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illdowhatiwantthanks · 1 day

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The Peapod (The Surprise, Part 6)

Emily Prentiss x fem!reader Warnings: pregnancy times, established relationship, fluff on fluff on fluff, some fairly innocent references to breasts, the most wholesome BAU content, platonic love/found family 4ever Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: You and Emily are finally ready to tell the BAU your good news, so you invite everyone over for a dinner party. Celebrations ensue.

A Note on Timeline: In my head and in this fic, we're forever stuck in the Elite Team era of the BAU (Unit Chief Hotch, Morgan, Rossi, Garcia, JJ, Reid, Emily).

Week 13: The Peapod

“What did you say this was called?” Rossi asked you, dipping a hunk of cornbread into his stew.

Light music played from the record player in the corner, and the sounds of people enjoying good food and good company surrounded you. You and Emily had invited the whole team over for dinner. Emily was dying to tell them about the baby, but she’d wanted you to be there, too. This was, you knew, Emily’s version of sharing the news with her family, especially since her mom hadn’t been very enthusiastic. The BAU was her family, and you were her family, and she loved when her two worlds collided.

“Brunswick stew,” you answered, putting a few pieces of ice in Jack’s and Henry’s bowls as you ladled so that it wouldn’t be too hot.

“Thank you much.” Will nodded at you, grinning. “Been a while since I had Brunswick stew.”

“Us southerners gotta stick together up here, right?” You placed little slices of cornbread at the corner of their bowls. “You and JJ and Henry should come over for brunch sometime. I’ll make you biscuits and gravy.”

“We’d love that,” he said warmly, settling Henry in his seat before taking his own.

“You know, Brunswick stew may have originated in either Brunswick County, Virginia, or Brunswick, Georgia, but nobody knows which one.”

You shook your head. Of course Spencer knew the origins of Brunswick stew.

He kept going, tearing bits of cornbread and sprinkling them on top of his bowl. “Originally the stew would have been made with squirrel, rabbit, or possum meat. It cooks so long that it was ideal for tenderizing wild game.”

The room went silent. You passed behind Spencer carrying your own bowl and patted him on the shoulder.

“No squirrels here, though,” you assured them. “Just pulled pork from Hill Country.”

You settled in your seat next to Emily, Derek on your other side, and looked around for a moment, smiling. You were so thankful for these people. Thankful that they took care of each other so well, that they took care of Emily so well. They did such difficult work, but they got through it together. They really were like family. Overlapping conversations washed over you, and you were content to just listen for a while.

After dinner, everyone sprawled across the apartment, conversing happily. You were standing and talking to Penelope about the new Zelda game when Emily came over and took your hand. It was time. She grinned at you, and there were no nerves, only excitement. You gave her the slightest of nods, and she tapped her wine glass.

The conversation trickled to a stop as everyone looked to Emily.

“So we actually have some news,” she started, looking at you and squeezing your hand. “Y/N and I are, uh… we’re having a baby.”

Jaws dropped and huge smiles broke out.

“What!?” Penelope squealed excitedly, wrapping both of you in a bear hug. She was echoed by the whole team’s congratulations, happy calls of “Wow!” and “Congrats!” and general sounds of happiness, even a few scattered claps.

“Which one of you’s carrying?” Rossi asked.

Spencer answered before you could. “It’s Y/N. You can tell because she’s gained weight around the face and also because her breasts are significantly bigger to prepare for breastfeeding.”

“Spence!” JJ exclaimed, smacking his arm. A happy roar of laughter broke out, and you blushed beet red.

“Reid, can we not talk about my wife’s boobs, please?” Emily chastised, but you could tell she was overjoyed. This was the reaction Emily deserved from her family. You were so glad she was finally getting it.

Hugs were given all around and happy mumblings took over the room as you and Emily were swarmed for conversations and congratulations.

Rossi put his arm around your shoulder and squeezed. “I’m happy for you kids,” he said, placing a quick kiss on your cheek.

“Thanks, Dave,” you said, smiling at him.

Penelope swallowed you up in another hug. “I am so excited!” she gushed. “You and Emily are gonna be the best, most kickass moms, and we’ll have another little BAU baby! Have you all been clothes shopping yet!? Can I come!? Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?!”

You laughed and rolled your eyes. “Well, Emily’s pretty sure it’s a boy, but that’s based purely on her ‘profile,’ so it’s still up in the air.”

“Ugh, profilers, am I right?” Penelope groaned, commiserating with you.

JJ and Will came over to offer their congratulations, too, hugging you tightly.

“It’s the greatest gift,” Will told you. “There’s nothing like it in the world.”

“How far along are you?” JJ asked.

“Thirteen weeks.”

“Second trimester,” she observed, nodding.

“Yeah, thank god,” you said, chuckling. “Morning sickness kicked my ass.”

JJ laughed, then shuddered. “Oh, I remember. Is Emily taking good care of you?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “The best. She’s amazing. I couldn’t do it without her.”

“Well, I’ll try to keep her home as much as I can,” JJ told you with a wink.

“Thanks, JJ.” You squeezed her hand.

“And, you know, if you need anything, we’re here,” she added. “Even if it’s just to call and talk about the shitty parts of being pregnant.”

You groaned, but smiled. “Please. And thank you. Emily’s here and she’s great, but…”

“It’s different when it’s your body.”

“Yeah. It is.”

Reid came to stand awkwardly between you and JJ. You were all silent for a moment before Spencer blurted, “I’m sorry I talked about your breasts.”

You and JJ burst out laughing.

“It’s okay, Spencer,” you assured him, patting his back.

“I’m really happy for you both,” he said, so straightforward, so awkward and sincere. You loved that about him.

You noticed Hotch standing off to the side, waiting his turn to speak with you, and excused yourself to join him.

“Congratulations, Y/N,” he said, smiling softly, wrapping you in a quick hug. Hugs were rare for Hotch, and you felt honored to be a recipient.

“Thank you,” you said, and you really meant it. You stood in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the team gather around Emily, smiling and laughing. You beamed at her. She looked so happy. You loved seeing her happy. You loved seeing her loved as deeply and as well as her team loved her.

“I hope you know,” Hotch ventured, his voice serious. “That I do everything I can to make sure she comes back home to you safely.”

“I know,” you said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Thank you, Hotch.”

The last to approach you was Derek, and he had already known. Emily had told him just a few days earlier, swearing him to secrecy until the dinner party.

He smirked at you, pulling you into him for a hug. You wrapped your arms around him and squeezed.

There weren’t any words needed, not with you and Derek. He was Emily’s best friend. He was over for dinner or video games or a movie at least a few times a month. He was like a brother to her. And, therefore, he was like a brother to you, too.

You both watched Emily, who was showing the rest of the team a photo of a peapod to illustrate the baby’s size. Her face was alight, her cheeks tinged pink with joy and probably a little too much wine. God, you loved her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Prentiss so excited.”

“Me neither.”

Derek looked down at you, smiling. “You know she loves you more than anything, right?”

You nodded, feeling so happy you thought you might cry. “I know.”

“She picked good,” he said, his arm around your shoulder.

“Are you gonna be Uncle Derek?” you asked him. You hadn’t talked about it with Emily, but you were sure she’d be on board.

“Girl, I better be Uncle Derek.”

You laughed and rested your hand over your belly, your heart full. This baby was going to be so, so loved.

Later that night, Emily crawled into bed next to you, flopping onto her back and grinning like an idiot.

“Happy?” you asked, eyes shining as you stared at her.

She exhaled deeply, her tongue pushing at her bottom lip then, so quickly it took your breath away, flipped over and kissed you. It was a happy kiss, a light kiss, a kiss that wasn’t quite a kiss because you both were smiling and laughing so much.

“You make me happy,” she said, her hands gently cupping your face. You pecked her on the lips once more before her nose crinkled up in a smile and she fell to your side, wrapping an arm around your waist and laying her head on your chest.

You held her close and kissed the top of her head, running your fingers through her hair. So soft, like it was running water. It wasn’t often that Emily let you hold her, and it was even less often that she initiated it. So you held her tight, taking advantage of the rare and beautiful moment. Maybe it would become less rare, you thought. Maybe the little peapod was making Emily go soft. She already was, of course, but she had a hard time admitting it, showing it.

“You deserve to be happy,” you told her as she drew lazy circles on your stomach with her fingers. “You deserve people who love you.”

She was quiet for a while, and when she finally replied, her voice was barely above a whisper. “You really think so?”

You kissed her head a few more times for good measure. “I do.”

Emily took your hand and kissed your palm, holding onto it and twisting your wedding ring back and forth. Neither you nor Emily said anything else, and you didn’t need to. Everything unsaid had already been said, time and time again, year after year. All the words of love and dedication and admiration–you’d said them so often that sometimes the silence simply spoke for you. And sometimes you just held each other and let it.

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x fem!reader #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #bau team #bau #bau fanfic #bau x fem!reader

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emily-mooon · 6 months

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@jancyweeks Day 4: Soundtrack OR Phenology

Day 4 I was inspired by Camper Van Beethoven to make an album cover inspired by their own compilation albums cover.

Obviously, todays song is by Camper Van Beethoven and It’s one that I would consider to be my favourite. It’s also the one I listened to the most while drawing this.

Since the theme is music related, I made a playlist that consists of some of my favourite Jancy songs and songs that I listened too while making the pieces for the event. You do not have to listen to it btw, I just made it for fun.

#btw this is one of my favourite drawings I made for the event #I love the energy of it so much it’s just really fun #also if you look in the top corner I did a reference to a very famous movie from the early 20th century #this is also the only one that will have text because I needed it for album cover vibes #stranger things #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #jancy #jancyweek2023

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actual-changeling · 8 months

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welcome back to alex's unhinged meta corner, today's topic: the chest touch at the pub. that scene has me in a chokehold for some reason and i still cannot stop thinking about it.

the first thing i wanna talk about is crowley's reaction, since this is the shorter part. he did not expect aziraphale to reach out to him like this and freezes for a second while aziraphale happily chatters away.

they were both walking and the hand on his chest stops him, so he comes to a stop right next to him while he was slightly behind him before that. his gaze also snaps to aziraphale's face, who is very much not looking at him.

they were having a conversation, but the touch essentially shuts crowley up and zira leaves him to get their drinks.

now, my question is why aziraphale does it. sure, it could just be an absent gesture since they're in a crowded place, just that he has never really done so before. i think it was very much planned, like asking crowley to dance and grabbing his hand later on.

a second before he actually reaches out, he also looks back to check whether crowley is where he thinks he is. that is the only time he does that, he was busy looking for a free table and miracles them one when he cannot find one - the look back is deliberate. especially since crowley is practically glued to his side, he has no need for confirmation, he can feel him brushing against him while walking.

the hand motion he does gets me, too. he is busy fidgeting with his hands like normal and has them clasped in front of him. aziraphale lifts them once he gets to "that is precisely the point", yet also already moves it slightly towards crowley, realizes he miscalculated where exactly he/his chest is, looks to check, then looks away again before actually touching him. am i reading too much into it? maybe.

i think it is his version of a little temptation. not only does it make crowley's brain short-circuit for a second, he also gets them their drinks and is now (or so aziraphale hopes) a bit calmer and will take the news aziraphale is about to give him better. the conversation at the cafe did not go entirely as planned, after all.

additionally, something i am not sure if other people have noticed or not is that aziraphale does not just touch crowley, it is a caress. he moves his hand down his chest.

the movement in order:

bar girl unfortunately moves in front of them, but you can clearly see the way his hand takes. to give you a direct comparison of the starting and end point:

a good point of reference is crowley's bolo tie but also the angle of aziraphale's arm while it is still visible.

the best part, in my opinion, is that aziraphale puts his hand right on top of crowley's heart. i think the symbolic importance of that is pretty clear and does not require any more explanation, although it makes me want to throw myself into a river. but that's by the by.

to summarize, aziraphale caresses crowley's heart chest to get him to calm down and not go insane over the news he is about to give him. he is also simply a bastard and knows exactly what he is doing to crowley.

as always, this is me going nuts with analysis, but i'm also curious to hear other people's thoughts on this.

don't tell my therapist about my unhinged meta posts or she will probably be very concerned for my mental wellbeing

#alex talks good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #good omens meta #any grammar or spelling errors are my own #my brain is not being coherent lately

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lancermylove · 2 months

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Not Good Enough (HC)

Fandom: Obey Me

Pairing: Demon brothers x gn!Reader

Warning: Reader with low self-esteem.

Prompt: You don't think you are good enough for him.

———————————————

Lucifer found you alone in your bedroom. One look, and he could tell something was very wrong. "Why so pensive, my dear? You seem troubled. You know you can confide in me. What's on your mind?"

You hesitated to tell him the truth, not knowing how he would react to your words. "It's just... sometimes I feel like I'm not good enough for you. You're so accomplished and strong, and I'm just..."

"You are just what?" He asked, crossing his arms. But when you didn't reply, he continued in a stern voice; however, his expression was soft. "Let me tell you, it's your humanity, your kindness, and your unwavering spirit that I find truly captivating. You challenge, inspire, and bring light into my life in ways you can't imagine. You are more than enough, and it's high time you see yourself through my eyes."

Lucifer sat down beside you and took your hands. He met your gaze and spoke in a warm voice. "I vow to you, on my honor, that I will spend an eternity proving just how extraordinary you are to me. You are not just 'good enough'; you are everything I could ever desire."

The Avatar of Pride pressed his lips to the back of your hand before whispering, "Never doubt my feelings for you, my dear. You are my chosen one, now and forever."

Mammon walked into your room unannounced and saw you sitting on the bed, staring down at your lap. "Oi, what's with the long face? You didn't lose any Grimm, did ya?"

It's nothing, Mammon... Just some personal stuff."

"I'm your boyfriend, y'know, so your personal stuff is my personal stuff. Come on, spill it. 'Sides, I'm the Great Mammon. I can handle it!"

You weren't sure if he would be upset with you for thinking you were not good enough, but you decided to come clean. "I just... sometimes feel like I'm not special enough for you. I'm just... too ordinary."

"What?! That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard! Listen here, ya got it all backward. I'm Mammon the Great. I wouldn't hang around someone who ain't worth my time, got it?"

His words drew a smile to your lips. "So, you think I'm... worth your time?"

"Yeah, but that ain't a big deal or anything. Look, I feel like a total loser sometimes. But you...you make those times less crappy. You're important to me, y'know? And if anyone makes ya feel less, I'll make 'em pay for it."

Mammon plopped on the empty spot beside you and wrapped his right arm around your shoulders. "You're amazin', so don't ya forget it."

As you leaned against his shoulder, Mammon nuzzled the top of your head.

Levi saw you sitting in the corner of your room and froze in his tracks. He knew well what was going on in your mind but decided to make handle the matter with a touch of lightheartedness. "(Y/n), did someone spoil the latest episode of your favorite anime for you?"

Without looking at him, you quietly asked. "Levi, do you ever feel like... like you're not good enough for someone? That's how I feel about being with you."

Levi didn't expect to hear that, and for a moment, he didn't know how to react. "I mean, I'm just a shut-in otaku. If anyone's not worthy, it's me, not you. You're like the special event SSR card, and I'm just a common R card."

His references made you chuckle slightly, but you also disagreed with him. "You're not a common R card."

"(Y/n), how do I," Levi started to say but struggled to get his words out. He couldn't figure out how to put his feelings into genuine words. "(Y/n), in my eyes, you're the ultimate co-op partner. I wouldn't want to face any boss battles with you...s-something like that..."

His cheeks turned red, and Levi struggled to make eye contact with you as he continued in a shy voice. "So, um, I promise to be your player two, always supporting you. And... maybe we can help each other level up in confidence and stuff, 'kay? So, don't look so sad..."

Satan saw you in the library room of the House of Lamentation, and while your eyes were on the pages of the book in your hand, it was evident you were not reading. "You seemed trouble, (y/n). Would you accept my offer if I say I will lend you an ear?"

"Satan, how are you so smart...handsome..and amazing?" You asked without moving your eyes from the book.

Initially, the Avatar of Wrath thought you were complimenting him and blushed. But it didn't take him long to realize there was something more to your statement, so he remained silent, hoping you would share your true feelings with him.

"It makes me wonder if I'm good enough to be with you."

And there it was—something Satan hoped you wouldn't say as a follow-up statement: "Your worth isn't defined by how much you know or how you handle your emotions. It's your curiosity, love, and the way you view the world that I find invaluable. You are someone irreplaceable in my life."

When you moved your gaze to him, Satan's expression softened. He walked close to the sofa chair you sat in and leaned down to place a kiss atop your head. "I'm here to remind you of your significance. Not as a scholar to a student but as one soul to another. If I lose you, I will lose myself."

Asmo saw you sitting on your bed with slumped shoulders and figured you needed a pep talk. "Why does my precious diamond look so down? Did something say something mean?"

Shifting your eyes to him, you studied his flawless face, silky hair, perfect body, and radiating beauty. You lowered your head again, feeling worse than before. "I...can't even match up to you."

"Match up to me? What are you talking about?"

"You are just so dazzling, charming, beautiful...and perfect. I am nothing..."

Asmo was stunned at the way you perceived yourself and felt like shaking your by your shoulders. Taking a deep breath, he sighed. "Oh, sweetie, why do you think such things? They are absolutely not true!"

The Avatar of Lust walked up to you, held your hands, and helped you up. He cupped your cheeks and smiled sweetly. "You must see yourself as I see you: utterly irresistible and enchanting. There's no need to match up to anyone because you shine so brightly on your own."

He gently pressed his lips to your forehead and whispered. "Let's have a little pampering session, shall we? I'll show you just how breathtaking you truly are."

When Beel saw you pushing around your food with your fork, he knew something was wrong. Putting his fork down, he looked at you, concerned. "(Y/n), you're not eating much. Is something wrong?"

"Beel, you are so strong, caring, loveable, and...deserve better. You deserve someone better than me."

Your words nearly made his heart stop as just the thought of losing you sent a shock through his heart. "(Y/n), don't say that. I like sharing meals with you...hearing you laugh...and hugging you. When I'm with you, I don't feel hungry for food. I feel hungry for your love. You fill up a part of me that I didn't even know was empty."

His words made you blush, and before you could argue or make another statement to hurt his heart, Beel stood up and walked to your side of the table. Scooping you up in his arms, he held you close to him and nuzzled the side of your face.

"You make me happy just by being you. I don't want you to change because you're perfect to me. I'll always be here for you - to protect and support you, just like I know you're here for me."

Belphie saw you lying on your stomach on the bed with your face turned to the side. He studied you for a moment before walking close to your bed. "You look more tired than me for once. What's bothering you?"

"Belphie, do you ever think I am not interesting or special?" You mumbled after a moment of silence.

"Hmm, that's a strange thing to worry about. Why do you ask?" He asked, raising his eyebrow. When you didn't reply, he sighed and sat down on your mattress. "You know, I don't spend my time with just anyone. If I'm with you, it's because there's something about you that's different, something peaceful."

Opening your eyes, you looked at him with tears in your eyes. His gaze softened, and Belphie rested his hand on your head. "You shine brighter than any star I know. You are interesting and special. If you need me to say this nonstop, I will say it...and mean it every time."

Belphie lay down next to you and wrapped his arm around you, giving you a soft smile. "With you, I always feel like I'm exactly where I need to be. You're enough, more than enough for me. Remember that."

———————————————

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ne-videl · 4 months

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𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤

♡

yandere Dion Agriche x fairy fem reader

he will gladly go even to his own death if you'll order him to.

sub yandere, unhealthy relationship, a little bit of Cassis x reader, mentions of violence, reader and Dion have master/pet relationships, also reader is referred to as "sister" a few times so pseudo incest I guess, sfw but a bit suggestive, everybody likes you!! poor english

word count: ~2k

a/n: there I am again drooling over fictional men. so here's my favorite yandere trope!! for if your psychopath doesn't worship you it's not your psychopath ©

honestly when I was reading this manhwa for the first time and saw dion I was like "damn I want this man on his knees 🤨🤨", so here you are. eat.

"you're a dog, Dion." – not-Roxanne lifts the corners of her lips in a slight smile, while her neat fingers run through his shaggy hair.

"your dog," – Dion adds mentally.

you feel the touch of his dry lips on your bare foot.

sitting like this, kneeling in front of you, seems right – it can't be any other way, and it won't be.

"may I?" – after receiving tacit approval, he leans closer, his hand stroking your bare thigh.

you smell like flowers: maids must have added rose oil to the water, and this smell digs into his lungs, making him roll his eyes in ecstasy.

just from this, from the fact that you are so close, he could just reach his hand out and feel you.

your body is cold – devoid of any human warmth, burning his skin with the cold of it's touch. your eyes look with a non malicious mockery: how a person looks at their beloved pet. with kind condescension.

you lean in, and Dion feels a kiss at the top of his head. scent of roses hits his nose, almost suffocating, and it feels like his mind is about to give up. well, if he dies right here, he won't regret a bit.

crimson flush on his cheeks almost burns his skin.

____*:･ﾟ✧

"hello. my name is ███████. do you mind playing with me, brother?"

he turns around at the girly voice behind him – distracting himself from the dead bird – and he is met by the look of your laughing eyes.

not red ones.

his sister tucks a lock of her hair behind her little ear and sits down next to him, waiting for an answer.

shouldn't she be blonde like Roxanne?

who is Roxanne?

"okay." – Deon catches his sister's smile and for some reason wants to smile too. she talks about a cute teddy bear that her father gave her, about how she likes to drink tea under the summer sun, and that she probably likes him too.

he had once seen in a book: in the old fairy tales that mothers read to their children, it was said that fairies could replace a human child with their own.

none of Agriche's children believed in fairy tales, but it seems appropriate for his "sister" – you, not-Roxanne, must be a fairy. a lovely creature with transparent wings and a honey voice.

he doesn't mind. whatever calls itself his sister, Deon thinks he really, really likes it.

____*:･ﾟ✧

if he's not on a mission, Deon is always by your side.

"what are you doing here? can't you see sister is with me now?" – Jeremy mumbled indignantly, but you only laughed softly, covering your lips with a neat palm.

a beautiful silver ring glitters on the sixth finger of the "sister".

their father also adores you – maybe it's natural for fairies to charm everyone around them – from members of their so-called "family" to the maids and even the hounds of the estate.

maybe he's a hound himself in her eyes. it didn't matter, as long as he could be with his "sister" – or at least with the creature that pretended to be her.

it was undoubtedly a pleasure to belong to you.

Deon drapes a white fur coat over your shoulders: you often went out into the garden in light clothes, as if the winter cold did not bother you at all. your hair falls over the fur collar, and you smile at him, giggling about how quietly he walks, and chirping about something else. you were fond of chatting, and it was often very difficult to stop listening to you. he, however, usually spoke rarely and little, accompanying you, his mistress, like a silent shadow.

you're spending too much time in the company of a Pedelian pup – an unacceptably long time – so that his eye begins to twitch with anger.

isn't he enough? why would you need this toy if he is always at your feet, your faithful dog, a hound, ready to do whatever you want without a trace of doubt and regret?

Dion wished you'd let him kill Cassis.

"may I ask you a question?" – you turn at the sound of his voice. surrounded by a winter garden, you look even more beautiful, pitch black against dead-white snow. perfection.

"of course, ask. what is it?" – "sister" raises an eyebrow a little stiffly, not naturally, just a little bit.

"do you like him more? I dare not doubt you, and you should not doubt my loyalty, but still-" – his scarlet eyes narrow slightly – "but still, do you like him more?"

if you answer yes, he will go and kill the eldest of the Pedelian offspring on the spot. this is Deon's place. and the hell he's going to let someone else take it.

"of course not, silly." – you laughed – "didn't we discuss this earlier? toys are toys, but you were and will remain my favorite."

right. that's how it should be. why did he even doubt it?

"favorite." – mentally repeats after you while your six-fingered palm rests on his head: you had a habit to pet him like a puppy.

"favorite." – gaze of crimson eyes trembles, invariably riveted to you, and Dion struggles with the desire to grab the object of his sick adoration in his arms, hug you, to feel the cold of your inhuman body at least through clothes. your smell is dope, your touch is opium, your eyes are an abyss, mesmerizing with the horror of its cold depths.

but he can't. you didn't allowed it yet.

and he, as befits a well-trained hound, will obediently wait for your permission.

____*:･ﾟ✧

"███████. that's not your real name, is it? what are you?" – Cassis looks at you expectantly.

you tilt your head to the side, picturesquely rounding your eyes and raising your neat eyebrows.

theatrically. not natural.

"what are you talking about? I am me. who else do you think I can be? stop asking stupid questions, darling." – you answer with a mocking smile. like he's saying something ridiculous.

"are you kidding me? you have six fingers! why doesn't anyone else notice this? besides, you look different, not at all like-" – Cassis cuts himself off in mid-sentence.

like who?

"you know, forget it... it's like I haven't been myself lately. you know, with all this kidnapping, and even your brother..." – he shakes his head nervously under your laughing gaze.

something inside told him that if he kept asking questions now, it won't end well. and anyway, why would he do that? after all, it's not polite to interrogate his benefactress.

everything is fine.

"the less you know the better you sleep, my dear. why don't we just proceed as planned? and how many fingers I have is none of your business." – you look appraisingly, as an already well-fed snake looks at a mouse.

eat or not?

"if I were you, I'd be more worried about the success of your future escape, and for that matter, about my dear brother. you see, Dion has been wanting to twist your neck for a long time." – mention of the red-eyed man makes Cassis tense up.

when you see his reaction, you giggle like you just said the funniest joke in the world.

"come on. I was joking. Dion won't hurt you unless I tell him to. he's a good boy."

when he thinks about it, you, the elder Agriche, had a lot in common with the poisonous butterflies you adored so much. in the sense that Cassis often got the impression that you wanted to devour him. at least it wasn't hard to imagine transparent wings behind your back.

____*:･ﾟ✧

gatherings with your father always ended well after midnight – invariably over cigars and wine, in his office full of acrid tobacco smoke.

it was no secret who will become the next head of Agriche: Lante never hid his paradoxical favoritism. with you alone he had the relationship that most closely resembles the relationship of a parent to a child.

"in general, everything is going as it should. don't forget to dress up for the next dinner party: I've already called the designers." – Lante exhaled a cloud of smoke, smiling cheekily: alcohol was doing its job.

"as you wish. Is Dion doing good at his job?" – you answered with a relaxed face: wine, as well as many other "human" things, had no effect on you.

"you ask as if you don't know. you raised him well." – you slightly unnaturally round your eyes in surprise – "only a fool here does not know that the only person to whom my son is truly faithful is you. I don't know how you did it, but these mind games of yours seem to have had the desired effect. of course, you're my daughter! you're more like a dog with a mistress, not a brother and sister."

Lante bursts into a deep laugh, and his "daughter" does not deny herself a satisfied grin.

a dog and his mistress, huh?

heavy doors of the head's office closed behind your fragile – at least visually –figure.

you are greeted by the night chill of the deserted corridor of the estate and your dog waiting in the distance.

"hi, Dion. already returned?" – he just nods silently in response, coming closer to you and offering his hand.

my-my, just came from a mission in the middle of the night and immediately rushed to you. how obedient.

"did you hear it?" – you tilt your head to the side with a sly grin.

"I did. while I was waiting for you." – he doesn't say anything about Lante's comment. doesn't deny it.

indeed, you raised him well. no trace of pride was left.

Dion in your hands – a faithful puppy, readily following any of your instructions. even if you'll send him right to his death, he will return, only bowing his head in anticipation of praise and the touch of your cold hands.

and you, like a good master, praise, and stroke, and kiss. after all, if there is a stick, there must be a carrot.

____*:･ﾟ✧

"here we will part, my dear friend. we have already discussed your plan of action, so I see no point in repeating myself. go to freedom, but quickly: we, you know, deal with riots quickly."

"wait, listen, please. can you at least answer me before I leave? what are you, really? I always have the feeling that you're not who you seem. I mean... no, I like you, I really like you, it's just-" – Cassis cuts himself off, realizing that he blurted out too much.

he's all flushed, confused in words, and you're just looking at him with your unnerving eyes and smiling.

watching. and aren't blinking.

"God, no matter how much years I'm carrying on my shoulders, it's the first time I've met such a curious human." – you purse your scarlet lips, thinking about the answer – "don't worry, "she" is now where she will be better. and as for your question, dear, you can consider that I'm just a bystander. yes, let's think so. so stop talking and run, okay?"

"and you? will you be okay?" – you raised your eyebrow: still unnatural, however, he's already used to it.

exit from the estate is already very close, just a stone's throw away, and Cassis is hesitating. desperately grabbing your wrist, looking with shining yellow eyes into your laughing, soulless ones.

tch.

"what, you want to stay my toy forever? you know, I'm an Agriche too, and I might change my mind about letting you go if you keep looking at me like a beaten puppy." – realizing that your quip was not accepted by the "audience", you rolled your eyes, but then broke into your too perfect smile again.

"don't worry. I can't be killed in a way that matters."– a six-fingered palm rests on the top of his head, and your face stretches into a grin, not human, too wide for a human.

but he's not scared. he wants to watch more – it's impossible to look away, even if his instinct for self-preservation screams that he needs to get out of here as soon as possible.

the abyss, as it turned out, can really look back, and it is beautiful in its terrifying appearance.

is this how Deon feels every time he looks at something that calls itself his sister?

"well, let's never meet again, my friend." – and Cassis leaves, leaves without turning around, because he understands that if he turns around, he will never be able to leave this nightmarish estate. he won't want to.

you hesitate a little, watching him with unblinking eyes, and with a sense of accomplishment you turn back.

your face rests against a man's chest. familiar scent of ash and blood hits your sensitive nose.

"and you're still walking silently." – Dion drapes his coat over your bare shoulders. a gloved hand lingers on your skin a little longer than it should.

"it's cold in the dungeons. you should have dressed warmer." – you laughed a little.

he knows perfectly well that you don't feel the cold, but he does this every time anyway.

"and what, you won't even ask anything? aren't you curious why I let the Pedelian offspring go?" – your six–fingered hand is holding his elbow as you wind through the dark and cold corridors.

"I will not question your methods. but was it wise to talk about your secret, even in this way? doesn't he know too much now?" – it's not difficult to understand what he's hinting at: in his opinion, you should've get rid of Cassis. athough never said out loud, your "brother's" dislike of your toy was ridiculously strong.

ah, men's jealousy!

"let him think what he wants. there are no big conclusions to be drawn from what I said anyway." – you tilt your head to the side, your eyes lazily scan the walls of the dungeon. he just nods and continues to walk beside you in silence.

Dion never asked too much, never doubted any of your actions, never poked his nose where it should not be. you certainly raised him well. no, even exceeded your own expectations.

what a good boy.

mom yelled at me for almost a hour and I wanna curl up and die 🤩

thanks for reading!!

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere dion agriche #dion agriche #dion agriche x reader #sub yandere #the way to protect the female lead's older brother #yandere manhwa x reader #yandere imagines #misha.writes

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deanbrainrotwritings · 7 months

Text

— BEING DEAN’S WIFE

REQUEST : “Hey, can i request a hcs of be Dean Winchester or Jensen ackles wife? and be super sweet and pure girl that is younger than them” — anonymous

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : fluff, angst (if you squeeze your eyes together, til you make a crescent moon shape), a little bit of nsfw at the very end bc it’s hilarious

A/N : uh, yeah, here’s a little gift! I didn’t wanna do university work so i did this instead ☺️ anyway, i think this is just a list of things i love about dean… LMAO XXXX

he will just stare at you for no reason

well, the reason is actually that he thinks your lovely to look at LOL

all those chick flicks he secretly loves to watch? yeah, he’ll recite the romantic stuff because he’s literally down bad for you

… he’s cringing on the inside but also knows he means every word

he’s so pathetic for you and he doesn’t even care

he loves to give you forehead kisses

and he wants them, too, but your lips need to linger a bit, and he’ll close his eyes and just release all the tension in his body because he’s touch starved

he plays with your wedding ring when your hand is right there in his line of sight

he will hold your hand and just stare at the way the ring shines in the sunlight and he will grin like a gigantic dork

ex : if your talking to him or someone else, he’ll just take your hand and gently run his fingers over the ring

he likes when you hold his head against your stomach

when he’s sitting and you’re standing and you move between his legs just to hold his adorable little face close to you, HE LOVES THAT

you’ll let him talk for hours about things he likes, things he wants to share with you

and when you admit you have no idea what he’s talking about when he makes references to old pop culture stuff, he’ll show you everything

.. if all that stuff he references was associated with something else, now it’s all associated with you and him

it’s like THERAPY, to redo stuff with you, to make it his again, and yours

teaching him how to use technology because he’s an old man (affectionate), and he learns fast bc he’s SMART

LOL, witnessing firsthand how genius and resourceful dean is when something breaks [yeah, I can’t stop thinking about him making his own EMF and Sammy being a complete NIPPLEHEAD (affectionate) about it ! as a STEM girly that was so sexy of dean]

HELLO HE SINGS, TO YOU. HE WILL SING YOU ALL THE LOVE SONGS OMG

or he’ll just sing randomly and not even notice that you’re listening to him

silence, comfortable silence, not sad, just.. peaceful

he likes not having to say anything sometimes, just being there with you

he plays with your hair A LOT, he’ll take strands and just feel the texture of it between his fingertips, he’ll even try to do your hair if you let him, if it’s long enough

CUDDLES, he needs that, too.

but he’d rather be on top when you cuddle, with his cute face on your chest, listening to your heartbeat, to your breathing, falling asleep if you run your fingers gently along his back or if you play with his hair

Dean starts mumbling a lot against your chest or shoulder when you’re just relaxing and having lazy conversation as you cuddle

how about KISSING HIS LITTLE DIMPLES??? idk about you but I just wanna kiss his little dimples when he does that specific SMILE or POUT, ya know what I mean! •ᴗ•?? or •~• ???

he flirts with you because you blush so easily

he gets flustered when you flirt back, BC HE’S NOT USED TO IT

he looks like a strawberry, just eatable, with the tips of his ears all red, then the pinkish hue pouring across his freckled cheeks and down his neck in cute little splotches 😭 ALRIGHT YEAH I THINK ABOUT THIS OFTEN

teasing him ABOUT EVERYTHING because that’s hilarious, and he’s indignant but also knows you’re so right and he’ll roll his eyes at you and pretend he’s mad

he can never be mad at you, only playfully!

UHHH ! KISSING THE LITTLE WRINKLES AT THE CORNER OF HIS PRETTY EYES !!!

squeezing him very tightly when you hug and just holding him until he’s practically putting all his weight over you like a willow tree

he’ll bother you on purpose, especially if you’re serious

ex : he takes strands of your hair and will put it in your ear LMAOO or tickle your face with it bc he’s never gonna let a single moment be boring

he grins like the cutest idiot in the world and you can’t be mad at him because he looks LIKE THAT, like the cutest idiot in the whole universe

wearing his clothes and pretending to be him, he thinks it’s cute and funny

he’ll hold your face a lot

and kiss you all over bc you’re cute and pure and deserve all the affection he can offer

and his hands are big and calloused, but he’s so tender and gentle, and warm

hugs from behind

smashing your face into his back and taking in the smell of his body (Mrs Butters lied, Dean smells good)

he’ll love the smell of your hair when he nuzzles into your neck, or the smell of your skin, or the softness of it

going on cute dates, like picnics, watching movies, going to the cinema, going to comic book stores

watching Disney movies together and he can recite the Dory movie by heart because HE LOVES THAT FISH FR

he’ll make you playlists of songs that remind him of you

He takes lots of photos, Polaroids are his favourite because he gets to put them anywhere and everywhere so he can smile and see you if you’re ever busy

you’ll always dress up on Halloween or just for fun whenever he wants

✨healing his inner child✨

grocery shopping together, he pouts when you don’t let him be unhealthy

if you’re short, he’s making fun of you for being shorter than him when he has to reach for stuff on shelves that you can’t reach even on your toes

he teaches you how to cook if you don’t know how to

and you eat the crazy food combinations he comes up with, like those marshmallow mac and cheese he said he made for Sam when they were kids , I NEED TO KNOW WHAT THAT TASTES LIKE

he teaches you how to fix cars! he’ll stare at you when you’re being silly ANYWAY PLS TEACH ME DEAN PLS

HAHAHAHAH but like hahahahah as in, 👀 the cute little names he calls you, and you thought they were cringe when couples said them to each other but actually when HE says it to YOU it makes you swoon and you blush, but you pretend you hate it at first because you’re not used to it but he can see through you, you love it

(I’m convinced that if he calls me darlin’, I will die on the spot, or my illnesses will be cured idk idk, I just know something spontaneous or magical will happen)

sharing everything, as in food

he’ll eat your leftovers, if there are any

or if he likes your stuff better than what he’s got, he’ll eat it when he think you’re not looking, but you are definitely aware, you’re just pretending because he’s so cute

trying all the Starbucks drinks together

having to deal with his grumpiness in the morning

even better, you’re not a morning person either so you’re both grumpy

he’s so cute when he’s had his first cup of coffee in the morning :’)

when you shower together, you both play with the shampoo on you heads LMAO

he gives really good massages, like MIND-BLOWINGLY GOOD, I know them hands are magical

BUYING EACH OTHER JEWELLERY, he’s too pretty to not wear jewellery

kissing his freckles BC HES CUTE AND he blushes

kissing his scars (flashback of emo memes) NO, not saying anything about them, just gently pressing your lips on his sensitive skin so he’s not insecure about all of them

reading all sorts of magazines together BC THERES NO TOXIC MASCULINITY IN MY HOUSEHOLD AND MY BOY IS ALLOWED TO DO WHAT HE WANTS YA DUMB— right, anyway

he throws you over his shoulder and then walks around to bother you

butt smacking, that’s it, imagine the possibilities

pretending he’s picking you up at bars (like Claire and Phil from Modern Family 😭)

he’ll throw out his best pick up lines and you have to hold in your laughter at the faces he makes ALSO it works bc that’s your husband

being the best husband when you’re sick

making the yummiest foods and making sure your taking natural vitamins along with medicine

hanging out with you the whole time, not caring that you’re sick even though he’s kind of a germaphobe

whining a lot when he’s sick, but he’s partially just messing with you bc he wasn’t allowed to whine about anything as a kid (I’m right behind you, John)

he’s holding your boobs for comfort LMAO

I feel like he likes to bite, so he bites you a lot for no reason, and then goes about his day

pretending to have accents

more importantly, Dean knows how to speak Spanish, supernatural lied (all that porn and all those novelas and nothing stuck? nah, he’s very good at Spanish)

so he’ll try to seduce you with his Spanish speaking skills (and if you’re Latina/hispanic like me, you think it’s so sexy or it’s just plain cute, idk yet)

playing video games together and being very competitive

he’s very clean and very neat so you never have to tell him to clean up after himself !

he’s very protective of you, but never oversteps bc he knows you can handle yourself

he likes introducing you as his wife

it’s probably not even necessary but he’ll say it very loud and with a gigantic smile and he’ll embarrass you but it’s okay bc it’s Dean

he lies and says he’s your sugar daddy when people comment about the age gap

dude, dude, he’ll tease you a lot like… 🤣 he’ll copy your moans, or repeat stuff you said to him during sex. he’ll tell you very descriptively about how it all went down and the faces you made and the sounds you made.. you know, like in rock and a hard place [09.08]

especially if you’re shy

you wanna strangle him, but you don’t bc he’s the love of your life !

did I do this right? :( doesn’t matter, add some headcannons in the tags or comments 😭 i love husband!dean

taglist

@rominaszh @lanassmarty @murdockscumsock @zepskies @candy-coated-misery0731 @lyarr24 @spnfamily-j2 @globetrotter28

main masterlist

dean winchester masterlist

do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or republish my work on another platform

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x female!reader #1.4

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sapphire-writes · 10 months

Text

Just Friends ~ modern!Aemond x Reader

summary: You and Aemond are just friends.....right?

word count: 3.6k

note: a request for some friends to lovers 🩷

rating: Explicit (see more descriptive warnings under the cut)

warnings: fingering, titty sucking, slight praise, semi-public, language, alcohol use

A group project with Sara, Jace, and Aliandra was perfect. All three of you had chosen History of the First Men as an elective this term for that very reason. Professor Karstark was known for his heinous group project that ran the entire semester. The four of you were great friends already, so when Professor Karstark announced you’d be picking your own groups, your heart leaped with joy.

Until he mentioned needing groups of five.

You had no choice but to add another person to your tight-knit group. Luckily, Jace’s cousin was also in the class. You’d seen him around campus before, but Aemond Targaryen often kept to himself. When he wasn’t studying in the library he could be found keeping his frat boy elder brother out of trouble.

The Targaryens shared a house on King’s Ave; a notorious strip of off-campus housing for those attending Westeros University. All four siblings attended currently, Daeron just starting his freshman year. You’d thought it was cute that they all lived together, and you’d told Aemond as much upon first meeting him.

After spending time together on the project, you and Aemond became fast friends. He now knew your coffee order by heart, often bringing you a steaming cup before class. You’d camp out with him in the library, show him new music, order your favorite takeaway and binge shows together. And when you couldn’t do that together, you’d be texting about it, like you were right now.

You giggle at your phone, and Ali lifts her head from her computer screen.

You’d been in Jace’s apartment, waiting for him to return with coffee for your group to continue working on the project.

“Texting loverboy?” she teases, pulling her dark curls into a messy bun on top of her head.

Sara walks into the room at that moment, a bowl of popcorn in her hands, her lips parting in shock.

“What did I miss?” she cries, hurrying forward.

You place your phone down, rolling your eyes.

“Nothing! He’s just funny, that’s all,” you tell them, trying to ignore the blush you know is blooming on your cheeks. Maybe if you concentrate hard enough, it’ll go away.

“Nothing my ass,” Sara says with a smirk, “That boy is sooo into you.”

“Will you stop it,” you tell her, “We’re just friends.”

“Friends don’t look at friends the way Aemond looks at you,” Ali argues, as the door to the apartment opens.

You shush your two friends as Jace walks in, his younger brother Luke trailing behind him. Jace holds a tray of iced coffees in his hand, causing Sara to squeal and press a kiss to his cheek before taking one.

“Sorry I’m late, had to pick Luke up from practice,” Jace says, throwing his bag down on the floor.

“Sup ladies,” Luke says with a grin.

“You smell like a wet dog,” Sara accuses, wrinkling her nose.

“Lacrosse season, baby!” Luke says, holding his arms wide. You and Ali pretend to gag and he lowers them.

“You guys are mean,” he pouts, heading towards the bathroom.

“Did you pick Aemond up too?” you ask, curious where the silver-haired boy is. Ali mouths the word subtle to you and you stick your tongue out.

“Don’t think he’s coming,” Luke calls from the bathroom, “Looked pretty busy on his date!”

It’s like someone slapped you. Ali meets your eyes, her own wide with shock.

“Date?” you ask, mouth suddenly very dry.

“We don’t know-” Jace begins, but Luke cuts him off, running shirtless out of the bathroom.

“He was at Stormy’s,” Luke begins, referring to the local coffee shop, “In a corner booth. You don’t sit with just anyone in a corner booth.”

“Okay Mr. Never-Had-A-Girlfriend,” Jace scoffs, sitting on the couch.

“I know what’s up!” Luke insists, though the tips of his ears turn red, “You sit in the back corner, that way if you want to put your hand-”

“Ew ew ew!” Sara says, covering her ears as she sits next to Jace, “Future brother-in-law, I’m begging you to shut up!”

“I know what’s up!” Luke insists, again, “I do!”

“Go shower!” Jace tells him, tossing a pillow at him. Luke mumbles something under his breath before heading back down the hall toward the bathroom.

“Who was he with?” Ali asks, sparing you the embarrassment of asking. Jace is clueless about your innocent little crush.

“Maris Baratheon,” Jace tells you all.

Shit. Maris Baratheon makes total sense. Another girl in your year who takes her studies very seriously, much like Aemond. It doesn’t ease your nerves knowing she’s stunning as well. Long dark curls, and sapphire blue eyes. It would only make sense that they get together.

“There’s a party at the soccer house tomorrow night,” Jace says, suddenly changing the subject, “I think we should go.”

“I’m in,” you answer, causing Ali and Sara to exchange a look.

“Jacey boy!” Aegon says, throwing an arm around his nephew, “So glad you could make it.”

Jace pulls Aegon’s arm off of him as you enter the soccer house. The music is blasting through the speakers, some trashy remix of No Hands. Aegon hands you a cup which Sara snatches from your hands immediately.

“First rule of uni, don’t accept a drink from Egg,” Sara says with a sneer. Aegon presses a hand to his chest pretending to be shocked.

“You’ve got me all wrong, love,” he teases, taking the cup back and taking a sip, “See? All clear.”

Sara takes it back, eying it suspiciously before taking a sip. You laugh and Aegon turns to you, a small smile on his face.

“My brother’s been waiting for you,” he tells you, fixing the backward baseball cap that rests on his head.

Your stomach flip-flops, though you try to ignore it. Aegon hands you another drink, which you sip gratefully.

“Oh yeah?” you ask nonchalantly, and Aegon nods.

“Haven’t seen you at the house in a while,” he says, as someone increases the volume of the music.

“What?” you call but Aegon waves you off, before disappearing into the crowd.

You take another sip from your drink, as Ali pulls you toward the center of the dancefloor. You don’t see Aemond, though Aegon said he must be here. You decide to spend some time dancing, trying to calm your nerves. You shouldn’t be feeling this way anyhow. Aemond is your friend.

Just friends.

You spot him across the room after a few songs play. He’s leaning against the doorframe talking to Cregan Stark. You can’t help the butterflies that fill your belly as he raises his eyes to meet yours. A soft smile appears on his handsome face at the sight of you, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up with attention. He looks good, though it's hard not to with that bone structure of his. Those pouty lips.

“I’m going to go say hi!” you tell Ali, nodding towards Aemond.

She gives you a look of warning.

“You sure?” she asks and you nod, “Okay girl, I’ll be here!”

You move through the crowd of people making your way toward him. You smile politely at Cregan before hugging Aemond.

“Hey Aem,�� you say, the scent of his cologne making you dizzy as you press your face against his firm chest.

“Hey,” he answers, the vibrations from his chest making you close your eyes.

You wish you could just curl up with him here, leave the party and watch one of your shows together. You open your eyes. Can’t think like that, not if he’s seeing Maris.

You pull away from him a little too quickly, the beer in your cup sloshing out the sides and onto your hand. You force a smile on your face.

“Where’s Maris?” you ask, making a point to look around.

“What?” Aemond asks with a chuckle.

“Maris! Your date!” you yell over the music.

Aemond pouts, tilting his head to the side, confused at what you’ve just said.

“Maris is my mate!” Aemond calls over the pounding sound of the bass.

You can barely hear him above the loud house music, the floor vibrates with how loud it is. The liquid in the red solo cup you hold wobblies, waves rippling across the surface. It’s so loud, you confuse about what Aemond has said, though you’re watching his lips carefully.

“Maris is great!” is what you hear, causing your heart to drop slightly.

You force a smile on your face, nodding at him.

“I’m really happy for you two!” you yell back, taking a sip from the warming beer. Aemond’s eyebrows concave together in confusion and he shakes his head.

“Did you hear me?” he loudly asks, but of course, you can’t.

“What?” you yell, and Aemond sighs in frustration.

Suddenly, he wraps his fingers around your wrist, gently directing you down the hallway. You let him guide you, careful not to spill your drink as you trail behind him. You catch Sara’s eye from across the room and she purses her lips at you. Whenever she does that you can’t help but think of Florence Pugh.

He checks several doors until one to the bathroom opens, and pulls you inside with him. You enter the small space as he closes the door behind him. The music is muffled, making your ears ring as they adjust to the lower levels of sound.

Aemond stands in front of the door momentarily, before moving further into the bathroom, as though not to make you uncomfortable by blocking it with his tall frame. You lean against the sink as he places one hand on his hip, dragging the other through his pale hair.

“Why d’you think me and Maris are a thing?” he asks, faces scrunched in confusion.

You can feel your heart beating frantically in your chest, and you try to ignore the nausea that churns in your stomach, the sour taste that fills your mouth at the thought of their date.

“Um, Luke told me?” you tell him, as though it should be obvious, “Sorry if he put his foot in his mouth, but you were out in public! If you were trying to keep it on the low, you should’ve gone somewhere private.”

The corner of Aemond’s mouth ticks upwards into a slight smirk.

“On the low?” he asks, standing up a little straighter.

You place your cup on the edge of the sink.

“Well, it sounds like you were surprised I knew,” you tell him, feeling your face flush. You hope Aemond can’t tell, and if he can, that he simply thinks it's because of your drinking, not the feelings you’re holding back.

His eyes, blue and violet, roam your face, ceaselessly searching for any hint of jealousy or distaste. He’s been your friend for a while now, he can tell when you’re holding something in.

“Maris and I are just mates,” he tells you so you can hear him this time, “She’s been thinking of studying in Oldtown next term. She wanted some advice.”

Your lips part, shocked at what he’s saying before you feel the fire return to your cheeks with a vengeance. Fucking Luke, starting drama for no reason.

“Oh,” you say softly, curling your fingers against the lip of the counter, “Oh that makes sense.”

“Yeah, it does,” Aemond says, with a chuckle. He clears his throat suddenly, averting his eyes, “I um..sort of have a thing for someone else anyway.”

“Oh,” you repeat, “That’s cool.”

“But I’m kind of…nervous,” he admits, meeting your eyes once more, “I don’t want to ruin the friendship we have. But I can’t really ignore how I feel.”

You hold his gaze. He can’t be talking about you. Can he?

“What should I do?” Aemond asks, “What do you think?”

“I think…well..” you nervously wet your lips, “I think….you should tell her.”

Aemond takes a step closer, placing one hand on the sink next to yours. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, his tall frame leaning towards you.

“Yeah?” he says in a gruff voice, “You really think so?”

You nod, and he brings his opposite hand to rest on the counter on the other side of you, caging you against it with his lean form. He’s so close you can almost feel his body pressing against you. You can smell his cologne, as he leans his face closer to your height.

“I think you might be pleasantly surprised,” you tell him.

Aemond’s eyes widen slightly before they fall to your lips. Pushing up onto your tiptoes, you bring your lips to his, kissing him gently. You pull away for a moment, gauging his reaction, but Aemond chases your lips with his own, capturing them in another kiss. His hands slide along the counter, finding purchase on your hips. He lets them rest there a moment, squeezing your hip bones before lifting underneath your ass to place you on the counter.

You wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss with a slight turn of your head as Aemond strokes the sides of your thighs. You can feel your arousal pooling in your underwear, and you clench your thighs together to no avail.

Aemond’s hands caress the skin of your hips that was exposed as your tank top rides up. His hands dance to your belt and you drop your hands to begin unbuckling it. Aemond’s eyes drop to your quickly working hands.

“Holy fuck… can I?” Aemond says between a kiss, “Can I touch you, please?”

“Yes, please, fuck,” you nearly beg while unbuttoning your jeans, “Please touch me Aemond.”

You slide the zipper down and feel Aemond’s hands on yours, hastily moving them out of the way. You wrap them around his neck as his slender fingers dip below the hem of the lacey thong you’d decided to wear. Sara has a very strict policy on party panties and demanded you wear your sexiest set.

“Just in case,” she’d told you with a wink.

You could kiss her, with the expression on Aemond’s face as he looks between your legs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whimpers, the pads of his fingers rubbing circles around your clit.

You bite your lip, holding back a whimper of your own as he dips his fingers lower, gathering your arousal on his fingertips before going back to circling your clit.

“Fuck-” you cry out as he lowers his palm, slipping a finger inside your clenching hole. Aemond swallows your cry with a kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth.

He experimentally curls the long digit against your walls, preening with the sounds this elicits from you, and the way you claw at the back of his neck. His cock is straining against the confines of his jeans, but he can’t find it in him to care at the moment; completely focused on your pleasure.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmurs against your lips, kissing you hungrily.

“Me too,” you whine, sucking on his lower lip.

Aemond pulls away slightly, a half smile decorating his face.

“How long?” he asks, a second finger teasing at your entrance ready to join the first. You buck your hips, desperate for him to fill you up.

“Since game night at Baela’s,” you gasp, as he sinks the second digit into your tight, wet heat.

“I remember. You’re such a sore loser,” Aemond teases, curling his fingers against the rough patch of your walls that has you seeing stars.

Your head lolls, tapping against the mirror before Aemond brings his free hand to rest on the back of your neck, propping your head up.

“I’ve liked you, ever since you met Vhagar,” he tells you, letting his hand trail from the back of your neck to your shoulder.

Warmth floods your chest at the memory. It was one of the first times you’d hung out with Aemond actually. You’d come to the house after class and met the grumpy old tabby cat. Aemond had been thoroughly impressed at how you were able to coax her from her hiding place under the sofa.

She’d only hissed at you once, before sniffing the tips of your fingers and rubbing her head against them.

Aemond brings his thumb to rest on your clit, circling the button in tandem with the thrusts of his fingers, tearing you from the memory and bringing you back to the present. The added clit stimulation has you clenching around his fingers, the small bathroom filling with the squelching sounds of your soaked pussy.

Your lower abdomen tenses, and you can feel the precipice of your orgasm creeping up on you, tingling up your spine.

“God you’re so tight,” Aemond moans, and you grab the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging harshly.

A whine leaves his lips as you do so, and you bring your lips to kiss his neck, sucking a purple lovebite onto the pale flesh. Aemond’s breathing is ragged as you do so, his fingers tugging at the spaghetti straps of your top, pulling it down to reveal your matching lace bralette. Aemond quickly works the front clip, letting your breasts spill free. Your nipples harden in the cool air.

He eyes them hungrily, as you pull away from kissing his neck, connecting your lips once more. Aemond’s hand moves to the side of your left breast, massaging the soft mound, just as someone knocks on the bathroom door. Aemond breaks away from your lips.

“Just a second!” Aemond yells, before latching his mouth to your tender nipple and suckling harshly.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him against you as he swirls his hot tongue around the sensitive nub. Legs locked around his slender waist, you pull him closer to you, arching your back to press yourself harder against his mouth, against his fingers.

“Aemond?” Aegon’s voice calls from outside the bathroom. The door handle jiggles. “You bastard open up!”

Aemond releases your breast with a wet pop, dragging his lips up toward your neck to kiss the sensitive spot beneath your ear. His fingers never stop curling into you, the pads of his fingers dragging against your sweet spot while his thumb plays with your clit. He drags his teeth along your earlobe, biting down as Aegon knocks again.

“I have to piss!” Aegon yells, banging on the door causing it to shake on its hinges.

“He said just a second!” you snap, voice several pitches higher than normal as Aemond tugs harshly your slippery, wet nipple.

“The fuck?” Aegon’s angry tone turns to one of confusion, “Yo is that Y/N?”

Aemond’s fingers slow as he pulls away from your neck, his hand still gripping your breast. The actions cause your imminent orgasm to begin to fizzle out and you whine in annoyance. You were so close.

Aemond’s eyes meet yours, pupils dilated as yours must be. His jaw is slack, face flushed as Aegon laughs from outside the bathroom.

“I didn’t know you had it in you!” Aegon calls, “That’s my bro, finally getting the girl! Sara is going to lose her shit when she knows I found out first!”

You stifle a laugh, bringing your hand to cover your mouth at Aegon’s words. Aemond’s cheeks are red as he smiles bashfully, as though he’s not knuckle-deep in your pussy at the moment.

“Have fun you lovebirds, I’ll piss outside,” Aegon calls, giving a final rapid fire of knocking before presumably leaving the door.

“Do you think he’s really gone?” you ask through a giggle.

“Honestly, I don’t even care,” Aemond says, kissing you once more and resuming the movement of his fingers thrusting and curling in and out.

“Fuckfuckfuck!” you cry, as Aemond works you towards orgasm once more. Your legs shake around him and he brings his mouth to your opposite breast, lavishing it with the same attention he did the other.

“Take my fingers so fucking well,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your breast, “Bet you’ll take my cock perfectly.”

“Yes-fuck yes!” you cry, nails digging into his shoulder blades through the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

You can feel how hard he is, how big his cock is concealed under his jeans. Your mouth waters at the thought of it replacing his fingers, pussy tightly clenching around him. Aemond feels you tighten, a smug smile creeping onto his face.

“You like that idea? Want me to fill you with my cock?” he asks.

“Yes, please,” you whine, looking up at him through your lashes, “Please I need it so bad.”

“You’ll get it, pretty girl,” he promises, “Come for me, darling, that’s it.”

“Oh oh- oh!”

With a strangled cry your orgasm crashes over you as you clench around his fingers. A rush of arousal drips down his fingers and between your thighs as he fucks you through it, prolonging your pleasure. As you come down from your high, Aemond’s mouth is on yours in another passionate kiss. You moan into his mouth, whimpering at the overstimulation.

Your hands drop to his belt and he chuckles, placing kisses down your neck.

“Can we go back to mine?” he asks, as you attempt to do the first loop. You pause looking up at him.

“I’d love to,” you tell him, as he kisses you again.

You spend the next several minutes reclipping your bra and fixing yourselves before opening the door. Aegon nearly falls on top of you both as he tries to pretend he wasn’t listening. Aemond smacks him on the shoulder as he tries to run away.

“Couldn’t hear anything over this fucking music!” Aegon calls, as he smiles cheekily and disappears down the hall.

Covering your face with embarrassment, Aemond loops his arm around you, placing a kiss on top of your head and leading you out of the party.

note: hope you liked it!!

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lovewheeler · 2 years

Note

brothers best friend mike who watches you from the window in the kitchen as you sunbathe <333 your brothers in the living room playing video games n mike made n exuse to get some water but rlly its just so he can stare at you and grind his dick against the cabinet in front of him like a perv <3333

a/n: bro do you want me to DIEEEE oh my god,,,for reference reader's brother is not one of the canon boys bc i am BROWN hello. also mike is AGED UP!!! HE IS 19!!!!

content warnings: honetly pretty tame but like mike is a perv so ,,, also reader is teasing him bc she knows n she thinks it's funny <3, brat!reader...thats it i think. mike's a fucking nerd. this got so long sorry. pt 2 perhaps? also I didn’t beta this I die like men. also pov switches around a lot sorry

“He’s in the living room, you know.” There’s a lilt in your tone when you walk into the kitchen, passing Mike where he stands at the fridge. You notice his hand freeze mid wrapping around a soda can and your lip curls up at the corner.

“Uh, yeah, i’m just – you know, soda,” He grabs it quickly, showing it to you as if you needed proof, “See?”

“Mm, yeah, Mikey, I’m not blind–” You smile, manicured fingers reaching for the soda to snatch it from him and giggling when he frowns, “You staying for dinner tonight?”

The brunette nods quickly, swallowing, “Yeah – the guys are, too –” God forbid you think he was staying so he could look at you more (he was), “We — we want to finish our campaign. You can come, if you want–”

“Maybe next time? M’trying to tan today–” You cut him off, already moving towards the back door; you watch his eyes scan down your body when he thinks you’re not looking, fighting the smirk that pulls at your lips. You can sense his nerves, see how his hands shake, and it makes you excited. Hungry, almost.

You sway your hips while you walk out the door, tiny shorts that you’d picked for this exact situation hugging your ass just right, tits bouncing when you put a bit of pep in your walk; it’s very obvious what you’re doing, even to someone as stupidly oblivious as Mike Wheeler.

The second you disappear behind the screen door Mike’s letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, gripping the counter with white knuckles and practically collapsing against it.

Why did you keep doing this to him?

He was so sick of it, so fucking sick – every day since summer started you’d go out to tan by your pool in the tiniest bikini (how many of those could you even own, by the way?) and the most sinful shorts, thighs squeezing out around the bottom and tits practically spilling from your top.

And then you do this stupid fucking thing – you’re doing it now, actually, he realizes it when he looks through the big window above the sink – where you shimmy out of your shorts only to reveal probably the most revealing piece of cloth he’s ever seen in his life. And you know he’s watching, and he knows that you know, because you always bend over to fish the shorts off the ground when they pool around your ankles, always in front of the window. Every. Fucking. Time.

Your brother would fucking kill him if he knew that Mike was eyeing his sister like a goddamn perv, watching her tan by the pool and popping a fucking boner while he’s at it.

Can’t you see he’s trying to be a good friend here?

Of course you can – you’re just a fucking minx who thinks it’s fun to tease him. He notices, he’s not stupid; he sees how you arch your back up from the chair as if you’re stretching, how you make sure he’s in view of the window while you lather sunscreen on your thighs. He wants to bash his head against the marble countertop.

Mike’s only brought out of his own thoughts when he realizes you’re looking at him – really looking at him, not coy glances like you usually do when you’re out there. This one’s bolder. More loaded.

His breath hitches in his throat when he sees you bring a pretty hand up to wiggle your ringed fingers at him in a cute little wave. There’s a smirk on your face. He leans forward, feeling his cock brush the counter and almost gasping. It felt good.

You think it’s cute how stupid he must think you are. Or maybe he doesn’t and he gets off on being known. Whatever it is, it makes you feel hot all over, like you’re doing something bad. You’re just glad he’s finally caught on to years of pining.

You’ve often wondered how bold you could get before he finally decided to fucking do something; he was driving you crazy, always trying to act so self righteous as if your brother wouldn’t fuck Nancy giving the chance. You were a spoiled brat, Mike knew that, he indulged you in it in every other way – so why not this one?

Your eyes survey the area around you, flicking around behind dark pink shades to make sure no one else but your intended audience is seeing. Once you’re satisfied you let out a little sigh, wiggling your painted toes and stretching out your arms, making a show of it all as your hands snake up to tug at your bikini top. It falls into your lap and you smile, not at him but for him.

Mike can’t believe what he’s seeing, and he thinks he should definitely feel embarrassed about how shamelessly he’s grinding into his own hand right now. He does, but the bliss he feels while looking at your tits outweighs it. He wants to bite them. His mind is swirling and he feels dizzy but he’s chasing something, all to fantasies about those tits spilling between his fingers while he fucks into you.

And then you stretch again, arms up to the sky, before you turn around and lay yourself down on your tummy – right at the time Mike feels his boxers get sticky. He groans inwardly, collapsing against the counter again with a heaving chest. He just came in his pants to the sight of his best friend’s little sister’s tits. That was fucking humiliating.

He doesn’t even have time to consider what the fuck just happened because your brother’s hand is coming up to clap against his back, making him jump and let out a yell.

“Dude, you good? Look like you just ran a marathon or some shit – hurry up, will you? We’re starting a new game.”

“U-uh yeah, I’ll be right there, I just gotta–”

“I’m making him help me with my homework. He said he took my bio class before and can help me with it – right, Mikey?” His blood runs cold and his face gets hot when he hears your voice, devastatingly sweet. How the hell did you get in here so fast? He tries not to frown when he notices you’re clothed again.

He only nods, unable to get anything out other than a stammering confirmation. How cute.

Your brother only groans and tells you guys to hurry up but doesn’t think anything of it – why would he? Mike had known you since you guys were in diapers – he was harmless. Supposedly. He turns to walk back to the living room and Mike sighs, all the tension visibly leaving his body.

Only to come back again when you saunter next to him, leaning over him to grab something from the sink and letting your tits squish into his back in the process. He feels light headed.

“I’ll be waiting for you – don’t clean up, by the way. Kay?”

He gasps and you can only giggle, suddenly pulling off of him and turning so you can skip off to your room. You knew.

“Thanks, Mikey!” You call behind you, and he watches your hips sway while you go. He realizes you had only been out there for five minutes max, not a shade darker. You’d planned this.

Little shit.

#mike wheeler smut #mike wheeler imagine #mike wheeler x reader #stranger things smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #bbf.

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touyasdoll · 1 year

Text

Just How He Likes It

pairing: Shouta Aizawa x exotic dancer!reader (fem)

word count: 1.3k

warnings: coffee shop acquaintances to lovers. he’s comes off a little stalkery at first, but nothing too intense. he’s just very into you and also very unsure how to pursue that. takes place in a strip club. soft/intimate sex. handholding <3

Aizawa doesn’t normally do this.

He doesn’t typically frequent establishments of this sort. The kind that are full of dim lighting and dollar bills. It’s not that he holds anything against these types of places; it just isn’t usually his scene.

He’s not even really sure what he’s doing here. He’s out of his element, but he couldn’t resist the temptation when he heard that the cute waitress who knows just how he likes his coffee moonlighted as an exotic dancer.

He tried for some time; he really did. How could he possibly stay away forever though? With the knowledge that he might finally get a peek at what you’ve been hiding beneath that coffee stained apron all this time? He couldn’t.

Now he’s here, waiting in the corner. His ever tired eyes glued to the stage, anxiously awaiting a glimpse of you. He’s not even sure that you’re working tonight, but he’s willing to stay and find out. He’s willing to come back tomorrow night and the next night after. And so on and so forth. He just needs to see you.

But then once he does, once he sees you strut out on stage, all he can think about is how he wants to touch you.

His gaze ravages your form as you begin to move, sensually swaying and spinning around the cold steel pole. He’s so much warmer. He could give you so much more than the men hollering for your attention. He could give you everything that you deserve and so, so much more.

He tunes the men out, focusing on the way your body expertly moves to the music, though his ears do perk up when the DJ refers to you as “Kitten”.

An amused smile graces his lips as he leans back in his chair, finally feeling a bit more comfortable in your presence.

That is, until you notice him.

You lock eyes with the man you’ve seen every morning for the past who knows how many months and for a second, you forget to breathe, but that’s nothing new. Every time he shuffles into your store, the same phenomenon occurs.

You forget to breathe and then you keep doing your job. This time is no different.

You keep your nerves in check, on the outside, at least. All that you can think of is a litany of questions.

How did he know? Did he seek you out? Is this simply happenstance? Is he going to treat you differently now that he’s seen you like this? Can you really take your top off on front of him?

It’s not like you have much of a choice. Off it comes and the way that you notice his eyes widen is worth the perfect reward for the risk.

You know that look. You’ve seen it hundreds, if not thousands, of times by now. He’s interested. You have him hook, line, and sinker.

So when your set is done, you depart the stage, feeling his gaze burning on your skin and loving every second of it. You can’t wait for more, so you make quick work of stowing away your earnings and putting yourself back together, so that you can make your way onto the floor.

He’s right where you left him, his eyes anywhere but on the dancer who’d since taken the stage. You’re hopeful that he’s looking for you and, of course, he is.

His stare meets yours and you gravitate to him, pulled in by some magnetic force that has your heels clicking in his direction, slow, sensual, and steady.

“I don’t recall seeing ‘Kitten’ on your nametag,” he murmurs, a lazy and effortlessly confident grin tugging on the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t recall ever seeing you here before,” you reply as you circle behind him, dragging your fingertips along his shoulders. “I’m not quite sure how to serve you here.”

He feels more muscular than he looks beneath his baggy clothes. You can’t help but wonder what else he’s hiding behind his aloof persona.

“But if I had to guess..” you continue, coming around to stand in front of him and straddle his lap. “I assume that you prefer it extra hot?”

It’s his turn to be rendered breathless. The subtle shift in his hips and the bulge growing beneath you is all the affirmation you need.

You smile and lean in, arms draping around his neck as your lips ghost the shell of his ear and you whisper,

“Why don’t you come with me?”

And you’re so grateful that he does.

Sweat rolls down your torso as your bodies glide and grind against one another, moans and groans being traded back and forth in the low light of the VIP room.

Your spine presses against the slick leather sofa beneath you, sticking to it when the thrust of his hips coaxes your body to bow and bend to his will.

He slips a sure hand beneath your back, leaving one last trail of kisses along your neck before he readjusts. He kneels, seizing your hips with both hands as he changes tempo, driving into you with more purpose.

The hair that’s come loose from his messy bun frames his face. The soft glow of the light illuminates his toned body in an enteral manner. His eyes are dark and full of lust, fixed squarely on your lewd expression. You’ve never seen him so feral and you’ve never been fucked this well.

He drives his hips into yours like he’s got something to prove. Like he’s finally releasing all the pent up energy from your daily exchanges. The subtle flirtations. The lingering touches when you personally hand him his drink. The stolen glances from across the shop. It’s all finally coming to a head and it feels glorious.

You want to tell him how good it feels. How good he’s making you feel, but you can’t find them. All you can do is reach for him, sinful noises pouring from your lips.

He takes your hand, interlocking his fingers with your own as he press it back into the sofa, squeezing it tight while his lips crash into yours. He readily swallow every decibel of desire vibrating against his mouth, swipes his tongue against your bottom lip and bites down, nipping at your kiss bitten pout as a particularly erotic groan is ripped from his lungs.

His hips move faster, angling up in just the right way to set you on a crash course straight into oblivion. That all encompassing feeling lights up every nerve in your body, winding you up and up and up until you hit your peak and crest over it beautifully.

His names tumbles from your tongue over and over as you mindlessly writhe and whimper beneath him, inspiring him to join you in nirvana. Seeing you like this is more than enough to do him in. He’s never felt pleasure quite like the jolt that runs through him when he finally spills his seed.

His hips briefly stutter and then fall right back in time, rolling as he rides out his high, all breathless grunts and softer whines than he’s seem capable of on the surface.

The silence that hangs in the air isn’t like any that you’ve felt before. It’s not awkward nor full of regret. It feels.. warm. Comfortable. Made easier by the way his thumb brushes against yours and how the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck.

Laying there in afterglow, all tangled up with one another as comfortably as lovers who’d had the privilege of spending a lifetime together already; it just feels right.

#aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #shota aizawa x reader #aizawa smut #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bnha smut #mha smut #aizawa x reader smut

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shieldofiron · 18 days

Text

Pretty Boy Live in Santa Fe, 1977

Part 1/3 Also on Ao3 here

For @harringrove-relay-race. Very happy with how part 1 turned out, and there will be more to come. Thanks to @foxxtastic for the intro and next up will be something stunning from our fearless Relay Race leader @half-oz-eddie

Rated M / 5k words / Part 1/3

Part 1: Into Hades

Rolling Stone Magazine - May 2002

Billy Hargrove arrived after I did, in his lovingly maintained blue Camaro, the subject of his song, “Lady Blue.” “Lady Blue” was recently named #93 on Rolling Stone’s Top Love Songs of the Century.

“I wrote, ‘She’s the wind in my hair, the rumble in my soul.’ I thought it was so obvious,” He laughed, his blue eyes still boyish. “My niece made it her wedding song, I said ‘Really? It’s about a fuckin’ car!’”

He showed me several pictures of his niece, the supermodel Tyler Sinclair. It seems good looks run in the family. He suggested the diner and he ordered waffles, winking when I mentioned that we’ll be here a long time.

The decades have been kind to him, maybe a few more lines. It’s not hard to imagine him stepping right back onto the stage, as if no time has passed at all.

“A little extra glitter on the eyes,” He said with a smile, “to hide my crows feet. That’s all I need.”

I ask what he’s going to wear to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony for Kaleidoscope's induction and his smile dims only for a moment.

“I think I should pull out some old costumes. You know, the butterfly still fits.”

He was referring, of course, to the sheer butterfly cape costume that nearly had him thrown off the stage in Houston Texas in December 1976. He caved to putting on a pair of silvery shorts rather than the nude underwear it was designed with. He later wore it with the nude underwear on the inside cover of Kaleidoscope, the album that will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in just a few short weeks. Kaleidoscope was his last album with the iconic Glam Rock band Pretty Boy, which famously broke up at the height of their career while touring for the album, onstage.

It’s not often that a band is inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and there’s a question if all of them will even show up.

“I’ll be there,” Hargrove said, fiddling with the silver band on his middle finger. “I have no problem with seeing him.”

The him is, of course, the lead guitarist and other lead singer of Pretty Boy, Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington invites me to his oceanfront house in Malibu later that afternoon.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to go,” He said thoughtfully, his brown eyes darting around the room.

When I mention that Billy is going to go, he seems surprised.

“He didn’t say he was going to punch me, did he?” Harrington smiled, but it doesn’t seem like much of a joke.

For one of the most famous rock stars of the 70s, Harrington is shockingly low key. He wears a t-shirt and slouchy linen pants, and he jokes that he ought to have shaved when I take out my camera. The house is stunning but empty, with miles of blank white walls and overstuffed white furniture.

“I’m looking for a little peace,” He shrugs, “I used to have all these pictures up, all this furniture… It was too much.”

It was hard not to see him as an artist without a muse. He drifted listlessly, picking things up and putting them down as we talked. So it was a surprise to me to hear that he’s been recording.

“I may never release it but… Yeah,” He laughed, “Music. After all this time. Bet you didn’t know.”

He picks up a rare photo from the piano. It’s from the early days of Pretty Boy, before Billy Hargrove. Harrington has his arm around his bandmate, Eddie Munson. Their drummer Chrissy Cunningham is balanced precariously across their shoulders, laughing and cringing at the same time. Bassist Robin Buckley smirks from the corner of the frame, messy bangs in her eyes.

“Who knew, right?” He asked no one, shaking the frame a little.

There are no pictures of Billy Hargrove.

“That’s a… a long story,” He said, when I asked.

But I have time. I tell him Rolling Stone will pay for it. At least that makes him laugh.

It was just by chance that Pretty Boy’s last concert was filmed.

“We were meant to just film in Vegas,” The director, Argyle Molina-Zapata, sat down with me after a private screening of Pretty Boy Live in Santa Fe, 1977, “But there was a freak rainstorm, and I couldn’t get my camera’s out of the back. The crowd was digging it, refused to leave. I remember when Billy hit the high note for ‘Mother Make Me,’ there was this lightning crack… brilliant.”

Molina-Zapata shook his head, “But the footage, what I got of it, was awful. Awful! So I begged Murray to let me come with them to Santa Fe.”

Murray was Murray Bauman, famed tour manager, who handled the Boys, later Pretty Boy from their first album Starfire, all the way to Kaleidoscope.

“And I was lucky,” Argyle nodded, “They had that extra tour bus.”

The tour busses are featured in the first few minutes of the film. They roll around the corner, one reading Billy Blue (Billy’s original stage name was Billy Blue before he dropped the Blue), and the other, Steve’s Six (Named after Steve’s best friends from his hometown.)

“They were nightmares,” Murray Bauman’s voice crackled over the phone, “Nightmares on tour. Separate buses. Separate hotels. Fuck me, I swear to god at one point they wanted separate stages. And the label caved on almost all of it. Fucking nightmare.”

It’s almost impossible to imagine it when you see them on stage together. There’s something electric that passed between Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington, something that drove crowds wild. They gravitate towards each other on the stage, orbiting like planets until they can share the same mic. They can’t seem to stay apart.

It’s hard to see exactly what happened that night.

“I’ve watched it a million times,” Argyle laughed, “But the only two people who can really say what happened are Billy and Steve.”

What you can see is this: Steve tearing into “Pride & Prejudice”, the lead off Kaleidoscope and the last song of the night.

Billy was trembling, visibly shaking as he sang and Steve harmonized along.

What can I say, if you ask me to walk away?

Baby, there’s no words for you.

Baby. I don’t know what to do.

Billy danced closer, joining Steve, his handheld mic loose at his side.

Can you ever put away your pride?

Is it worth it to not have me at your side?

I guess it must be, because I’m yours,

Regretfully,

Baby.

Billy leans in, sharing Steve’s mic for the bridge.

Is it really a mystery?

What I mean to you, and you mean to me?

Is it really, baby?

Billy shook his head, curls bouncing. He looked into Steve's eyes. He smiled. Steve looks at Billy, and Billy looks at him. It almost looks like Billy mouths something, but bootleg footage also has appeared where it looks like Billy just nodded. Steve goes a little shell shocked, hand freezing on his guitar, falling out of sync.

And then Steve turned away and left the stage, handing his guitar to a stagehand. Billy turned to the crowd, his expression strangely triumphant. He was always magnetic on stage, but this moment transcends that. It somehow feels like he’s getting everything he wants.

So I guess I’m losing you,

You promised me you would and it’s true.

Baby, there’s no words for you.

Baby. I don’t know what to do.

Steve Harrington hasn’t performed in public since 1977.

“None of us knew what was going to happen that night,” Chrissy Cunningham curled up next to her husband, Eddie Munson, on the large white couch of their Seattle home.

They’re a handsome couple still, draped in rock and roll finery. He toyed with the edge of her scarf, and she curled his long hair around her long fingers.

“We had some of our own shit going on at the time so…” Munson shrugged, “Maybe we were distracted.”

Their living room was crowded and verdant, every spare flat surface covered in plants. Their partner, former record executive Jason Carver, puttered in the kitchen in an apron that read Plant Papa.

“Yeah,” Chrissy smiled, “We had some stuff going on at the same time. But still… It seemed like they were getting better. Didn’t it seem like they were getting better?”

Munson shrugged, “The thing about Billy and Steve… they were soulmates. You don’t write music like that and not… it was like they had a second language, just for them. They were soulmates, I really believe that. Everything they did, everything that happened… they could only hurt each other that badly if… yeah.”

When I ask what they did to each other, Eddie and Chrissy just scooted closer together, like teenagers in a slasher, hiding from the killer. She laid a hand over his leg, her two stone diamond ring catching the sunlight.

“Steve never wanted Billy to be in the band,” Eddie shook his head, “but Jim had a soft spot for Billy. And Steve had… I mean Jim was…”

“Jim was like a father. To all of us.” Chrissy’s knee jiggled.

“We were this little tiny band from Nowhere, Indiana,” Eddie nodded, “And Jim believed in us.”

“I was just a junior exec at the time. I was put on the Kaleidoscope tour in case of catastrophic failure, which by the way it was,” Jason Carver is making risotto while we speak, the steam curling the lock of hair that falls over his face. “But it wasn’t my fault although I was high as hell on coke half the time. I guess I deserved to get fired. But Jim was the real deal. Gold records out the ass, best wife in the world, and his daughter, I mean… she was something else.”

They’re referring, of course, to Jim Hopper, producer on Kaleidoscope as well as Billy Blue and The Boys’ records, and the father of pop superstar Eleven aka Jane Hopper.

“Jim was…” Steve Harrington’s eyes always got a little misty talking about Jim, staring out over the ocean. “Yeah, I guess he was a little like my dad. My own parents were always gone. Which is like… I grew up so privileged so like I’m not saying… I just mean I grew up mostly by myself. And we were just so lucky he even agreed to listen to us when we got to LA.”

“I remember that night,” Joyce Hopper’s voice was raspy, cigarette-y in the way only old movie stars are. She’s a gorgeous woman in jeans and a gardening hat, speaking to me while she tends to her garden at her home in Castellammare. “He came home and said, ‘I have the next ones, the next big ones. Fuck, Joyce, they’re brilliant. Unpolished, but brilliant.’”

When I ask about when Jim discovered Billy Hargrove she just laughed.

“If Steve and the rest of The Boys were unpolished, Billy Hargrove was a fucking ten carat diamond,” She said. “But Steve’s band was Jim’s, and he could polish them up how he wanted. And then when he thought they were just right for it… he set the diamond.”

Jim Hopper was a big man, larger than life both in appearance and in personality. His fingerprints are all over some of the best hits of the decade.

Watching him on old interviews, there’s an immediacy to his presence that leaps off the screen.

“My daughter is the one who really found him. She snuck out with her sister and wandered God knows where. And she just… found him. Called me the next morning, saying ‘Dad, you have to hear this guy.’ He was playing in this… terrible club,” Jim said, tapping his cigar on the table of Merv Griffin’s set. “Absolute shithole, pardon my french. And he’s got a great voice, you’ve heard his voice, right?”

“I have,” Merv said.

“I had to get him out of there. He was a star.”

Billy Hargrove was a teenage runaway from San Diego when he came to LA in 1971.

“I had a girl’s backpack from my stepsister, eight dollars, and an extra pair of underwear. By the end of the next week? I had two more dollars,” Billy laughed. “But I got lucky. I met Heather.”

Heather Holloway was a showgirl at Wildwoods, a nightly revue. She found Billy at the backdoor, and took him to her apartment.

“She saved me,” He frowned. “Whenever I needed her most.”

Heather Holloway, Billy Hargrove’s first and only wife, died in 1979.

“I got a job singing at Sugar, this great gay club downtown. It was in the late afternoons, so I had a crowd of about… two. But those two brought two more,” Billy smiled, “Heather would talk me up to all the promoters. He’s a singer, he’s great, you’ll love him, he’s so cute.”

“He was an instant hit,” Sugar’s manager, Bob Newby, tells me by phone as well. “I did have to keep a couple of creeps off him, when he just started he was only nineteen. But even if you closed your eyes… he was a hit.”

“Guys used to think that because I was a part of the entertainment, I was fair game. And let me tell you, the novelty of that wears off mighty quick,” Billy shakes his head.

He shares a diary entry from his late wife of a night in April 1972. He came to her home with blood all over his face.

“Some guy thought because I was a fag…” Billy’s mouth twisted, but he went on, cradling the little marble notebook in his hand. “He could do whatever he wanted to me. When I fought back… he cracked a bottle over my head.”

He’s not just a piece of meat. He’s a person. I don’t understand these people. I just don’t understand, Heather Holloway wrote. I cleaned him up and he’s sleeping now.

The next diary entry is from a day later. April 12. Billy and I drove to Vegas and got married. When we spoke in the morning he said he was afraid for me too, even though I’m careful with the girls. He’s afraid of the cops trying to bust up the Wildwoods and picking me up. At least this way, he says. He and I can come home to each other. Look out for each other. Always. The groom wore band aids and his great velvet pants. The bride wore lavender. It was perfect.

“And lucky too. Because within a month… I met Jim,” Billy smiled. “And my whole life changed.”

Upside Down Records signed Billy Blue, unagented, in1972 and he spent the next year working on his debut album with Jim Hopper.

“I didn’t even realize, when it happened,” Billy shook his head. “A couple of girls came by after a show, wanting to talk to me, wanting to meet me. That wasn’t that unusual. But they were young, far too young to get into the club. And the little one, she was asking all these weird questions. Did I have an agent? Did I know if I had enough songs for an album? Weird fuckin’ questions. And then she said I have to meet someone. To be honest, I thought she was coked out of her mind when she said, ‘You have to meet my dad.’”

“I was not,” Eleven promised me, “coked out of my mind. But that’s just Billy.”

Eleven aka Jane Hopper, meets me backstage at one of her shows. She’s dressed in slouchy leather pants, to match her sister and drummer Kali Hopper.

“I knew he was something special. My dad was always talking about the IT factor. That thing that made a person something special. But I didn’t get it until I saw Billy Blue singing on that tiny stage,” She smiled. “He didn’t just have the IT factor. He was IT.”

It’s odd then, that Billy Blue’s first album had a surprisingly tepid response. His first single, in 1973, “Let Alone,” came in at only 26th for the month of April on the pop charts.

“People liked it,” Billy shrugs, “But I don’t think they knew what to do with it. You have my songs, these like… little pop love songs and ballads. I wasn’t that strong of a writer at the time. It was like half my songs, half covers. And so they’d book me, expecting fucking… Peter Frampton. And here comes this big queer with glitter on his nipples.”

But the lyrics of “Let Alone” would hint at his later songs, a hallmark simplicity that shone off his raw voice and poetry that hinted at a troubled past.

And if you were meant to care for me

You would, and that’s how it has to be

You said I couldn’t go on without you

Ha, look at me, looking brand new

At the same time, The Boys’ song “Paper Girl,” penned by Harrington, was number one.

She’s my paper girl

Wakes me up every morning, right on time

She got me smiling, got my head in a whirl

Picture perfect, paper girl

“Billy didn’t have much commercial appeal. Sex appeal, yes,” Jason laughed, toying with Chrissy’s hair. “But for sales? That’s where The Boys came in.”

“I hated that name,” Eddie said, “To start with we were half girls.”

The Boys had already had a somewhat successful tour under their belt by the time Jim suggested a collaboration with Billy Hargrove.

“It was a nice, short tour,” Steve Harrington glances away when I ask about the first tour.

“It was a nightmare. Balls to the wall nightmare,” Robin Buckley’s voice is a warm crackle over the phone. “Steve went on like thirty overlapping benders at once.”

Her partner, soap actress Vickie Carmichael cackles behind her, at their home in Salt Lake City.

“The thing about Steve is… well… he’s never found a good way of coping with himself,” Robin huffs. “Music was about as close as he ever got. But in those early days, he just kept looking for more and more.”

“You don’t think it was about-” Vickie asked, just barely into the phone.

“No.”

“It was about Nancy,” Eddie said confidently when I mentioned their first tour. “Nancy, Nancy, Nancy.”

The Boys got their start in the late sixties, beginning with Eddie and Steve. Eddie gave Steve guitar lessons, which turned into some talent show performances. They used to practice at Eddie’s Uncle’s trailer.

“That’s where we got the name,” Eddie nodded, “My uncle used to just call us that, and it stuck.”

“I don’t even remember,” Chrissy said.

“That’s not how we got the name,” Steve shook his head, when I mention Eddie. “It was our first gig, after we got Chrissy and Robin. Robin put it down after the headliner kept asking when ‘you boys’ would go on, and kept addressing it to Chrissy’s chest. She blew him out of the fucking water.”

Nancy Wheeler was there that night, writing about local bands for a tiny column in the school paper.

“She was beautiful. Smart. So smart. Could hear her talk forever,” Steve said, eyes falling.

Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler were married in 1972 after they graduated high school.

“Steve made his own choices,” Chrissy shook her head.

That summer, the Boys plus one drove to LA and Nancy Wheeler took a job at Women’s Day Magazine and later, Rolling Stone. Steve Harrington and The Boys got a “steady gig” at La Bonita Rosa on the strip, playing for drunks every night from seven to eight.

“I really liked playing at La Bonita,” Steve said. “The audience, right there. You could smell the sweat. You could see on their faces if you were bombing. And we used to bomb. A lot. But it was a great place to try things. Experiment. We played there for about a year but… it felt too short.”

Within the year they had met Jim Hopper, who got them into the recording studio and sold their demo nearly on the spot to Upside Down Records.

“They had a great sound. They had got this way of playing. Smooth like a polished stone. Everything sounds good sitting in a frame like that,” Jim said in an interview with Rolling Stone in 1981. “Their songs were… catchy, but basic. But they had the sound.”

Upside Down records set the Boys on a US tour after “Paper Girl,” and “Joy to Love You,” both charted.

“It was like… overnight. One day we’re in a studio, messing around. Kid stuff. I was nineteen,” Steve Harrington shookhis head. “But…”

“That tour,” Chrissy trails off, playing with her ring again.

“I…” Steve Harrington scratched his nose. “I was losing it. Majorly losing it. It felt like we had just moved to LA and we were already neck deep. I mean, I had a number one fucking song. And for some reason I got it in my head to call my mom. She told the maid she wasn’t home. And I could hear her over the phone. My mom. So yeah. I lost it. Lost about half my damn mind on that tour. And people will say it was because of Nancy, because we got married just out of high school, and she wasn’t supportive… but that wasn’t true. Nancy saved me.”

“Nancy never wanted him to be in the band. But… she also didn’t seem to care that much either,” Eddie shook his head, “It’s… complicated. Love is supposed to be. Simple. Like the chords of a song. 1-3-5.”

Jason Carver rolled his eyes at that, “Then what are we?”

Eddie grinned, “We’re a band.”

Nancy Wheeler met me on a Thursday in New York City, slim sunglasses dominating her small porcelain face. We get lunch at her favorite deli shop, and she perches at the counter, loafers dangling. She’s an editor at The New Yorker now, but she still has a soft spot for rock and roll, as evidenced by the Grateful Dead t-shirt under her blazer.

“That tour. I didn’t even know anything was wrong. He just came home with a funny look on his face, saying, ‘We’re headlining.’ So I said, ‘That’s great, Steve.’ He just kept… saying it. It was starting to piss me off, if I’m being honest,” She shook her head. “I should have known something was wrong.”

“I wish she had stopped me. But how could you know right? Hindsight is always 2020,” Steve Harrington said. “I mean, she was my wife. How could she not want me home? But that’s just… sorry. That’s not fair to put on her. I chose to go.”

“I flew out to meet them when they were in Indianapolis, visited my family, and I came a day early to see him,” She smiled warmly, and then it fell. “He was… Well, first, Eddie Munson tried to intercept me at the hotel, so I wouldn’t see him. I told him, ‘I’m here to see my fucking husband.’”

Steve Harrington didn’t add any more details about the tour, just shrugged when I asked.

“He was coked up like you wouldn’t believe,” Robin scoffed. “She walked in on him with two girls and coke all over his… well.”

“I just asked him. Do you want to come home? Do you want to get help? Or not?” She purses her lips. “And so he came home and we found a rehab place near Hawkins.”

“The tour kind of… fell apart. Obviously. We had lost our lead singer and guitarist to fucking… Hawkins, Indiana,”

Everything stopped for the Boys. Upside Down offered to let them out of their two album contract, but Steve couldn’t afford to pay it down.

“Rehab,” He shrugged. “Is expensive.”

Right as it seemed that everything would be over for the Boys, things were looking up for Billy Blue.

“Jim was always saying, ‘the record is selling alright, the songs are getting there but he needs a… push,’” Joyce said. “‘He’s so close. So close. He’s a star.’”

“He always believed in me,” Billy smiled, toying with his ring again. “Always. Even when I threw a jug of milk at his head.”

Joyce laughed when I asked about that moment, “He came home saying, ‘He milked me, Joyce. But he’ll fix the song tonight.’”

“And I did,” Billy said. “And the album was going alright. I did a little tour, socal and the southwest. And then one night, Jim brings me this song. He said, ‘I want you to tell me what’s missing from this.’”

The song was, of course, the Boys’ biggest hit, “Hades.” Steve Harrington’s first version was called, “To Orpheus” and the chorus goes:

Don’t turn back don’t look behind you baby

I’m close, I’m right behind

The future's so bright, and I want you to take me

Wanna be holding your hand when I make it across the line.

“It was fine, but just kind of… nothing. It was supposed to be about Eurydice, but it was so… nothing. She just loved Orpheus and that was it. There were no insides to her. She was going to follow him to her doom,” Billy shook his head. “That’s not right.”

This was not the version that made it to the recording booth, of course. The Boys’ single, “Hades featuring Billy Blue,” came out in 1975. The actual chorus goes:

Turn back on me and I won’t forgive you baby

Don’t want you to see me like this

Up ahead is bright, and I want you to take me

If you’re strong enough to cross that finish line

“‘Hades,’ was a real step forward for the Boys. Gone were the teenybopper tunes,” Steve Harrington’s biographer and personal friend Dustin Henderson wrote in his book The Pretty Boy. “Their first album got the kids dancing. But the second proved that they actually had something to say.”

“Still hate it,” Steve Harrington said. “I wrote that song in rehab. It was deeply, deeply personal to me.”

“He came out, all ready. He wanted to start recording right away,” Robin sighed. “Like I mean the next day. All these songs, just pouring out of him. But the label had lost faith in us. And they certainly weren’t going to let us start recording with a guy who had only just earned his thirty day sober chip.”

“The song wasn’t ready,” Billy shook his head. “But I guess he was. Jim said he needed this. So Jim asked if I would come and like… pitch some stuff as a personal favor. Songwriting credit, that’s all it was supposed to be. Get the songs moving, get them going.”

Steve Harrington takes a long time to continue speaking about it.

“I felt it, writing for that album. I felt proud of those songs. They didn’t belong to anyone else but me,” He toyed with some piano keys while we talked, and then finally sat down and began to play something tuneless and half formed.

“That album was all about Nancy,” Chrissy said. “I mean. I know it. You know it. Nancy knew it. And she kind of hated it. But-”

“You can’t leave your husband right as he gets out of rehab,” Nancy said to me, toying with her wedding ring. “When he writes all these songs about how you’re the only thing… Steve was always like that. Heart wide open. That’s why when he met Billy. I almost thought… it would all be okay. That sounds fucked up but. I thought they could save each other. That the music could save him.”

“It was just a songwriting credit,” Billy raised his hands. “Jim swore up and down. I was just gonna come in there and sit down with this guy Steve. But when I walk into the studio, there’s two mics set up.”

“I was the Boys’ only singer,” Steve Harrington shook his head. “And to be absolutely honest, I was kind of a jackass about it. So to have some guy come in and say he’s gonna sing me my song… well…”

“Steve was the only one who would ever argue with Jim, And he let him have it that day,” Eddie laughed. “He called him the most low down, dirty, rat bitten bastard in California, and that he would die rather than give up his band to someone else.”

“I did not want his band. I did not know his band. And I did not care. And his song sucked. And I told him so. And then I sang it. Better.” Billy smiled.

“Billy was…” Chrissy shook her head. “Incredible.”

I ask Steve what Billy was like that first day in the studio.

“He was,” Something passed over his face. “Alright. He has a great voice, alright.”

“I was good. Better. Best.” Billy smiled.

“But he didn’t understand the song. He wanted Eurydice to… doubt. To think she wasn’t going to get out,” Steve slammed his hands on the keys. “It’s been… almost twenty years. I still don’t understand it.”

I asked why he let Billy stay. But Steve doesn’t have an answer.

“They were like oil and water, right away,” Chrissy said.

“Yeah, but oil on the water can catch fire,” Eddie shrugged.

“Jim asked me to stay,” Billy looked away from me, down at his waffles. “It was a favor to the label.”

“If Billy said louder, Steve said mute,” Robin snickered. “It was kind of great, actually. Finally someone called King Steve on his shit. One day I came in and they were arguing over how close the microphone should be to your throat. Almost got in a physical fight over a fucking microphone. I mean, I love Steve. But he always thinks he’s like… the babysitter. It’s his job to do everything for everybody.”

“Like who was this guy? Really? He came into my studio with no shirt on, most of the time still half smashed from the night before, and he thinks he can make all these changes. But Jim keeps telling me it’s just business, the label thinks it’s good business.” Steve frowned, and then smiled, and then frowned again.

“Yeah, I never wore shirts back then. Or underwear,” Billy said with a grin. “I was a rockstar!”

“Steve fought for every song on that album,” Nancy Wheeler patted her lips primly with a napkin. “He only lost on one.”

“Billy Hargove has songwriting credit and lead vocals on “Hades.” Dustin Henderson wrote.

“Billy was all over that album. He’d make some minor suggestion, maybe this chord instead of that, this word is better. And Steve would flip out, yell at him, yell at Jim, threaten to storm out… and then two days later quietly tell me to change the chord, he’d start singing the new words. Billy was there with us about every single day,” Eddie said.

“Of course, it was our biggest hit,” Chrissy laughed. “Everything but that song, Steve did what he wanted. Oh we had Billy in the studio, making suggestions. But Steve did what he wanted except for ‘Hades.’ Jim said that song is the album, and he wouldn’t cut it.”

“Jim was always right,” Steve closed the piano. “The bastard.”

Hades exploded onto the radio in late 1975. They didn’t have the same distribution as their first record, but the Boys had another hit.

“Billy had this way of singing it. Still does. He broke four mics when we recorded it. Singing so loud I had to keep an eye on the cymbals to stop them from shaking. You can feel him, right in your chest.” Chrissy giggled. “Like he was trying to wake all the dead from Hades. If anyone could, he could.”

“It’s a really, really great song,” Robin said.

This song belongs to Billy Blue, Rolling Stone wrote in 1976. The only question now is, what will The Boys do next?

“I remember that article. Fucking… Harrington said that he basically wrote the whole song. But he said, ‘the label thought bringing Billy in was a good idea,’” Billy gets tense for the first time. “I’m not saying I was like… I just mean. It would have been nice. To treat me like an equal. I’m more than just a singer. I’m not just… a piece of meat.”

“Billy was really pissed about that article. I remember, the day after the article came out, we were getting breakfast at this tiny place off La Cienega. Steve had this car back then, a big maroon BMW, and Eddie had got him a vanity plate when he bought it. Stupid thing it said, ‘BIGBOY.’ Anyway, We’re having breakfast, and we hear this screech outside, like an accident,” Robin Buckley gets uncharacteristically quiet as she goes on through this story. “Billy’s car is parked halfway out of the parking lot, and he comes in like a bull in a charge. Billy… he wasn’t some wimpy guy. He was small, but he was strong as hell… He came right over and grabbed Steve by his collar and lifted him right off the counter. And he said, I’ll never forget it because Steve used to recite it from memory, yell it at me, ‘Tell me I’m not dreaming. Is that Steve fucking Harrington? The lead singer of the Boys. Hey man, I love your song ‘Hades.’ How’d you get your voice to sound halfway decent for once?’”

“I don’t remember that,” Steve Harrington said flatly when I asked.

“And Steve used to be a fucking dick in high school. So he starts getting real bitchy, shoving Billy off him, asking what his problem is, why he’s such a dick all the fucking time, when it’s not even his band. And Billy said something like, ‘No one wants your shit band. Not with you in it,’” Robin paused for a moment. “And they just. Stare at each other. Like… daring each other to do something.”

Billy just shrugs when I ask, “I was pissed. I gave this guy a number one hit, and he still wanted to treat me like some… airhead singer the label brought in as a stunt. I’m not just a singer. I’m not a piece of meat. I’m a person.”

When I ask Steve about that day he’s pretty quiet, deflated at his piano. He only wants to talk about the song. The music. Can’t seem to talk about Billy any other way.

“He sang it like he not only knows Orpheus can’t save him, but that he won’t. It was supposed to be hopeful. A happy ending.” Steve said.

“So you still hate the song?” I asked.

“No, I don’t. It’s brilliant. And that’s the whole problem.”

To be continued...

Next up is Half-Oz-Eddie's piece at 7:00 pm. GET HYPE!

#harringrove relay race #harringrove #billy x steve #billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove fic #steve x billy #harringrovefic #harringrovefanfic #harringrove fanfiction #harringrove fanfic #stranger things #my writing #DJATS au #Daisy jones and the six au #tw drugs

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gravehags · 6 months

Text

i'd be your mistress (just to have you around)

Pairing: Cardinal Copia x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Tags: comfort, established relationship, cozy ass shit, anxiety, references to stigmata

Words: 1,645

Summary: It's late and technically you shouldn't be here. You hope he doesn't mind

a/n: Hello I was incredibly anxious last night and I know Copia would be the best about it. Copia is the Antichrist in this and there's some references to it but it's never said explicitly.

~~~

As you stand in the hallway, fumbling with the keys in your hand and looking over your shoulder, you hope he won’t be upset.

You know your lover is on confession duty that night and won't be back at his quarters for at least another half hour. Finally locating the correct key, you unlock the door and slip inside, quietly shutting it behind you. With your back against the door you sigh, looking around the modest living room with its overstuffed couch and TV. From the corner of the darkened room you hear squeaking and tiptoe over to bid good evening to the Cardinal’s children. Their little faces peer up at you, paws on the bars and noses twitching (almost all of them, Ciabatta is currently curled up in a hammock and cannot be bothered to acknowledge you) and you murmur sweet words at them before walking away and letting them rest. When you pass through the doorway into the dimly lit bedroom you sigh heavily, gazing at his imposing bed. You always loved it - you love it even more when he is on top of you in it, but that's another story - with its deep red hangings and sturdy dark wood. Walking over to the old mullioned window, you push it open for some fresh air and to hear the steady pounding of the rain. As you stand with your hands on either side of the sill, your breath comes out in foggy puffs. Walking back over to the bed, your hands brush against the plush (also red, naturally) covers and you peel them back to crawl in and make yourself at home. The sheets are cold, making goosebumps break out over your legs as you hunker down in an attempt to get cozy. You’re glad you talked him into buying plumper pillows, you think as you bury your face into one while curling on your side. The bedside lamp that was on when you walked in stays on - you don’t want your love stumbling around in the dark - as you wait for him.

Unfortunately waiting also means time, which turns into time worrying and overthinking. The exact reason you came to his quarters tonight when most were asleep. You feel ridiculous, honestly, that you were anxious over essentially nothing while alone in your own room and even more silly that simply being present in his is enough to set most of your worries at ease.

Most but not all.

The patter of the rain continues as you struggle to create a warm spot for yourself, teeth worrying on your lower lip and fingernails picking at the skin of your hands.

What if he’s angry I came here?

The two of you have not been in a relationship for very long, only a few months ago did the Cardinal admit his feelings for you during a confession of your own (a bold move, on your part, far bolder than anything you’ve ever done before) and the two of you are still living in separate quarters. Your relationship is not forbidden, per se, but it is sensible to be quiet on the matter in order to dodge the wrath of Sister Imperator. You’re so curious as to why she’s so defensive of the Cardinal - maybe you’ll ask him sometime. Until then the two of you settle for stolen kisses in empty chapels, hands brushing in the hallways, and a tryst or two (or three) in his office. He gave you a copy of the keys to his quarters after the first two weeks (for emergencies, cara mia, he had said) and well…you aren’t entirely sure this is considered an emergency. You don’t have much more time to dwell on it however as you hear the door in the other room open and shut, followed by a heaving sigh. He doesn’t notice you at first as he approaches the doorway, removing his biretta and tossing it with surprising skill to land on the desk opposite the bed. He takes three more steps into the room (he looks tired, you think) and jumps out of his skin at the lump of you in his sheets.

“Fuck!” he half-shouts, hand over his heart, “merda, amata mio. Are you trying to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Yeah,” you say with a little smile, peering up at him, “I’m only in it for your money, after all.”

With a chuckle he approaches you and brushes your hair back from your face. His gentle smile turns into a slight frown as he spots your gnawed-on lips and worried brow. Carefully, he lifts up your hand and sees all the places you’ve picked at your fingers till they bleed and he sighs.

“Amore, what’s wrong?”

“The usual bullshit. Anxiety is really bad tonight,” you say, holding onto his hand. “Didn’t want to be alone. Is that okay?”

His mustache twitches as he scoffs, “Of course it’s okay, I gave you my keys for a reason, eh? Wanted to see you tonight anyway. It’s been a long fucking day, dolcezza.”

“Come to bed?” you murmur into your pillow and he nods.

“Sì, sì, let me get all of this off then I am all yours.”

From your spot on the bed you watch him disrobe, stripping all the layers that make him the Cardinal until he is simply your Copia. Once he stands before you shirtless, in his ridiculous rat print pajama pants he pads into the bathroom to wipe his paints away. After a moment he returns to you and gestures to the open window.

“Chilly tonight, eh? You want that closed?”

“Open, please,” you say quietly, “I like the sound of the rain.”

He smiles as he pulls down the covers and you scoot aside to make room for him. After a moment of adjustment he settles on his back and tentatively you place your hand on his chest. Making a small tch sound he pulls you closer so that you’re half on top of him, leg woven in between his and face resting on his shoulder. You’re able to admire so much of him from this angle - the long slope of his nose, his neatly trimmed mustache and sideburns, the freckles that pepper his skin. With a sigh you bring your fingers up to brush against the dark hair on his chest and he makes a groan of contentment. When your hand moves up to touch the intricate collection of 6s tattooed on his pectoral you finally speak.

“What’s the story with this?” you ask, fingernail running along the ink lines.

“Hmm,” he begins, chest vibrating with the noise, “I haven’t told you?”

When you shake your head “no” his lips quirk upwards a little.

“Eh, it was Terzo. Back when I was a bishop and he was a cardinal. Many, many years ago. He talked me into a drinking contest at a bar in the village - told me if I won I could dictate a tattoo for him, however the same was true for me if he won. He was responsible for fetching the drinks that night…I can barely remember what we were drinking, some kind of vile aperitivo…and I kept drinking and drinking and getting drunker and drunker…while Terzo remained suspiciously composed. Finally, I couldn’t take anymore - was about to pass out on the floor of that little bar - and told him he won. He dragged me off to a tattoo shop that night and told me to get this. It’s a…a joke. You know, Damian’s birthmark from The Omen? He thought he was being funny. The next day while hungover I found out from Secondo that Terzo had paid the bartender to only pour him water all night, quel maledetto bastardo.”

Your laughter begins silent as you shake in his arms, escalating into loud cackles. His own rumbles of laughter make your heart swell and you lean over to kiss the offending tattoo.

“It’s perfect,” you smile, feeling calm and content for the first time that evening. “I’ll be sure to compliment Papa Terzo on his choice.”

“Eh, don’t. His head is already too fucking big.”

When he brings his hand up to caress your hair and cup your cheek, you wrap your fingers around it and pull it away. It had taken two weeks into your relationship before he took off his signature leather gloves around you and you gazed contemplatively at the reason why. The round mass of scar tissue in the center of his palm looks inflamed tonight, and without a second thought you turn your head and place a gentle kiss on the spot. He lets out a contented sigh at your gesture so you do it again, just to hear it once more. And again. When you finally relinquish it he rests it on his belly and leans down to kiss you on your forehead.

“Ti amo, bella. You know this, sì?”

He’s said it before. Frankly, to you, it doesn’t matter how many times he’s said it, it affects you the same every time. His mismatched eyes gleam as he looks at you in his arms and you shift upwards to place your lips against his. The kiss is tender but ultimately innocent, and you smile a little into it when his mustache tickles your upper lip. When you finally pull away, he chases your touch with his eyes closed and you bring your fingers up to stroke at his sideburns.

“Love you, Copia,” you murmur, brain finally relaxed. All your silly worries melt away as the two of you lie together listening to the thump of the raindrops on the roofs of the abbey. The steady beat of your lover’s heart thrums in your ear as your eyes finally slip closed. You are warm and safe in his arms, a picture of perfect contentment. As it should be.

#cardinal copia #cardinal copia x reader #the band ghost #the band ghost fic #rachel writes

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ficmashup · 5 months

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Out for Drinks

A/N: Hi again, a single person asked me to continue this and I'm an absolute sucker for anyone asking me for anything, so tada. ;) Still have no clue what I'm doing, but it's fun so who cares. I think I'll continue this a little further until the story has closure, even if it's open-ended, so yeah. Thanks to people interacting. Glad you like it. :)

Warnings: Once again, very vague SA or trauma references, some harsh language, nightmares, f!reader, I mean it's almost an OC, she just doesn't have a name really, idk what I'm doing :/ First person again.

Word Count: 3.7k

Feral Masterlist

I have mixed feelings returning to base. On one hand, it’s nice to not be looking around every corner for someone looking to shoot me. Not freezing my ass off is also refreshing. On the other hand, it means being around all the other soldiers and I realize that I’d relaxed a bit around the team. Enough that I feel my defenses going back up as I walk through base, alert and aware of all eyes that trail me. We’ve just gotten back and the others have dispersed. Hopefully to shower, like I plan to. Then I feel the weight of people’s gazes leave me right before a little shiver slides down my back. I turn around to find Price behind me, a little frown on his face as he looks around. But his expression smooths as he looks at me.

“Glad to know it wasn’t a mistake taking you on. Well done.” He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, sending a shock of pride and pleasure through me.

I straighten up and nod. “It’s a pleasure to be with a team that lets me do my job, sir. Thank you.” There’s a small part of me that also wants to thank him for keeping me from freezing with his body heat, but I’m pretty sure I can’t mention that without blushing.

“Keep doing your job like that and you’ll leave us wondering what we ever did without you.” His hand lingers on my shoulder before dropping, his fingers skimming my arm. We begin walking towards the barracks, our pace leisurely as our boots squelch in the mud. He clears his throat slightly and my eyes snap up to his face in an instant. “Have fun with the boys tonight. If you decide to go.” He says, the corner of his mouth twitching. My brows furrow slightly. Right after we got to base, the others informed me of a post-mission ritual of going out for a drink. I hadn’t decided whether I’d go or not, despite desperately wanting to dissolve in a sweet drink.

“Will you go?” I ask as I tug my bag up my shoulder a bit.

Price nods. “I go for a drink or two. And to keep them out of trouble. Mostly.” His eyes sparkle a bit as he considers me and I get the impression he goes to watch the shit they get themselves into rather than prevent it. “Not sure whether you’d be more or less trouble.”

My lips part in surprise as I blink up at him, then I can’t help but give him a half-smile. “I do have self-control, Captain. I simply also have a low tolerance for idiocy and sometimes the only way to get people to see sense is to knock it into them. Literally.”

He chuckles and the warm sound hits me like a shot of whiskey, warming my stomach and getting me to relax just a touch more. “Well, you won’t hear me agree.” We stop in front of the barracks and it’s a pleasure to see the smile on his face, the ease in his posture. It’s been a while since I’ve just talked with somebody normally like this. Since I’ve let myself. “But you won’t hear me disagree either.” He finishes and my smile widens just a touch.

“I look forward to seeing you try to wrangle cats tonight then, sir.” I give him an easy salute before walking to my room, but my little smile lasts the whole way there.

* * *

The place they take me is an absolute shithole.

The floor is sticky as syrup, the bar chipped and scratched, and nearly every booth or barstool has stuffing coming out of the worn red leather cushions. But there’s top shelf whiskey behind the bar and that’s what they order as we file into the dump. It’s clearly a soldier’s bar and it’s busy tonight. My spine straightens as I see the amount of people shoved into the place and I make sure to pick a spot on the edge of our little group where I can see everything clearly. My gaze doesn’t leave the bartender’s hands as she pours our drinks and I don’t let the boys touch mine as I take it, my hand perched over the rim as I pull it close to me. They don’t comment, but I feel Ghost’s eyes on my hand as I cover my drink and his grip tightens on his own.

“To our Surgeon! Pray to God she doesn’t have to cut one of us open one of these days.” Soap holds up his glass and the others follow suit while I tilt mine towards them with a smile tugging on my lips.

“Don’t get shot, stabbed, or otherwise be idiots, and the likelihood of that goes down.” I remind them, feeling warm as they chuckle and I throw back my drink. My nose wrinkles at the bitter flavor as I slide the glass back to the bartender. “Mojito and a glass of water. Thanks.” She nods, giving an appreciative look to the men beside me while I shake my head slightly. When I look back to them, they’re looking at me judgement on their faces.

“A mojito, G?” Gaz starts, disappointment filling his eyes.

I lean forward in my seat, leveling them with a look. “All of you can choke on your bitter whiskey and beer, I want sugar.” Price reacts first, a barely noticeable smirk on his face as he makes a little noise that’s almost a laugh, then takes a little sip of his drink without saying a word. There’s amusement in his eyes, though.

Soap scoots towards me on his stool, clearly distraught. “It’s not just that. You disrespected a good whiskey throwing it back like that. You’ve got to savor it.”

My eyes roll. “I’m not savoring that piss-flavored swill, thanks. I appreciate the tradition and participated, but that’s all I can give you.” I respond with humor in my voice even as I watch the bartender prepare my mojito and hand me a bottled water. When she gives me my drink, I pointedly drag my lips over the sugar covered rim of my glass before taking a sip while daring the men to say something. The drink is delicious and I take a deep breath of the sweet smell edged with mint.

“Lucky you’re a good shot, G, or we’d have you thrown out on principle.” Gaz teases and I raise a brow at him as if daring him to try.

“Let G have her sweet tooth. We don’t need anyone else wearing down the stock of good whiskey in this place anyway.” Ghost, surprisingly, lets me get away with my preference before taking a sip of his drink. Soap and Gaz grumble a bit and I’m sure I’ll hear more shit about this later, but they let it go for now.

Soap rests his elbow on the bar and faces me, Gaz peeking around him. “Go on, then, lass. Tell us about yourself. Have anyone waiting for you back home?” The question is kind and genuine. Not leading.

I return the position and turn my body towards him, although my eyes are surveying the bar more often than not. “This your plan all along? Give me drinks and interrogate me?” It’s a light tease and Soap grins immediately.

“We want to get to know you.” Gaz offers and the other’s have eyes on me as well. “Despite your bad taste in drinks.” He adds in a quieter tone and I smirk. It’s only fair, I suppose. We’re a team, we’re trusting each other with everything, I can put up with some questions.

“No, nobody’s waiting for me at home. My parents died before I enlisted and I’ve been moving around ever since, so never got attached to anyone else. No partner to speak of. I get restless easily. That’s why I’m good at my job—I like the focus and having a goal to go after.” Soap blinks a little at me being so forthcoming with information, but Ghost nods. Seems he understands a little of what I’m saying. My eyes flick to Price at the other end of the bar, still nursing his drink, and his gaze is light as it rests on me. He’s listening just as much as the others. “What about you lot?” I return the question and happily sip on my drink while they tell me about themselves.

Soap and Gaz are, unsurprisingly, the most forthcoming. Gaz is more than pleased to lament his lack of partner, but proud to say that he leaves a string of broken hearts wherever he goes. It’s not too surprising. The man oozes warmth and dedication. Soap’s Scottish accent seems to get a touch deeper as he talks about his home and how he blames himself for the last loss of his favorite football team because he was on mission and couldn’t go to the game. Ghost says little about his home life. Just that he lives in London right now and there’s a little café nearby that serves a good cup of tea.

“Fuckin’ Brits.” Soap quips instantly and gets cuffed on the ear for his trouble. They descend into an argument full of sharp words and teases about who is more unbearable, Scots or Brits, and I’m so entertained that I nearly don’t register the man coming up behind me. I catch him in the reflection of the bottles behind the bar and turn around too late to send him a death glare telling him what a bad idea this is. His hand wraps around my bicep and my body is immediately stiff and my hands are clenched into fists. He’s not in uniform and he doesn’t strike me as military. Probably just some jack off that wandered in here and decided to go for one of the few women in this place. I’m in civilian clothes, jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt tucked in. Maybe not obviously military to someone who doesn’t think there are women in the military anyway. Idiot.

“What’s a pretty—"

“You have two seconds to get your hand off me before I kick you in the balls so hard that you deepthroat your own cock.�� My words are sharp and there’s not an ounce of hesitation or doubt in my voice. His eyes widen and he blinks as if the words have to fight through the wall of ignorance in his head before he can understand them. Yet they must not get all the way through because he doesn’t let go and instead leans closer with a grin blooming on his face. His mouth opens and I’m already pulling my leg back for the kick when I see movement out of the corner of my eye and Price is suddenly there, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Step back.” The words are a command and the anger swirling in my gut calms a touch at the smooth authority in his tone. Of course, when a man says it, the other guy pulls his hand off me but doesn’t move away just yet.

“She yours?” He asks, looking Price over while rage boils my blood at being referenced as an object to be owned.

Price keeps close without touching me, his other arm stretched out behind me while his hand perches on the bar. “Mine to protect. Step back, son, before I let her keep her promise.” He releases the man’s shoulder with a light push to get him moving, then slides into his place and sits on the stool next to me with his back turned towards the man, effectively shutting him out. He seems flabbergasted, but eventually turns and dubiously returns to whatever corner he crawled out from.

“Sorry that I couldn’t let you take care of that yourself, G.” Price apologizes and his calm, smooth voice does wonders to soothe the anger still roiling in my chest. “It’s one thing to let you get into fights with soldiers that deserve it and should be able to handle themselves, but it’s another to let you decimate the civilian population.” His gaze holds mine, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

I take a deep breath to try and calm down. “Understood, Captain.”

“Just Price when we’re out like this.” He corrects and I hesitate a moment before nodding.

“Understood, Price. I wouldn’t want to get everyone kicked out, anyway.” I glance at the others who have busied themselves watching a football game on the tv, trusting their Captain to handle whatever the problem was. But I’m not foolish enough to think that they weren’t aware of every move that was just made and every word that was said. I finish my drink and set it aside in favor of my water. There’s a little satisfaction in hearing the soft click as the seal breaks and I take a small sip. “You didn’t chime in earlier when I asked about everyone’s homelife.” I offer, letting the question that isn’t a question linger so he can decide whether to answer or not.

He heaves a breath and shrugs a shoulder, accepting his glass as the bartender passes by. “Not much to say. I’ve got a flat in London and I’ll meet Ghost for tea every now and then when I’m desperate enough for company.” There’s a snort down the table from the man and Price smirks at the sound. “The job makes it hard to set down real roots, so I’ve no one waiting for me back home other than old friends that’ve survived this shitshow and are waiting for me to join them or kick the bucket.” He chuckles before taking a sip of his drink.

I consider him a moment, humming. “I hope both are far off.” It’s as close as I can get right now to admitting that I respect him. That I want him to stay on and to keep working with him. More than that, I actually like him. The others are growing on me, but there’s something a little easier with Price.

He returns my gaze and it feels nice to see his eyes soften a touch. “I can guarantee one is and with you behind the scope and holding the needle, I’m confident the other is as well.” I nod, accepting the compliment and responsibility that comes with it. We talk a little more as the night goes on and it’s clear that he’s usually the designated driver on nights like this. I offer to take over for him since I don’t want any more to drink, but he refuses, telling me he’d rather keep talking than drink more and look like an idiot like the others. He says it affectionately though, clearly not minding being the responsible one as long as he’s looking after the team.

Overall, it’s not a bad evening. The bad part comes later in the form of nightmares and sweat and waking up not remembering where I am for a moment. My hand clutches tight to my shirt over my heart, feeling it thunder in my chest as my mind comes back to me and I try to calm down. “Fucking hell.” I murmur, shaking my head and sliding out of bed. I change out of my sweaty clothes into shorts and a sports bra before wandering out into the hall.

I head to the training room and lose myself in the monotony of going at a punching bag. I passed my psych eval, I’m fit for work, but sometimes things creep up on me. It’s the nature of the things we do. Though these nightmares have nothing to do with missions I’ve been on. The dull sound of my fists hitting the punching bag echoes in the room and I eventually calm down enough to stop. I slowly unwrap my knuckles as I walk back towards my room, letting them flutter into one of the trashcans scattered around base. My steps slow as my mind whirls, then I change my course.

The mess hall won’t be open yet since dawn is still about an hour away, but Price has a coffee pot in his office. He’s offered to let the team use it as long as we only touch the pot and mugs alongside it. Time to see if that offer was genuine.

It feels a bit like an intrusion as I walk into his office without him there, but Price isn’t the kind of man to say something he doesn’t mean. I make an entire pot of coffee, knowing that he’ll be up at the crack of dawn and knowing the pot will keep it warm until then. The little sounds of the machine running and dripping dark ambrosia into the glass pot are soothing with their normalcy, especially as the nutty scent fills the room. It mixes well with the leftover smell from his signature cigars and while I don’t sit down once I have my cup, I do stay as I drink my coffee, breathing in the comforting scents.

I don’t realize how long I’ve been here until I hear boots coming down the hall. My hand freezes halfway to my mouth with my second cup of coffee. The gait is familiar and I have a brief moment of panic at feeling like I’m about to be caught doing something I shouldn’t. Instead, I take a breath and turn around to pour another cup of coffee before waiting by the door and offering it to Price as he steps in. Surprise flits through his eyes, not at finding someone here since he could probably smell the coffee from down the hall, but at finding me here.

“Thought you might’ve been Ghost. He’s the only one usually up at this time, but not usually after a night out.” He greets me and a little tingle slides down my spine at his gruff voice still rough from sleep. He takes the cup with a grateful nod while walking around his desk.

I linger by the door, still clinging to my coffee. “Woke up early today. Thanks for letting me use your coffee pot. I’ll be out in just a minute.” I tell him as he takes a sip of the coffee, shaking his head.

“You’re fine. Take your time.” He says the words easily, genuinely, and my shoulders lax before I realize how stiffly I’d been holding myself. His eyes remain on me and both of us remain standing. I’m not sure if he’s unconsciously copying me or if he’s retaining some idea of a gentleman not sitting before a woman. “How long have you been up?”

I shrug a shoulder, shifting my weight slowly from foot to foot to get rid of a bit of anxious energy. “An hour and a half? Maybe two? Needed to work out a little energy.” He hums, nodding and letting his eyes drop to his desk for a few moments. I hesitate as I think through what I’m about to say and I know he’s waiting, letting me decide without pressure. “The nightmares take me by surprise sometimes. Helps to do something physical until the memories fade.” It’s an olive branch, the words are the most vulnerable I’ve been since arrival. Nightmares aren’t abnormal around here and since Price is the only one who has read my file, I know he’ll understand what I mean.

His eyes raise to mine again and they’re gentle and nonjudgmental. “If you want to talk about it, you have my ear. If you want to sit and stay, my door is open. Sometimes the boys do the same.” It seems like such an easy offer for him to make. My fingers shift as I hold my coffee and I take a few steps closer to him, leaning my hip against one of the two chairs in front of his desk.

“And you, Captain?” I prod just a little, curious as to what he does when he has struggles.

He gives me a crooked grin. “I have good soldiers that come in and sit quietly in my office from time to time. They’re pretty good listeners.” I return his smile. It’s a trade then. Nightmare for nightmare. It’s a refreshing mindset and one that I haven’t often run into. More proof that Price is a good leader—a good man.

“Pretty fair price for a good cup of coffee.” I surprise myself by teasing and I’m rewarded by his smile widening as he takes a sip from his own cup.

“Mm. You’re welcome anytime. You make a better cup than the lot of them, anyway.” My lips press together to hide my smile at the compliment as I finish my coffee and set it aside.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.” I begin to drift towards the door, halting when he calls out for me.

“G.” I turn back to find him reaching into his desk and shuffling around a bit, then he walks over to me with a little box in his hands. “Sometimes it helps to remind yourself that you’re not there anymore. Find something to ground yourself afterward. Like this.” He taps the top of the box as I take it and my brows furrow at the sight of one of his cigar boxes. I open it to find it empty, but I understand what he means as the distinct scent drifts up to me. I can’t help thinking of how well I slept wrapped up in his arms, breathing in the scent of his cigars and him. My fingers quickly shut the box to keep more of the smell inside as I look up at Price with a hint of a blush in my cheeks.

“Thank you.” It’s for more than just this. It’s a thank you for being gentle with me, for being thoughtful, for doing more than a usual Captain would. His entire body seems to soften and he reaches up, lightly squeezing my shoulder with a heavy hand.

“Anytime.” He responds and it takes me a minute to pull away, his hand sliding off me as I go.

That night, I sleep holding the cigar box and breathing in the smell that’s just so…Price. I don’t have a single nightmare.

Taglist (because you expressed interest! If you don't want to be tagged, let me know! And if anyone else wants to be tagged, tell me and I'll add you):

@under-the-dirt

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daydreaming-en-pointe · 3 months

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the swan and her princess (part 1)

summary: Swan Lake isn’t all beauty and grace, contrary to popular belief. And you experience firsthand that as you wage a one-sided war with your “rival” for the role of the Swan Princess, Odette.

pairing: Gwen Stacy (Spider-Woman) x fem!Ballerina!Reader

word count: 842

warnings: uses of Y/N, lots of ballet terms and references, the teacher displaying blatant favouritism ig?, mildly petty reader 💀

a/n: I finally got around to doing it! yay :D academic rivals to lovers ftw honestly

gearing up for my first official chapter-based fanfic WHOOOOOOOOO

dividers by me btw! it’s my first time doing dividers so any feedback would be appreciated <3

part 1 // part 2 (pending)

glossary:

Swan Lake: Swan Lake, Op. 20, is a ballet composed by Russian composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky in 1875–76. It is now one of the most popular ballets of all time. The ballet is based on a German fairy tale, and tells the story of a prince named Siegfried who falls in love with Odette, a princess who has been turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer

Odette: Odette is the main female protagonist in the ballet "Swan Lake," which is composed by Pyotr Tchaikovsky. She is the White Swan, also known as the Swan Princess/Swan Queen.

Anna Pavlova: Anna Pavlovna Pavlova was a Russian prima ballerina of the late 19th and the early 20th centuries. She was a principal artist of the Imperial Russian Ballet and the Ballets Russes of Sergei Diaghilev. (basically, every ballerina’s idol)

first position: In the first position, the heels are together, with toes turned out until the feet are in a large, open V or a straight line.

relevé: Relevé is a French term meaning "raised up." It is one of the basic ballet moves. The dancer starts in a demi-plié (a move where the dancer bends their knees halfway while keeping their feet on the ground) and then rises up into demi-pointe (on the balls of the feet) or en pointe (on the toes), either on one foot or both feet.

“Let’s take it from the top, Y/N. More turned out this time. And your ‘wings’ aren’t flowy enough. You are the very Swan Princess, not a struggling cygnet. You die gracefully.”

You blew air threw your nose a little more forcefully than you usually would, trying your best to follow your ballet teacher’s instructions.

“Ah, Gwendolyn! So nice of you to join us.”

That statement was usually used sarcastically in most settings. So why did your teacher’s voice take on a note of adoration? You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, not even looking at the new arrival. All she ever did was drop into class half an hour late - without even doing her hair in a proper bun - and get showered with praises for everything she did. Always Gwen this, Gwen that. You were so sick of it.

“Gwen, if you decide to try out, you would be a perfect fit for the White Swan,” Your teacher eagerly told her, and your ‘flowy feathers’ tightened into fists. Just brilliant. In her eyes, you had no chance at Odette, did you? Once again, Gwendolyn Stacy would swoop in and snatch up something you had worked so hard for, spending hours upon hours on late nights at the studio practising alone, all because the teacher thought she was the next Anna Pavlova. But every time, you bit your tongue and kept your head down. One day, you would show them. You would show them all how good you were. And little Gwendolyn Stacy, the number one teacher’s pet, would watch and weep.

You cleared your throat to jolt your teacher out of her rambling. “Miss? My audition?”

She blinked as if she were just noticing you. “Ah, right. Yes, you may continue.”

You were ready to hurl your pointe shoes at both of their annoying faces, but you focused on making yourself extra turned out and extra graceful. Oh, how the tables would turn when you got this role.

You risked a glance out of the corner of your eye and noticed with a smug satisfaction that Gwen was staring at you, eyes wide. Completely enthralled.

Ha-ha, Gwendolyn Stacy. Look upon actual, hard-earned talent and despair.

You finished the Dying Swan - the Swan Lake piece you were doing for your audition - and bowed, standing in first position with your head held high.

“Thank you, Y/N. That was very nice. Everyone, let’s get started. Get your shoes on and get into your positions at the barre, please.”

Ugh, the barre positions. Your arch-nemesis, apart from a certain Gwen Stacy. Well, maybe not apart from her, since your barre position was right in front of her.

“One, two, three, four - hold, two, three four…”

You tuned out the voice of your ballet teacher; the exercise was purely muscle memory to you by now, and her voice was only distracting you at the moment.

“Hey, Y/N.”

You were pulled out of your intense focus by the voice behind you. Once you realised who it was, you had to resist the urge to scoff. “What is it?”

“I, uh… I just wanted to say that you did amazing. It was very graceful. You’ll make a good White Swan.” That almost made you lose your balance in a relevé and twist your ankle, because what?

Gwen Stacy thought that you’d get the role?

Oh. That was new.

Or maybe it wasn’t, and you were just imagining the whole ‘undeserving slacker’ thing and painting her as the bad guy…?

You almost giggled at that. Nah. This was definitely some ploy to get you to relax a little, to stop practising almost obsessively. Yeah, she was just trying to ensure you weren’t a threat. The moment you let down your guard, she would snatch up the role of Odette. You just knew it. Well, she could try all she wanted; you would not make it easy for her.

“Oh, I know,” You replied coolly, ending the exercise with everyone else and turning to offer her a politely bored smile. “But thank you.”

Gwen’s smile dropped a little and her eyebrows scrunched together slightly, her piercings glinting in the studio’s warm light. “Okay, well… I’ll see you around, I guess.”

She reached down and grabbed her duffel bag, unceremoniously dropping her teal pointe shoes into the mess of clothes and who knows what else she kept in it.

You kept your eyes on her until she disappeared out the studio’s door after a quick goodbye to the teacher. She was like a ghost, always appearing and flickering out just as quickly as one. And somehow always getting away with it, every single time. Not to mention… she was also somehow really good. Despite missing classes and coming late.

“Remember, class. Now that I’ve seen all your auditions, the roles will be up next week. Don’t be late,” your teacher called as you all left the building.

You kissed your teeth in annoyance. Yeah, don’t be late. Unless you’re Gwen Stacy.

Good grief, that girl would be the death of you.

Taglist: (reply to be added!)

@hobiebrownismygod @l0starl @therealloopylupin2099

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k4marina · 3 months

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the night we met || b.w || prologue

synopsis : who knew one night would change both of your lives

warnings : idk, spelling, vigilante, mentions of drugs, trafficking, rapists, murders, and general crime

brucewayne x fem!reader

a/n ; follows no specific plot line other than that bruce has been batman for a few years now. also, readers suit is this :)

batman slowly enters the apartment building's 6th floor through one of its balconies. using one of his many gadgets he sweeps through the rooms getting closer to the main room.

for the past three weeks both the falcone family and oswald cobblepot, or the penguin, had been moving suspiciously. well, more than usual. so much that commissioner gordon had personally asked the vigilante to find out what had been going on.

so far, a week later, all he'd found out is that falcone had been using the iceberg lounge to smuggle drugs. from where? who knows. to who? who knows. surprisingly, they had all kept it very tight and under wraps.

it wasn't until two days ago where batman had found a person involved in the whole ring and had valuable evidence. now, batman was creeping up to his apartment. he reaches back to his utility belt to pull out a lock-pic only to stop, his eyes narrowing at the door clearly forced open.

instead he opts to grab a batarang instead and slowly pushes the door open, stepping into the dimly lit apartment.

living room? clear. kitchen? clear. bathroom? also clear. which left the bedroom. light poured out from under the bedroom door. there's no sound coming from behind it, which doesn't help his nerves. batman pushes the door open only to be met with the man laying on his back on the bed. his eyes are wide open, blankly staring up at the ceiling.

there's a few white lines of drugs on his nightstand as well as a dime bag half full, rolled up money, and a credit card. that paired with the man's chest no moving means that he'd overdosed.

batman's eyes gloss over the room. something's off. he couldn't tell what exactly, but he knew. in the corner of the room was an opened safe.

there. he creeped closer only to find it opened as well, the safe empty of its content.

"looking for this?"

batman whips around to where the closet was. there you stood, holding up an orange folder. his eyes scanned you. you didn't seem like a threat. you wore a black and grey bodysuit with white-silver highlights. the top of your face was covered by a mask and your hair let down.

"who are you?" he asks. another vigilante? or a mercenary? or did you work for falcone and were tying up lose ends?

"inescapable." you reply. batman frowns. what the hell does that mean?

"you're one of falcone's people," he says, accusingly.

you laugh in disbelief. "me? you really think i'd work for that scum? no, bat-boy, i'm like you. except i can take the finally plunge."

"you did this?" he says, referring to the dead man on the bed.

"well, not really," you shrug. "i didn't shove the cocaine down his nose, personally. but, i also didn't stop him." you could see batman slightly grimace when you said that, but you couldn't really care. "took some time for him to trust me, but hey," you hold up the folder, "it was worth it in the end."

"what are you going to do with it? sell it?"

"no, i've got enough money. i'm just going to look over it, make some notes and then hand it over to you and the boy's in blue."

"and when will that be?" there's an edge in his voice as batman get's irritated the more you play him.

"depending on how soon i leave, it should take too long." you hum.

"you really think i'm going to let you go with such important information?" batman crosses his arms over his chest. even through the tactical suit you could still see his bulging muscles.

"well it's not up to you really." you give a mischievous smile. "you see, our friend there was supposed to make a phone call to his criminal friends. now, because of his untimely death, he wasn't able to do that. so now, they're on their way here. and i am going to leave."

just as you finished your explanation the sound of a car engine could be heard outside. batman looks out the window. there, were two cars, all filled with mobsters, no doubt coming up here like you'd said.

batman looks back to you to say something but pauses when he sees that you're gone with the folder.

fucking hell.

---

by the time bruce makes it back to the batcave it's nearing 5 in the morning. alfred's there with a warm cup of tea, like always, and ready to treat any possible injuries. bruce steps out of the batmobile tumbler and removes the cowl.

"rough night, mater wayne?" the old man asks. he walks over, swapping the cowl for the cup of tea. bruce rolls his shoulder and takes a sip of the tea. it was a special blend that was to help his sore muscles and help his sleep easier.

"something like that." rather then heading towards the elevator, bruce walks over to the massive computer and sits down.

after you had left he had to deal with six mobsters by himself and then called over gordon hoping for some information, only to be left with more questions. though, he was given a name.

"inescapable?" alfred reads aloud. bruce presses enter and the watches as the computer tries to decipher the word.

"is this some code?"

bruce grunts, rolling his shoulders. "something like that." he takes a sip of the warm tea. "there was a women, at the apartment. she was wearing some sort of gear. looked handmade."

"another vigilante?" alfred muses.

"if she were another vigilante then she'd have been on our radar. it's like she just appeared out of thin air." bruce watches as the computer worked to find something. when it does, it shows a series of articles and photos.

"adrasteia was the goddess of "inevitable fate", representing "pressing necessity", and the inescapability of punishment." the first article read.

alfred slightly leans over, pointing at a certain part of the article and read aloud. "the name adrasteia can be understood as meaning "inescapable". there's your link."

bruce clicks off to another article, this time it was a news article. "adrasteia takes down new yorks biggest crime family. so she has experience."

"but the question is, what is she doing in gotham?" alfred hums.

as the two looked through more article, more and more information surfaced about you. you were a vigilante that fought crime in new york. it started off small, handling petty crime before moving up to taking down rapists and murders until you took down one of new yorks biggest crime families. after that, it seems that you vanished and reappeared in gotham.

another thing about you, that rubbed him the wrong way, was that you weren't afraid to kill if necessary. you went after everyone, and like your namesake, you were inescapable.

after a few hours of more research alfred finally had enough and dragged bruce back to his room.

"you can look over all of this after you've had your rest. the last thing we need is bruce yayne collapsing at one of his charity galas due to lack of sleep."

bruce begrudgingly agrees and heads to bed. despite the exhaustion taking over him, he couldn't help but think back to you and your encounter with him.

what's this? another bruce wayne fic? and it's a series? whaaa <3

#batman/reader #batman x reader #batman x you #batman fanfiction #batman imagine #batman x batmom #batman x fem!reader #bale!batman x reader #bale!batman x fem!reader #pattinson!batman x reader #pattinson!batman x fem!reader #affleck!batman x reader #affleck!batman x fem!reader #dc x reader #dc x y/n #batman x y/n #dc fic #dc batman #k4marinafics

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scribbling-dragon · 6 months

Text

nighttime hauntings

summary:

(ao3 link)

(4,317 words)

heyy! happy halloween! as a gift have my personal little silly thing that i had a bunch of fun writing, don't question the worldbuilding too much! (you want to reblog this soooo bad and leave me nice little comments in the tags, soo bad <3)

The tarmac is cool beneath his feet – well, paws? They're paws right now, but they're feet a majority of the time. And ‘feet’ refers to anything you stand on, probably, so till feet…just paw-shaped right now – as he waits patiently. Maybe a little impatiently, hopping from one foot to the other, claws clacking against the cool ground.

The bell jingles and he jerks his head up. He almost smiles, before remembering that such an expression is truly horrifying when he’s like this – Scott had made sure to tell him as such when Jimmy last did it to him, and the siren usually prefers to coat his words in much more honey. The insult wasn’t even thinly veiled, it was just an insult.

His tail begins wagging, almost on its own, as the person he was waiting for steps out onto the darkened street.

He lets out a small bark as greeting, watching as his friend looks up, before smiling at him as well. He stops to check the road before bounding across, skidding to a stop at Tango’s feet. The barista is still smiling, that oddly restrained smile that only just shows a peek of his teeth.

“Hey, buddy,” Tango crouches down, reaching out a hand to stroke along the top of Jimmy’s head. “I’ve only got a few things for you today, but I'm sure it’s more than enough.”

Jimmy can’t respond to him right now, but he hopes the wagging of his tail is enough to communicate that even the smallest of scraps are always enough for him; as long as Tango is the one bearing those scraps, he’ll happily take whatever is given to him.

He takes the piece of food – some kind of croissant? He’s not sure what exactly it is, but it’s tasty, even after sitting on a shelf for most of the day – carefully between his teeth, making sure not to accidentally nip Tango. He’d never forgive himself if he did that, even went so far as to refuse taking food from Tango’s hand for the first few months of their little arrangement.

Tango smiles down at him as he finishes chewing, before standing up straight. The small box the scraps came in is neatly folded into a cardboard square and disposed of in the nearest bin they pass by.

Tango walks quite briskly, as though he has somewhere to be. He doesn’t, Jimmy knows. Not in a weird way! Or a creepy one! He just never leaves the house after Jimmy walks him home, choosing to stay inside. He doesn’t think Tango has very many friends, otherwise he wouldn’t be choosing to take the closing shift at a café that operates on disgustingly early and late hours. He would probably also be leaving his house between shifts.

Again, not in a creepy way! Jimmy is just slightly worried about Tango…they may have only had a few conversations in passing when Jimmy has chosen to visit the café as a human-shaped patron, but he likes to think he has a pretty good feel for the man next to him.

Tango’s hand rests on his head as they wait to cross the road, the flickering orange lamp only briefly illuminating the zebra crossing. Jimmy sits dutifully at his side, scanning the darker corners that Tango wouldn’t be able to see into with his subpar night vision.

Only when Tango lifts his hand from Jimmy’s head does he begin to move again, trotting at his heels.

It’s only a short walk to Tango’s apartment building, but it’s a rather dark one. Tango chooses to take more risks than he really should, crossing through darkened alleyways with little fear. The absolute lack of self-preservation has Jimmy’s heart going a mile a minute, jumping in his chest at every flickering shadow or small sound.

He growls at a rat that startled him, an entirely embarrassing encounter that has Tango cooing over him and stroking his ears; he feels hot under his fur, mortification sliding heavy down his spine as he resists the urge to hide his face. He’s only lucky he can’t blush like this, or any blush he would have is hidden beneath a thick layer of fur.

And, as always, the moment of parting arrives with the looming of Tango’s building.

He can’t help the way he slows his steps as they approach, mourning the end of their small journey for the evening. It would be far more convenient to start an actual conversation with Tango, either inside of his workplace or outside of it, the way his brothers have been telling him to. But he’s far more comfortable with everything as it is right now, and these small walks don't give him the opportunity to ruin everything with a blurted sentence that should have stayed internal.

A hand lands on his head, its weight comforting and familiar.

“See you soon,” Tango gives him that same odd smile, lips barely pulling back from his teeth. “Stay safe, alright? I’d be sad if my little buddy stopped showing up to greet me.”

Jimmy would equally be upset if he was no longer able to accompany Tango on his walks home. The city is dangerous at night, especially with all the creatures living within a small radius of each other. Jimmy can name three different vampires that live within a mile of Tango’s home. And those are only the ones he knows. Goodness knows what would happen if Tango chose to walk home on his own down those dark and disgusting alleyways.

Jimmy makes a small noise, ears drooping slightly as he presses his head forward for a final goodbye. The smell of coffee and sugar invades his senses briefly before he’s pulling away again, watching Tango let himself into his building.

Only when he sees the door click shut behind Tango and automatically lock does he turn to leave, trotting down a different alleyway in order to return to his own home for the evening.

=== === ===

Tango’s not entirely sure when the semi-regular routine began. Only that the habit is well-worn at this point, meaning it’s been at least two months. It takes two months to form a habit, apparently, though some people do it quicker than that. He, however, is a creature of habit and takes a while to adjust his routine.

Which is why it comes as a surprise to him when he finds that he’s already packed away several scraps, and bits of food that would go to waste at the end of the day otherwise, into a takeaway container, ready to give to his nightly companion.

He locks everything up inside first. He’s not going to rush out the door and become an incompetent employee just to go and see his furry friend quicker. Even if said furry friend is incredibly cute and really quite endearing, especially when he does the impatient little tippy-taps with his paws as he waits outside.

A normal person wouldn’t be able to pick up on such a tiny sound, but Tango strains his ears as he does one final sweep of the café, listening for the almost inaudible sound of claws clacking against the tarmac.

He smiles a little when he hears it, making his way towards the door, container tucked carefully beneath his arm. The keys jangle as he takes them out to lock the door, turning around in the small porch and locking the doorway.

He gives the handle a small test, finding that it resists, before finally turning to greet his friend.

“Hello, hello. Yes, yes, I'm sorry,” he crouches down to be more on the dog’s level, smiling at it as he reaches out to give it a quick pat on the head. “I didn’t mean to be so late, but, ugh, Tiffany- I've told you about Tiffany before, right?” The dog tilts its head to the side, though its ears perk forward as Tango speaks.

Tango knows full well that he’s currently having a conversation with a dog, but he can’t help it! He works the closing shift on his own most of the time, none of his co-workers choosing to stay past six p.m., when it starts to get a little bit too dark, or too late at night. Most of them are students at the local university, and they all have early lectures. Tango doesn’t mind taking the later shifts – much prefers taking them, actually, seeing as he doesn’t have to lug his stupidly old and stupidly heavy umbrella around with him– especially not when it helps out those he works with so much.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods along like the dog responded to his earlier question. “Of course I've told you about Tiffany before, she’s, honestly, sorry for what I'm about to say, but she’s such a bitch. She came in, five minutes before closing. I’d been cleaning all the tables ready for closing and begun to stack the chairs, and she comes in and is all like, oh, so sorry darling,” he drags the darling out, “yeah. She says it just like that- and she comes in so sorry darling, but I've just got to have this coffee right now. You’d understand wouldn’t you? Working so late all the time, ugh, it must be so hard. Like, God, yeah, imagine not living off your husband’s money, Tiffany – I know far too much about this woman’s life, like, no, I am being paid minimum wage to sit and listen to you complain about your third husband’s spending habits, I don't actually care.”

He huffs out an exasperated breath, sagging forward momentarily. Still crouching right in front of the dog means he leans forward and directly into the dog, which does a rather valiant attempt to keep him upright.

“Ugh, sorry, I don't mean to complain. You're here for the scraps, I'm sure,” he pulls the box out from beneath his arm, setting it on his lap as he begins opening it, folding the cardboard edges away from each other. The dog whines, scraping its foot against his leg, before looking up at him with its incredibly sad and watery eyes.

He’s not actually sure what kind of dog it is. When he’d first been approached by it, he’d been taking the waste food out to the bins behind the café. He was certain he was about to be attacked by a rabid wolf, or something. As far as he knows, the only werewolves currently living in the city is a tiny pack of three, and all of them live on the opposite side of the city to him. But in that moment he’d been certain that he was going to be mauled to death by another creature of the night.

Instead, the hulking beast of an animal had sat down at his feet and given him the saddest little look ever, eyes large and watering until Tango had offered up a rather squashed croissant to it.

After that small encounter, he’d tried to find out what kind of dog it was, searching for it first online, and then resorting to a dog breeds guide at the nearby library, in the hopes that he might find what kind of dog was walking him home most weeks.

The most he’d been able to conclude was that it was probably at least half-wolf, though the other parent is unknown. Dog and wolf – both dolf and wog had sounded incredibly dumb, and the dog looks more like an overgrown, slightly shaggier family golden retriever than a wolf.

And it still doesn’t have a name.

He offers out the half-croissant he’d saved for it today, watching as it takes the treat carefully from his hand. He’s fed a few street dogs before, though none of them this consistently, and all the street dogs in the past had bitten at his fingers as they snatched the treat from him, desperate and starving, and willing to rip out someone’s throat to make sure they got the treat.

The delicacy with which this dog takes the treat only reinforces the idea that this dog was a family pet, one that was left behind when it only continued growing and the family could no longer cope with having such a large dog.

It licks his fingers for the last crumbs of the croissant before pulling back and looking at him with those same sad eyes.

“On better topics,” he begins, watching how the dog perks up at the sound of his voice. He almost wishes it were smaller, so he could at least try to sneak it into his apartment. “The cute guy came back today,” he strokes a hand absently over the dog’s head as he talks, “I still didn’t manage to get his name, oh, it’s so embarrassing. Joe – co-worker Joe, Joe that we like – makes fun of me for it every time, says it makes me incapable at my job the moment he walks in. I just can’t help it! He always sits at the window, and gets the same thing every single time. I mean, I get the same thing every time, I can respect that, but I still don't have his name.” He buries his face in his arms, ceasing the absent pets he was giving the dog. “Man, it’s embarrassing. I don't even know his name and he’s a regular. He comes in nearly every evening, and just sits in the window, perfectly aligned with the last bits of sunlight in order to make his hair turn golden.”

A wet nose presses against his arm, before an entire head forces its way through his crossed arms. He pulls back with a short laugh, pushing the dog backwards, hands on its chest.

“Ugh, just ignore me. I'm tired,” he sighs, hauling himself to his feet. “I forgot to have something to eat before I left for work, and now I'm starving.” The dog continues to look up at him as he walks, eyes fixed on him, wet and glittering under the occasional street lights. Despite it’s overall air of patheticness, it seems to be doing rather well for itself. It’s certainly not skinny, despite living right on the edges of the city, and it hasn’t been attacked by one of Tango’s hungrier neighbours yet.

…Though, that might be more to do with Tango than sheer luck.

He’s one of the older vampires in this part of the city, and most of the other ones are content to stay out of his way as long as he stays out of theirs. And he may have been rather unsubtle in his fondness for this particular dog, even going so far as to mark him with a small sigil – one only visible to other vampires, letting them know that they should keep their hands off. The sigil is small and unnoticeable when he doesn’t look for it, fading into background noise.

To other vampires, though, it’s like a blaring light that screams at them to stay away or face his wrath. A rather effective deterrent, if he may say so himself.

He crosses into the shadowed alleyways quickly, feeling far more relaxed here than under the pools of lamplight. The dog, however, presses closer to his legs worriedly, a low whine building in the back of its throat for the first few seconds, before cutting off rather abruptly.

Tango hums to himself, reaching down to pat the dog on its head, stroking a hand over the unruly tufts there in an attempt to smooth them down.

He moves quicker through the dark alleyways. The dog doesn’t like walking through them, but it’s far quicker than taking the main streets, even if these are darker and a little more…disgusting. Still, the dog seems happier when they finally emerge from the twisting maze of brick and crawling moss, wagging its tail again and straying a little further from his side.

Still, he feels more than a little bad when he turns to face it on his doorstep, crouching down again to bid it goodbye.

“I’ll see you soon, alright?” The dog tilts its head at the exact same time he does, looking even sadder than it had when he first stepped out the café. It would almost be worth it, getting kicked out of his apartment, just to smuggle the dog inside for an evening. “And I’ll have something better than half a croissant next time, I swear.”

The dog wags its tail twice before stopping again, watching from its spot as Tango backs up towards his apartment building. He gives it one last wave before he pushes through the doors, pulling it shut behind himself.

When he glances back through the glass, the dog is already gone.

=== === ===

Jimmy waited patiently, tail curled neatly around his paws as he watches the door carefully. There’s been movement inside for the past few minutes, despite the closed sign already being flipped. Meaning its almost time for Tango to emerge from the darkness and come greet him with a smile.

He’s been worried about Tango recently. His apparent lack of friends aside, he’s been looking paler than before, almost sick with it, and he’d been stumbling yesterday when Jimmy went in for his usual coffee. He wasn’t able to get close enough to check on him then, standing at the respectable distance that humans normally choose to keep between themselves. But now, shifted and covered in a layer of fur, it’s far more acceptable for him to get that close.

He perks up at the sound of jangling keys, hopping to his feet and crossing the road before the door even finishes closing.

Only to skid to a halt before he can reach the person- because it’s just a person, not Tango.

He begins backing away, only to be caught in the act as the person turns around to face him. Another co-worker, one that Jimmy vaguely recognises as Joe, both from his visits to the café and Tango’s stories about his day.

“Heya there,” Joe waves to him, wiggling his fingers slightly at the end. “Didn’t think you’d be here tonight, looking for your buddy?”

Jimmy doesn’t make any response that would indicate understanding, simply continuing to stare up at Joe. He doesn’t know what to make of Joe, something uneasy prickling along his spine as he stares up at him. He’d never been able to get a read on the guy, but something about him just made Jimmy feel…off. Uneasy. Not unsafe, never unsafe, but healthily wary.

“Aw, well, he’s out sick today. He’s not been looking good recently, so you might not be seeing him for a bit.” Joe locks the door as he talks, turning his head over his shoulder to face Jimmy. He’s still smiling, oddly enough. “I'm sure he’ll be back, right as rain, soon enough! Nothing keeps Tango down for long. Nothing can keep Tango down for long,” Joe laughs. Then stops laughing nearly as quickly as he had begun. “You’d better run along, I've got no scraps for you tonight. Not that you’d take them from me, I don't think.”

Joe watches him for a moment longer, before making a gentle shooing motion.

Jimmy feels as though he's been broken from a trance, abruptly backing up before turning away, beginning a slow trot away from the café as he thinks. He still doesn’t feel good around Joe, and that right there was creepily similar to the time when Scott wanted to show him what a siren could really do with their voice. But there was no urge to offer himself up to the man, only a need to stay and listen to whatever it was he had to say.

Whatever Joe is, Jimmy has no interest in finding out.

Disappointed in how his evening has turned out, he slips into the forest rather than making the trip back across the city. He’s not looking to be teased by his brothers about this when he’s not even managed to see Tango. He’d much rather kill a rabbit, or something.

Or, he turns his head, the iron tang of blood filling his nose, perhaps he doesn’t even need to hunt down an entire animal. There seems to be some kind of injured creature out here that would be far easier to catch than the effort required for digging into a burrow.

He follows the scent deeper into the forest, only pausing to make sure he orients himself correctly and can find his way back to the city later.

The path zig-zags, as though the prey was desperately blundering its way through the undergrowth in its panic. Several leaves are dotted with crimson beads of blood, and the trail is laughably easy to follow. He keeps his nose to the ground anyway, snuffling along the small path of broken twigs and crushed underbrush.

A snapping twig has his ears pricking forward, a pained sound following afterwards.

He leaps forward, crashing through the bush ahead of him and ignoring the thorns that scrape along his sides as he lands. He almost slips on the leaves, skidding a little further than he had expected to.

The scent of blood is incredibly strong here, and it only takes him looking up to realise why.

Tango leans against the tree, another body beneath his own a dark shape. The pained sounds are coming from said body, though Tango seems to be ignoring them entirely, in favour of- in favour of…

There’s a wet sound as Tango pulls away from the person, turning to peer over his shoulder with squinted eyes. Those squinted eyes then rather quickly widen- and it’s the first time that Jimmy notices the red sheen they have to them, almost bright enough to glow.

What catches most of his attention, though, is the blood dripping down his chin, staining most of his lower face with it.

His heart in his throat and feeling as though he’s about to be sick from stress, he skitters back when Tango turns fully to face him. Somehow, he’s managed to not get any blood on his clothes.

He bursts back into a human, clothes settling heavily over him as he staggers to his feet, reeling backwards. “Holy shit!”

“Holy- what the hell!” Tango leaps to his feet as well, wide eyes now even wider. “You're- what!”

“You're a vampire!” He shouts back, confused and also more than annoyed with himself. “What- how didn’t I know? How the hell did you do so well at hiding it?”

“You- I didn’t know that you were a werewolf! Weredog- whatever!”

“I'm a werewolf,” he snaps back. “Not a dog.”

“You sure look like a dog,” Tango plants his hands on his hips, far too confident for someone that looks like he got dunked into a can of red paint. “A big dog, sure, but still a dog.”

“I'm a wolf, thanks,” he bristles. “And you're a vampire! You- is that guy gonna be okay?”

Said guy makes another pained sound.

“He’ll be fine,” Tango says. His voice is more than a little dismissive, only sparing a singular backwards glance over his shoulder. “He’ll just think he had a little too much to drink and ended up somewhere he doesn’t remember going.”

“And he’ll be fine?”

“He might need to eat a little more, replenish his blood. I don't know, man, I'm not a doctor.”

“If you're regularly draining people of their blood, then you need to be a little more careful.”

“I don't- this isn’t a normal thing,” Tango sighs. “I just haven’t been able to make time for the past few weeks so I was…a little more hungry than usual. This is a worst-case scenario.”

“Just, ugh, how didn’t I know?”

“How did neither of us know?” Tango turns the question back around. “God, we must be some pretty tremendous idiots to not have realised. C’mon, don't I smell like blood to your super sensitive nose?”

“No?” He blinks, “You smell like coffee, and sugar.”

“Oh, uh, alright,” Tango’s brows furrow together. “Mind if I get your name, by the way? You kept avoiding me at the café when I tried to ask. Makes a little more sense now, I guess.”

“I, yeah? I'm Jimmy, nice to meet you?” He groans, “This is weird as hell. You're covered in blood and I'm telling you my name.”

“Hey, hey, I've been trying to get that name for a while now.” Tango wags a finger at him, “Don't be weird just ‘cause this is weird- could be weirder, let me tell you.”

“Uh-huh, how could it be weirder?”

“I could ask you on a date now rather than tomorrow,” Tango smiles at him, small fangs poking over his lips as he watches. Waiting for a response. “It wouldn’t be to a café, for obvious reasons, but there’s a nice museum nearby that-”

“You want to ask me on a date?”

“…Yeah?”

“I just, ugh, why? I was going to ask you on a date months ago and decided against it!”

“Aw, you shoulda asked me,” Tango frowns. “There was an even better museum exhibit a few months ago.”

Jimmy opens his mouth to say something, but just starts laughing instead. He can see Tango watching him, from behind the tears forming in his eyes, but he can’t bring himself to stop laughing for another while yet.

“You're an idiot,” he manages between laughing.

“In a good way, or…?”

“Yeah, sure, in a good way.” He sighs, “What the hell, yeah, I’ll go on that date with you.”

“Wait, really?” Tango seems to light up, completely ignoring the blood on his face and the guy slumped over behind him. “Oh, how would you feel about dinner afterwards? On me, I swear.”

“As long as I'm not dessert,” he laughs.

Tango giggles alongside him, “Only if you offer, sweetheart.”

#juno.writes #solidaritek #jimmy solidarity #tangotek #trafficshipping #life series #traffic smp #traffic series #tango tek #team rancher #solidarity gaming #trafficfic

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