't, just make me cum first, Ghostface,” she sighs and flexes her hand on his throat, not at all knowing the effect she has on him.

He moans again, at the name she uses, and pumps into her as hard as he can. He hopes he bruises her thighs from this, makes her feel him for days. She writhes in his grasp, quickly feeling herself approaching the edge. He does that thing again, with his hips, and that whine tumbles from her mouth again, this time feeling like an electric shock. She lurches forward, hands landing on either side of his head, giggling as he doesn't let up his pace.

She's tight, impossibly tight, and he knows she's close. Richie’s holding on, but just barely. His back is straining from the movement, but the hurt is good, a good burn. Muscles impossibly hot, just like the heat she radiates. He switches up his movements, grinding into her at this new angle, and she practically screams in his ear, but he doesn't mind. He grinds into her, hard, and he can feel her coming apart around him. When she comes, it doesn't shatter her; instead it comes in waves. He feels her stutter and stall, her muscles tense and un-tense, the way she squeezes his cock. And when he finishes, inside her, it's like a crack of thunder. His arms come up around her back, his bandaged arm pressing against the back of her ribcage. He holds her close as he shakes, moans against her as he loses what little composure he has. She’s thoroughly wrecked him.

She kisses his shoulder and the side of his neck as she works through the aftershocks, little shakes and chills running through her body as he holds her close, works her through it. Its almost dark now, and he’s sure she looks as beautiful in the moonlight as she did in the blood red sun.

Suddenly, she lifts herself up, shaking like a fawn finding its footing.

She places her hands firmly on both sides of Richie's face, leaning down slowly to kiss his face. This kiss is different, gentle for the first time, and chaste. He breathes her in, allowing his eyes to fall shut inhaling something woodsy but sickeningly sweet. Richie needed this, her; this calmness spreading under his skin, a euphoria he only felt that night. Ironically, laying on the floor just the way he is now. Post good sex haze feels similar to bleeding out, he concludes. The way he feels like he's floating, the strangeness of his pulse, the weight of his limbs, and hers atop him. Richie thinks back to when the Woodsboro police found him, with Sam on top of him, just like this woman is now, a puddle slowly forming below him, dazed and smiling.The woman on top of him presses her face into the side of his neck, letting her arms go slack on the ground. Amber might have died, but she wasn't part of his plan, his vision. She was easy to manipulate, he just had to send a few texts. She was a means to an end and Richie was alive, and Richie could live to actually enjoy a new legacy for Stab. And now he laid here, with a woman who had him figured out. A writer, at that. Richie for a moment considered her to be like Amber, but somewhere between sucking his cock and her hand around his throat, he decided she wouldn’t be another person to take the fall for him, wouldn't be another body in this franchise. But she has every right to think he would. He hopes she doesn’t.

She likes being on top of him, she thinks, the feeling of being in control of a man like this. Ghostface, her favorite. She’s glad she was right about him.

“Hey, hey I have a question for you,” Richie whispers against her lips.

She pulls herself up on her hands, but only far enough to make eye contact. He could easily kiss her still from this position.

She smiles, encouraging him to continue. She’s already asked him so many this evening, so he might as well be allowed to have one.

“Can I uh- Can I see that script you've got? The pilot?” He sounds almost shy in the moment, as if his cock wasn’t still buried inside of her, as if he hadn’t fully admitted to several murders tonight.

“Uh… yeah,” she hesitates first, caught off guard, “Do you have, like, some input for me?”

He laughs, and Richie cups her face in his hands gently.

“I’m gonna be honest, I’m not sure I have the most accurate perspective for your idea.”

Another joke about something he really shouldn't be joking about, but she brings it out of him.

The next thing she says shocks him.

“Maybe I can scrap it and we can come up with your reboot together. I’m sure there’s a few scenes you'd like to rewrite. You are the new hero, after all.”

Richie Kirsch is hard again immediately.

#richie kirsch x reader #richie kirsch imagine

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spencersawkward · 3 years

Text

*house call // wes (Dollface)*

ssummary: when her pet cat gives her a scare, Reader decides to call the vet to make sure everything is going to be okay.

pairing: Fem!Reader x Wes

word count: 5.4k

content warnings: discussion of cannabis/cannabis consumption, unprotected penetrative sex, use of nicknames (baby, sweetheart), SoftDom!Wes, breeding kink, creampie.

request: can you do a wes smutty one shot if you’re down?!

A/N: to be fair, i haven’t watched Dollface in a minute, but i’m obsessed with the domestic vibes that Matthew gives off when he plays Wes and i just thought it would be super cute. anyway, this was super fun also i wanna fuck Wes. ok enjoy!

masterlist

the absolute best part of your day is when the package arrives at your doorstep. you impulse-purchased it about two weeks ago while you were hanging out with one of your close friends, and you've been looking forward to trying it every day since.

or, really, for your cat to try it.

you've read reviews and been extremely diligent to make sure the stuff is completely safe, and everything you've seen or read was singing the praises of this cat weed (which isn't actually cannabis at all, but catnip made to look like it).

as you take the cardboard box to the kitchen table and pry open the top with the help of a Swiss army knife, you're grinning. Klimt comes scampering into the room to see what all the fuss is about, sitting at your feet with his tail curled around his legs.

"no peeking." you scold him gently. your kitten, the friendliest little rescue tabby around, simply stares blankly back. when you remove the wrapping from the glass jar and stare at it up close, you're impressed by how realistic it looks. the label shows cat-friendly ingredients only, but you unscrew the top and get a whiff of catnip.

Klimt begins to weave in between your legs, nudging them affectionately and beginning to purr. you giggle and bend down to give him a few pets. his nose twitches; he tries to sniff at the foreign object, but you put it back on the table.

"don't be greedy, babe." you scratch between his pointed ears and he lets out a whiny meow.

it's about his dinner time, and you were hoping to give him his treat tonight after he finishes his dry food. so you make yourself something simple with the leftovers in your fridge and do some more work on your laptop while you two eat together.

you've had Klimt for a while, now. you call him a kitten even though he's a full-grown cat-- he's just as playful and enthusiastic as any newborn. his eyes are the color of meadow grass, and his nose is scattered with tiny freckles. it makes him look like he's just come from digging around the backyard, but it really just adds to his charm.

not to mention his ceaselessly social tendencies: Klimt is always around when your friends come over, worming his way in between you or sitting on one of the free chair cushions to listen. you wonder if he knows what you're saying sometimes, because when you talk about the embarrassing things you've done that day or the failed interactions you've had, he always lifts his head to give you something of a judgmental stare.

once you've settled down for the evening and turned on the TV, you decide that now is the time. Klimt is aimlessly poking at a few of his toys. he bats at a fake mouse between his paws.

"kitten," you click your tongue and get up to grab the jar. "are you ready to try this stuff?"

as if he's going to answer. he hears your footsteps coming back his way and watches patiently. it's only when you pour out a little bit in front of him that he gets curious about the stuff. you admire his movements as he bends down and examines.

although you keep an eye on him while watching your show, you don't notice much of a change in him. he starts to roll about on the floor, which is to be expected, but it's only when he starts to chase around his fake mouse that things get interesting.

you laugh as Klimt goes nuts, jumping back and attacking the thing like he's ready to come in for the kill. it's really funny, but you're interrupted by your phone buzzing. you told your friend that you were doing this tonight.

"hi!" you answer the FaceTime call right away.

"how is he?" you can hear the smile in Andi's voice as you turn the camera.

"he's loving it."

"oh my god," she laughs. Klimt arches his back, leaping so highly in the air, you raise your eyebrows. "I wonder how long it'll last." she muses.

"I'm guessing we'll get about an hour more of this before he passes out for the next two days." you joke. he gets strong bursts of energy usually, but they only last so long until he's curled up on the window sill or in your bed.

Andi and you talk for a while as Klimt tires himself out and plays with all of his favorite toys. you dangle a string in front of him for a decent amount of time, too, just to make him get up on his hindquarters. he's a natural entertainer, a lithe little thing who lets out a few irritated meows to demonstrate his impertinence.

after about forty-five minutes, however, you notice your cat's behavior change. he keeps raising his hackles and rolling about, and something about it makes you nervous. he doesn't usually act like this, not even when he plays with the other catnip toys he's accumulated.

"what's wrong?" Andi notes your furrowed brow as you look past the camera of your phone and at your pet.

"he's just acting really weird," you pat the couch cushion to call him over, but he doesn't even glance up. "I don't know why."

"maybe it's the cat weed." she suggests. you purse your lips and try to think.

"yeah, but nobody in the reviews ever mentioned anything like this."

"I'm sure he's fine, Y/N."

"yeah, I know..." but you're worried. Klimt is your pal, your cuddle buddy. as he rubs his cheek against the wooden floor, you feel guilt pool in your stomach. if he's hurt because of some dumb online purchase, you're never going to forgive yourself. "I'm gonna call the vet just to be sure."

"oh, okay," she sounds surprised, but doesn't try to stop you. "let me know what they say."

"I will." you hang up the phone and stare at your companion for a few seconds. he leaps into the air and does a somersault before letting out some deeply disturbing whine that reminds you to call the vet. better safe than sorry.

...

when the doorbell rings, you're practically twiddling your thumbs anxiously. Klimt hasn't settled at all, and you haven't even bothered to change out of your lounging ensemble. you're pretty sure you look a mess, but hopefully the person won't care too much.

you don't know who to expect-- your usual vet is an older woman who is friends with your mom, but her receptionist said she was out tonight and would send over another vet to check it out.

when you swing open the door, you immediately regret the decision to stay in sweatpants.

"hi, I'm Wes." the guy gives you a friendly smile and holds up his bag. it's almost comically old-fashioned, something out of an old movie, and you half-expect him to be wearing a stethoscope around his neck.

he's gorgeous, though. definitely a good amount older than you, tall with brown curls and stubble. his features stand out to you even under the porch light, and your mouth guppies idiotically.

"hi," you manage. his eyes flicker to your hand, which is seemingly blocking him from coming inside the house, and you jolt back a little to let him in. you clear your throat. "sorry."

as he steps inside and you close the door behind him, getting one tiny moment to yourself, your eyes widen. way to make yourself look like a bumbling fool.

"I heard that there's a tabby who got into some catnip?" you catch him looking around the front of your house, eyes catching on the framed photos before finding yours again. you can feel the heat creeping up your cheeks, but nod confidently.

"yeah, Klimt. he should still be in the living room."

"Klimt? like the artist?" he chuckles and follows you into the rest of the home. his voice has a nice timbre to it, something low and gentle that fits well with his occupation.

"yeah, exactly." you turn to smile at him.

you hear the cat before you see him. he's climbed to the top of his cat tree and leaps down onto the ground, paws hitting the surface in a way that can't have been comfortable. he chirps and looks up at Wes, whose lips are turned up with amusement.

"are you the man of the hour?" he asks, approaching the cat. Klimt's pupils get enormous and he prepares to pounce on the newcomer.

"careful--" you start to warn him, but the cat launches himself right into Wes' arms. the vet turns to you, holding him to his chest, and grins. warmth spreads over your skin with embarrassment. "sorry."

"no need to apologize," he starts to pet Klimt, who is only slightly struggling to escape. he wants to go wild again, but Wes isn't going to let go. "they call me the Cat Wrangler at the office."

"really?" you snort. he brings your pet over to the couch and sets him on the cushions, careful to keep him in place.

"no way." he shoots you a dazzling smile. the joke makes you giggle, and you feel yourself become even more self-conscious about the outfit you're wearing. this is just your luck, having hot guys come over when you distinctly look your worst.

Wes scratches between Klimt's ears and glances up at you again. "is there any reason in particular you're worried about the catnip?"

"yeah, actually," you nod, brought back to reality. "I know it's supposed to make them more playful, but he's just been acting weird and I got worried that there was something in it that messed with his head."

"can I see the container for it?" he asks. you go to grab the jar, only to remember that it proudly announces itself as cannabis for cats. profound embarrassment causes you to hesitate with the stuff in your hands.

it's not like he's here for you to flirt with, but you're still thinking about how stupid and young you're going to look with this stuff in front of him, a hot older guy who seems to have his life under control. you peek at him once more from the kitchen, at the way he smiles and starts to talk softly to Klimt as if he were a peer.

he's kinda crazy, and it makes you smile.

"it's cat weed." you hand him the glass container, and Wes breaks into a grin as he looks at the front.

"oh my gosh, I've heard about this!" his eyes move quickly over the label. you're in shock.

"really?"

"yeah, it's hilarious. here, can you make sure our friend here doesn't move while I read the ingredients?" he gestures. the knot of anxiety within you loosens a bit. you nod obediently, going to scoop up your pet and sit him on your lap. he's still squirmy, but he doesn't look ready to attack either of you, thankfully.

"hey, you." you greet your pal affectionately. his tail is wagging impatiently while Wes kneels on the ground beside the couch. there's a silver ring on his finger, but you notice with relief that it's not on his fourth one.

when he sets the jar down on the coffee table with the kind of smile that hints at some secret amusement, you frown. "what?"

"nothing," he shakes his head. "Klimt is gonna be totally fine."

"are you sure?" you pet the feline's smooth coat.

"definitely. you know how drugs affect people differently?" he asks. you want to say no, you don't know that because why would you, but then you remember that there is quite literally a glass-blown bowl sitting on your kitchen table.

"sure." you reply honestly.

"it's the same with cats: some just feel the effects a little more." he shrugs. you think this over for a second.

"that makes sense."

"yeah, I'd estimate about an hour more of this wildcat behavior before he takes a ten-hour nap." he cracks another joke and you find yourself totally charmed by him. something about the way he talks just makes your heart beat like crazy.

"that's a relief."

he chuckles and stands up, grabbing the bag (which he never even had to use) and starting to walk out of the living room. you can smell his delicious cologne as he moves past you.

"sorry for making you come out here so late." you apologize from the couch. Wes turns to look at you with an easygoing expression. his free hand is tucked into his pocket.

"no worries. you have a lovely home." he gestures to the kitchen, and then at the bowl sitting there in the open. you have to fight the smile on your face.

"thanks." you're smirking. right before he's about to head back out, you ask a question that's been wriggling around in your mind since he arrived. "why no title?"

"you mean, like, Doctor or something?" he stops in the threshold. one hand leans against it while he answers your question. you still can't get over how tall he is.

"sure. I mean, you are a doctor, right?" it comes out more dubious than you intended, but he doesn't get offended, only smiles.

"yes, I'm a doctor. I went to Davis." he points like the school is right outside your door. you nod.

"cool."

there's a silence where you just look at each other, and you forget that you look like you just rolled out of bed. he clears his throat.

"to answer your question, I just go by Wes because you're not my patient-- Klimt is." he points to the kitten, who is now chasing his own tail like a dog. you snort at the sight.

"how humble of you."

"I know, right?" he's joking. you find yourself not wanting him to leave, even though you've really just met. he's so sweet and funny and handsome... your stomach is flipping over and over like a schoolgirl.

and it's stupid that you can't think of one plausible reason for him to stay, but every step he takes shortens your time to think. so you just blurt, instead.

"would you want a beer?"

Wes pauses and looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. "a beer?"

"yeah, I mean... you came all the way out here and I just feel bad for causing a fuss over nothing." you scramble slightly to justify your words. you don't ever drink beer-- do you even have any? god, this is embarrassing.

the vet checks the watch on his wrist, then smiles at you with a halting kind of enjoyment, before nodding. "sure."

"okay, great." you turn on your heel to hide the grin on your face. he follows you again to the kitchen area and leans against the counter while you open the fridge. the best form of flirting you can manage right now is bending over shamelessly and taking your time to poke around.

thankfully, there are three cold bottles left towards the back. you take out two and use the tool in one of your drawers to pop the tops off. he watches patiently, takes a sip when you hand the drink to him. your eyes meet.

"so, what prompted the cat weed purchase?" he starts the conversation effortlessly, and you try to keep your eyes from wandering over the shape of him. now that he's just standing in front of you, you're noticing the way his sweater sits against his frame, his long legs and the way his head rests on an elegantly-proportioned neck.

"I just saw it and thought it would be fun." you shrug honestly. he smiles.

"do you think you're gonna let him try it again another time?"

"I don't know," you cross your arms over your chest. "I'm a little nervous, but he also was having a lot of fun until I made him sit still."

"fair enough." you both turn your gazes to the cat. he's nudging a little toy ball with his nose and watching it roll across the floor. there are tiny bells inside that jingle. Wes turns back to you. "what do you do?"

"graphic designer."

"an artist." he raises his brows, impressed.

"not exactly saving animal lives, but I get by." you take another sip of your drink.

"it's not like that, mostly." he rolls his eyes playfully.

"then what's it like?"

"I just see and talk to people's pets all day. it's a pretty great job, even when it's not. you know?" he's optimistic about it. you're drawn to his positive energy, to the way he smiles when he speaks like he's preparing to deliver a witty joke.

you're hopelessly attracted to him, and the space between you is becoming unbearable. even though he's a guy you just met, you can feel in your gut that something about this is just right. you want his body against yours.

"you okay?" he breaks what you only now realize is a silence, and you blink to clear the dirty images from your mind.

"yeah." only thinking about you fucking me against a countertop. it must be the fact that you haven't gotten laid in a while or something, because you usually aren't this attracted to people within the first hour. it takes longer for you to even want to kiss them.

"what kind of stuff do you design?" he seems genuinely interested as he shifts and continues to nurse his drink.

"I work for a tech startup downtown, so it's a lot of website work to make sure it's navigable and pretty." you try to sum up your duties, but it's hard when his hazel eyes are so intent. he listens to every word.

"do you do personal work, too? like, just for you?"

"actually, yeah!" this sparks your excitement.

"can I see?" his smile widens. "only if you're comfortable, of course."

"sure." you're beaming.

he stays put as you start to go out of the kitchen, but then you smile. "you can come with."

"oh." he sets his beer down on the counter and follows you, slightly surprised. but you don't care; you were nervous before, but he's stayed for this long. maybe he wants you, too.

once you get to your bedroom, you're grateful that it's been freshly cleaned. there's even a bouquet from the flower's market sitting on your dresser, and you head over to the desk to sift through the drawers for what you want.

"cool room." he compliments from the threshold. he's careful not to make you uncomfortable, but also can't resist the curiosity that draws his gaze from wall to wall. you find the stack of papers and smile.

"thanks," you place the folder in his hands. "these are some printed versions of stuff I did last year."

Wes immediately begins to flip through the art. him seeing your stuff makes you nervous, so you pretend to focus on straightening up the few items that sit on your desk. you wipe your fingertip over a nonexistent film of dust.

"these are amazing," he says, holding a card stock copy in between his index and middle fingers. "holy shit."

"thank you." you're trying to keep from smiling too hard. you can tell that he's being genuine with his compliments, and it makes your heart swell.

"definitely. are you showing anywhere?"

"at an exhibit downtown a couple months back, but I've been so busy with work that personal stuff hasn't really been on the table, you know?"

he nods in understanding and continues to go through until the end. when he's finished, he looks up and sees you, his eyes concentrated. he doesn't speak at first, and an undercurrent ripples across the room. there are about three feet between you, and you have no excuse to lessen it.

he licks his lips slowly. you purse yours, unsure of what to say.

"I'm glad you called tonight." his voice is lower, slightly uncertain, like he's testing the boundaries. except you don't want boundaries right now. you want to go wild on him.

"me, too." you reply. it's in your eyes, that begging for him to do what you're scared to initiate.

your tongue is pressed to the back of your teeth in anticipation. and when he sets the art back on your desk and comes closer, you feel yourself give in. bubbles of excitement travel up your body as he grabs your face and bends down to kiss you.

it's full, passionate, not the kind of kiss you give someone you've just met. laced with desire and longing, you respond immediately. hands immediately run to his forearms, over his shoulders as he imposes beautifully on your form. it's so hard, you lean back slightly. your torso presses against his until he pushes you against the wall.

the slight gasp that escapes your lips causes him to smile, followed by your moan and clutching fingers. the material of his sweater, the taste of him mingled with that sophisticated, gentle smell of cologne that you want printed all over your skin.

"come here." he murmurs against your mouth and reaches down to the back of your thigh so you can hook your leg around his waist. you whine at the easy access he has to grind against your core, both of you desperate.

"Wes." you pant into his open mouth. he sucks on your bottom lip before finding your cheek and jaw. his fingertips tighten around your flesh.

"this feel good, sweetheart?" he checks in. coincidentally, his jeans grind against your panties at exactly the right spot and your hips jump. you release a pleasured yelp.

"mhmm."

"sounds like it." he latches onto your throat with a possessive excitement. you can feel him sucking and biting at the skin until you're positive there'll be marks tomorrow. you hope there are; purpled evidence of his touch. he digs his nails into your thighs. "you like it when older men touch you, baby?"

he blows over your tender throat before attacking it again. you sigh contentedly at the way he mingles sensations for your pleasure. "yes."

he grunts and nips at your collarbone, sliding the strap of your top down your shoulder so that he can effortlessly flutter his lips over the skin. you grip at him and toss your head back against the wall. his weight on yours is divine. it makes you weak, but that doesn't matter. he's practically holding you up at this point.

when his hand pushes under the hem of your shirt and dances over your stomach, you arch your back for more. he's gentle yet firm, pulling you close like he wants to breathe your oxygen. he's tracing over your ribcage, all the way up to the valley of your breasts, before cupping one and moaning into your shoulder.

he kisses you again with an aching hunger that can't be satiated. your tongues meet and Wes finds your hardened nipples beneath the thin fabric of your bralette. you sigh while he starts to circle one with his thumb.

"you're perfect." he breathes.

you want to bask in this moment, to enjoy the shock across your skin when he reaches his hand back down between your bodies to dip below the waistband of your sweatpants, but you're just so greedy. he could make you cum over and over and it would never be enough.

"what do you want me to do to you?" Wes is hovering over your lower stomach, dangerously close to where you need him most. he's teasing. the warmth of his skin drives you mad. his breath brushes over the shell of your ear.

"fuck me." it's the only response you can fathom. every other instinct in your body flies out the window and is replaced by a craving to sink your proverbial (and literal) teeth into him.

but he loves it, apparently, because he pushes you back against the wall with a nearly bruising force. "I can do that."

with those words, he quickly grabs your other leg and lifts you into his arms, bringing you to the bed and laying you delicately on the mattress while you giggle. you stare up at him with an almost daydreamy lust. his cheeks are flushed.

you only get a second of that heavenly sight, though, before he dips down and pushes your shirt up to see your tits and kiss up the chasm between your ribs. his stubble tickles your skin, which causes you to smile.

by the time he's pulled your sweatpants off and tossed them to the side, you're whining for him to strip down as well.

"what is it, pretty girl?" he murmurs against your tummy. when you try to squeeze your thighs, he pushes them apart.

"I wanna see you." your fingertips touch at his sweater. he chuckles and pulls the garment over his head. it messes up his perfect hair even more and you love it, tangling your fingers in it. he bites his lip.

"do you want me to taste you first?" he keeps stroking the inside of your thighs and staring down at the skimpy lace that you're positive that you've already soaked. you're making him crazy with the way you roll your hips against air, against nothing, seeking any kind of stimulation.

"I can't wait." you shake your head. as nice as it would be, you're going to implode if he doesn't fill you up soon. he drags his fingers down your clothed slit and groans when he feels just how ready you are for him.

"let's take these off then, okay, sweetheart?" he hooks his fingers in the panties and waits for you to nod before tugging them down your legs. you whimper at the cool air that hits your core, soaked and needy. Wes stares at your body on display for him.

as he gets back up from the floor to kiss you again, you both work to remove the rest of his clothes. his skin is perfect under your hands. his chest is warm, solid, and when he climbs on top of you, his arms rest on either side of your head.

one hand comes down to grab his own cock and stroke it a few times before lowering himself to rub it against your throbbing clit. you whimper at the pressure; he's mindless when he feels how easily you cover him in your essence.

"so fucking wet..." he groans while rutting against you.

"Wes, please--" your breath hitches. "put it in."

"begging?" he teases your entrance with the head and smirks. "good girl."

"mhmm." you're smiling, but your mouth drops open when he pushes himself inside.

it's a heavy feeling, him filling you up. he's thick and the stretching of your walls makes him groan and rest his head on your shoulder. he kisses the skin there while diving deeper into your body.

you're shaking slightly from the mixture of pain and pleasure, his size forcing your body to work quickly to accommodate. your eyes are squeezed shut, but you run your hands over his back and shoulders to stay grounded. it feels like a dream.

he starts to pull out, coated in your wetness while you whimper below him, and he grabs your face with one hand in a dominant, soft gesture. "okay?"

"yeah."

he pushes back in. the air in your lungs is practically gone at this point, he's so deep inside. your eyes roll back and push your hips up to take him at a new angle. Wes finds his pace easily, rocking into your body at a manageable pace to let you get used to the sensation.

every time his hips roll down and he buries himself in you, he presses on your clit and sends a new shock through your body. he leans on his elbows to get closer and feel every undulation of your body. you love how his thrusts force your legs apart, how he moans your name and causes the headboard to repeatedly hit the wall while maintaining eye contact. hazel irises that rake over your features with lust.

"you feel so good." he speeds up a little when he hits a certain spot. you can feel him deep and hard, causing a small bump to rise in your stomach with each stroke. his voice is husky and dark. like a man starved.

"fuck..." you drag your nails down his back. he groans at the red marks that you will no doubt leave for him.

"clingy thing, huh?" he sucks at your throat affectionately. "I come over for one thing and you can't help yourself."

hearing Wes speak through his own panting is like listening to a secret, and you never want it to stop. he's reveling in the sordid crush of his own wants, and the way he shoves into you shows you that he has no intention of slowing down for a while.

"I'm impatient." you smirk. he pulls away to admire your expression.

"so am I." he kisses your lips and starts to pound into you. the juxtaposition of his tenderness and the sharp snap of his hips to yours fills you with butterflies. you love how much he wants to ruin you.

"Wes-- oh my god!" you whimper. he grabs your hips and yanks them closer to him so he can go as deep as possible, so he can hit your cervix.

"that's right, sweetheart," he pants. you can tell that he's starting to lose control. "say my name. I want everyone to know what a good little slut you are for me."

the commanding tone makes your body shake. "I- I'm cumming, Wes, please--"

"please what, baby?" he taunts. his index finger is tracing over your jaw.

you don't know what it is that you're wanting, except more. as your form shudders and tightens, walls fluttering around his cock, you lose the capacity to speak. you grind your hips against him and cry out pathetically while he pushes you back down and slams ruthlessly into your pussy.

"cum inside-- please, I need it--" you writhe. he groans at the request.

"fuck, yes..." he sheathes himself. "take it."

you gasp as he repeatedly hits your weakest point and spills hot ropes of his cum inside you, still thrusting in and out and whimpering into your shoulder at the clenching sensation you give his cock. it's warm, strangely delightful, nearly sending you into another orgasm sheerly from the sight.

he mutters unintelligibly as he empties himself in your pussy, but you catch a growled "so needy," between deep moans. you're clinging to him like you'll never have it again. you might not.

he slows down, giving shallower thrusts while riding out his high and shoving his cum deeper inside. it turns lazy and messy, both of you panting, before he finally pulls out and rolls over next to you.

you press the back of your hand to your forehead. it's sweaty from all the work he just put you through, but you feel amazing at the same time. your eyes keep flickering from the ceiling above to his rising and falling chest beside you. his nose twitches; he turns his head to look at your face.

although you expect him to say something, he doesn't. instead, you just stare at each other. the air conditioner rattles gently in the background. you're not sure how long this lasts, this soaking in, but he's the first to break it.

"hey."

you find the corners of your lips turning up. "hi."

"do you mind if I go get something to clean you up?" he asks softly, his fingertips finding your forearm with ease and drifting over it.

"sure. bathroom is the first door on the left."

he gets up and you watch him gather his clothes, eyes glued to his perfect form. you can't believe you just had sex with your veterinarian. you don't regret it at all.

he wanders out of the room and your eyes follow, only to see Klimt sitting patiently by the door.

"what are you doing, perv?" you tease as he comes over and leaps up onto the bed. his kitten paws pad over the blankets and settle into the crook of your arm. you smile to yourself, recalling how sweet the vet was with him. "hey, Wes?" you call out.

"yeah?" he comes back into the room with a warm washcloth and a small smile on his face.

"would you wanna get coffee or something sometime?" you bite your lip. maybe he doesn't want to go on a date, but it's worth a shot.

"sure." he breaks into a grin that makes you giddy. thank god, because you really were hoping to see him again.

you can't wait.

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