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chaethewriter · 1 year

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You're dead to me [1]

Dad!Jake Sully x human!daughter!reader

In which Jake Sully leaves his life on earth to settle down with the Omatikaya people as Toruk Makto. Having a family that consists of four kids with Neytiri, everything seems to work out just fine, but what if the past comes back for him? And his babygirl is right there in front of him?

warning: english isn't my first language, angst, fluff, barely proofread, kinda rushed, prologue type of part.

Word count: 1,9k

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"Daddy daddy look what I made!" When Jake Sully entered the room, he was met with a pair of sparkling eyes staring directly at him, paper in hand as you jumped up and down in excitement. He closed the door with his hands before he moved them back to the wheels, rolling himself forward carefully as he had their dinner on his lap. When you headed towards him, your tiny feet stepping towards him in small baby steps, Jake Sully already knew he had to remove anything available on his lap for the tiny human that was about to jump in his arms. He quickly put the plastic bag to his side and opened his arms to welcome his adopted daughter in his arms. "Daddy daddy!!", your squeals filled the air as you pressed yourself against his body. Jake Sully had to steady his body for the huge amount of impact a tiny human like yours could give, but once he seated you comfortably on his lap, he couldn't help but lift you up to his face, his arms around her body to hug her close as she was kneeling on his lap. "Hi babygirl, did you make something for daddy?", he brought his lips towards your chubby cheek to blow a raspberry against your skin. Tons of giggles left your lips as you nodded your head to his question, "I drew daddy and me!" You held onto his shoulder to steady yourself with one hand before you brought the drawing in front of his face. Jake Sully had to squint his eyes to get used to the closeness, the little girl, that was you, basically pressing the drawing into his face. Another pair of giggles left your lips as you waited for his reply. He turned you around on his lap and you immediately took a seat, your short legs dangling against his. Jake took his time to analyze the drawing. It was incredibly messy, as expected of a six year old. A few scribbles in different colors. Something that is supposed to look like a rainbow? But in the middle, there he was. Jake sully himself. He was sitting on something that looked like a chair and his little girl was there, right on his lap. The drawing was very abstract, but it made his heart flutter nonetheless. "And you drew this all by yourself? You did this all by yourself?" One hand is held onto the drawing while the other was wrapped around your stomach.

"Yes daddy!! I love you daddy!!"

You, (Y/N) Sully, prior (Y/N) (L/N), were confused. Where did your daddy go? You were young, age 8 when he left you on earth. You didn't understand why. Didn't he love you? But he always made sure to remind you. Kisses, quality time, cuddling. He took you in when mommy and daddy died, so why is he suddenly leaving you? He told you it was for work, something important that would give the both of you a good life. Give you a good life. But you didn't care about anything of that. Being with your daddy already made you feel like you were living your best life. Painting with daddy, eating with daddy, cuddling with daddy. But he told you to be patient and that he would return to you soon. Yet, when was soon? You grew impatient, even though you yourself knew that it wasn't kind of you to be like that. He took you in when you were an orphan and took his time to care for you, even though he was paralyzed and having a hard time himself. You completed one another, because you both needed each other the most at the same time. So you tried you best to stay optimistic. Your daddy loves you, so surely he will come soon for you, right? But days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Then he missed your eleventh birthday. The neighbors Jake Sully was close with took care of you instead during the time. They were like your auntie and uncle, but they weren't your daddy. When two years passed, you decided to call it quits. He wasn't coming back for you. You were thirteen at that time, old enough to understand the reality of the world. A teenager without any goals is what you were, the light and will left your eyes the moment your daddy left you. You hated carrying his last name, yet couldn't bring yourself to change it back to your original surname.

The decision to keep your last name was the reason they found you. They, are a resistance group going against the destruction of Pandora. Pandora. The planet your daddy went to and never came back from. Like the reckless thirteen-year-old you were and not thinking about consequences at all in this terrible world, you went with these unknown, potentially dangerous, people to their underground base. There you were answered all the questions you had and wanted to ask. It was normal that you were curious about your dad, but tried to be nonchalant about it. Him leaving you wasn't a big deal, not at all. Why would that be a big deal? But you couldn't fool anyone with that type of behavior, as the liteaunant explained further than the questions you actually asked. Much more personal information. A daughter will always miss her dad after all. You learned that your father, Jake Sully, was still alive and one of the people. A painful way to know, from someone else, since it felt like your father indirectly slapped you in the face with an 'I don't care about you'. "Alive and well", were the words she told you. Alive and well your ass. When you were asked to join the program to protect Pandora, the indigenous and its nature from the greedy governments that tried to destroy it. The same governments that already have destroyed their own planet: ignoring global warming. Proceeding to pump gas from under the ground, bringing animals in danger, and destroying the nature humanity needs to even breathe. You couldn't lie, you wanted to decline. Saving the world and all sounded good and all, but you never wanted to do anything that even indirectly involved you so-called father. When money and status were involved, it started to sound interesting in your eyes. Ironic, the same way your dad left you. Like father like daughter, one could say. Yet, this was your chance to show everyone what you could turn out to be.

So, accepting is what you did. You soon started training, but it was no usual military training. You all learned about life on Pandora, you and the others that had potential in them learned to live like the people of Pandora: the bow and arrow, spears, but also hand-to-hand combat if anything were to go wrong. The training honestly went great, you didn't regret accepting the offer one bit. You felt fit and worthy, and most importantly you found people around you that cared for you. The liteaunant that guided you from the start was like a master to you. Not in an authority kind of way, but a respectful bond between two equals. You had friends that went through this entire process with you, telling each other about their lives and how they ended up here. While they were almost like warriors following orders, every night the group would sneak away to be like teenagers again, kids having fun and playing games. For a long time, it was the same routine. Wake up, eat, and train for almost the entire day, do homework, have dinner, sneak out, and sleep. You hated that homework so much, but knew that you needed to master everything you were given. It was to learn the language of the people, Na'vi. This felt like when you had to learn languages in high school, but ten times worse as you didn't even finish high school. "Oel nati kamy?", your voice sounded unsure as you tried to say the formal way of greeting someone in Na'vi, but you earned a slap against your forehead in return from one of your friends. "No, it's Oel Ngati Kameie, skxwang!"

Years of training together ended up being so worth it, because when all of you reached the end of your teenage years, it got announced that you were finally ready. You felt so delighted to know that all of your hard work paid off in the end. You knew everyone had a hard time trying their best to teach you the language of the people, so you were so thankful for everyone around you to get you where you are right now. Everyone worked so hard for it. As a parting gift, your liteaunant gifted you a katana. "It's to protect yourself, and always think of me", she joked to you, but the both of you could feel the heavy tension in the air. The grip on your katana tightened as you dropped your bag on the floor. You finally wrapped your arms around her, forgetting about the warrior exterior, that facade falling for just a moment. She didn't hesitate to hug you in return, "thank you for everything." You had whispered into her ear and pulled yourself together, being the first one to pull away from the hug. You knew that if you didn't let go now, you would second-guess jumping on your flight to Pandora. "Come on (y/n)!" Your friends already boarded and you were the last one left on the flat grounds. "Go on, child. You deserve this. And remember what I told you!" You don't reply, but only flash her a smile as you run after your friends with the katana and a bag. You all follow your superiors' suit, putting your stuff where they tell you to. With no seconds left to spare, they immediately tell you to follow them to your tubes, you were getting put into cryosleep. You still couldn't believe it. They were going to put you to sleep for six years and you're gonna wake up looking the same, but temporarily living in a dream world you trained your entire teen years for. You lay down in your tube, ready to get put to sleep. The nerves were truly getting to you. "See you on the other side!", you jokingly said to lift up the mood, and your friends started joking around, telling one another goodbyes and what they should do if one of them doesn't wake up. You just lay there quietly, waiting to get put to sleep as your mind starts wandering. You kept thinking about your leatiunant's words. She keeps telling you that you should make up with your dad or at least hear him out. You hoped you wouldn't run into him on Pandora, but he was Jake Sully. The Toruk Makto that went from being a sky demon to being one of the people. For sure you would get in contact with him. But as long as no one revealed your name, everything could be fine. He's dead to you after all. Surely, you were only there for the money and a good time, right?

Only time could tell.

A/N: my first time writing on tumblr so no idea how some stuff works. Had this type of idea for a dad Sully plot for a while and finally started it. Legit rushed through this to finish this asap cause backstory kinda lame. I'm a college student so give me some time until the next part. I need to release a novella for college so I'm double-writing a story— isn't smart of me but🤭

#jake sully x reader #jake sully #avatar #atwow #atwow x reader #dad! jake sully #dad!jake x daughter!reader #dad!jake sully #jake sully x daughter!reader #sully family #sully family x reader #jake sully x human!reader #jake sully x human!daughter!reader #dad!jake sully x reader #neteyam #neteyam x reader #lo'ak x sister!reader #neteyam x sister!reader

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smusherina · 25 days

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yard work - chapter 11 (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her.

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6 / chapter 7 / chapter 8 / chapter 9 / chapter 10 / chapter 12

Making the scrapbook was cathartic. Remembering the good times, the innocence of your childhood, was as much of a joy as it was painful. The pictures were all quite good quality since Abuela had had a film camera. Some photos had been taken with a digital camera, which had probably originally belonged to the Georges and ended up in your possession somewhere along the way.

Regina and yourself playing in the Georges' backyard and swimming in their pool, beaming smiles directed at the camera. You could almost hear the laughter. I miss when we used to be able to just have fun together like this. I guess it's a part of growing up.

Regina in a white frilly dress, carrying a small basket of flower petals, donning a crown of roses on her head. She was pouting, clearly unimpressed by the whole thing. You hadn't been at the wedding since it was a George event, but Regina's mom had been so elated her daughter had gotten to be the flower girl. I remember I was so jealous you got to go to a wedding and I couldn't. You hated it, though, which was funny. You used to leave the room whenever your mom insisted we watch the tape. I wonder if she still has it.

You sitting with Regina, hip to hip, on plastic chairs while a newlyborn Kylie slept in your laps. Regina, eyes stuck on her baby sister and a thoughtful look on her face, while you looked at the camera with a smile. She's growing up so fast. Don't think I don't know you care about her. There's gonna be a time you'll regret not spending time with her. I already feel it.

Mrs George, Abuela, Regina, Kylie in her mom's arms, and you grouped together at a parking lot. You and Regina had on little graduation gowns and had scrolls in your hands. Elementary school graduation. The summer before middle school. End of an era. I love your mom's clothes, they're so nineties. Does she still have those jeans? You should get ahold of them before somebody else does...

Remember when I sliced my hand open when we were peeling apples? That was a time for sure. I still have the scar!

You taped pictures onto the pages, wrote little things here and there, hoping the labour of your love wouldn't end up in the garbage. Or if it did, Regina would read skim through it first.

I think this album was the first time we agreed on music. Britney Spears really brought us together, huh? We even learned the choreography of Baby One More Time. Mrs George loved it. I bet there's a video of that somewhere.

Mostly the scrapbook was filled with anecdotes about your childhoods together. You did write a letter of sorts on the first page, regarding your intentions with the whole thing.

I made this for you to commemorate the good times we had. You know me regrettably well, so I think you know how I tend to hold onto things. I still have that gaudy pink Build-A-Bear you made me for Valentine's Day that one time. It's one of my most important possessions, only second to the memories we have together. You'll always be a friend to me, Reggie. If not forever, or from now on, then back then. I love you. Yours, Jorts.

You'd pretty much finished the whole thing by the end of the weekend. You spent Monday and Tuesday decorating the front cover, mostly because you purposefully put it off. You cut out letters from magazines and glued them there, painstakingly forming the words Reggie & Jorts. You'd tried to come up with something clever, but making a pun or a dumb joke felt like cheapening the whole album. A simple name made up for with fabulous decorations!

You weren't much of a painter, but you figured it'd be fitting if the album reflected its contents. It was fine if the roses you painted looked like a five-year-old did them. A good majority of the pictures featured you and Regina huddled around a crafts table, similar projects scattered all around you, young with clumsy hands but filled with artistic passion.

The album in itself was an earthy green colour, something Regina undoubtedly found ugly. The flowers brightened it up somewhat, but there was only so much ages-old acrylic paints could do. You outlined some with Sharpies. If you didn't know better, one could assume it looked like that on purpose.

You took it with you to school on Wednesday. You had it weighing your backpack down the whole day. You sweated under all your layers, and by the end of it, you were sure you were sporting some epic pit stains. Gross, but you were so nervous. You hadn't broken into anyone's locker in so long. And it was Regina George's locker.

You loitered around the hallways as they emptied out steadily, people heading home or off to extracurriculars. As you approached Regina's locker, you swallowed down your nervousness and got to work.

It wasn't hard. The combination locks were all old and weak, more of a formality than an actual barrier between one's stuff and a burglar. The lock clicked open easily and you wasted no time in stuffing your album inside.

"Hey!" Just as the resounding click of the lock going back into place came, a voice called out to you. "What are you doing with Regina's locker?"

"Uhh..." Gretchen Wieners stood at the intersection of hallways, hands on her hips and accusatory eyes burning holes in you. You made the swift decision that you did not have time for this. You booked it.

"Hey! Get back here!" Gretchen, surprisingly considering her heels, started after you. "What did you put in it? You cannot prank Regina, or- or, oh, was it a bomb?"

"It's not a bomb!" You shouted over your shoulder, sprinting towards the exit. The aggressive clacking of Gretchen's heels on the floors as she ran after you would surely haunt your nightmares. How could she even keep up with you?

"If it's not a bomb then what!" How was she closing in on you? It seemed like she was not even fazed by your little race, meanwhile, you were already winded. The exit was not that far away, but it felt like miles.

"It's Regina's business now! Ask her tomorrow at school or something!" The doors to freedom approached. "Stop chasing me!"

"Stop running!"

"No!"

You burst out and quickly hopped down the stairs, two at a time. Gretchen was still on your tail, but once she got to the top of the stairs shouted: "Karen! Tackle her!"

You hadn't even noticed Karen fucking Shetty. There was no not noticing her when the girl sprinted at you with perfect athletic form and squashed you like a linebacker.

You collided and flew into the snow. Better than the concrete of the footpath but it still hurt like a bitch.

"Get off of me!" You tried to get out from under her, but Karen was surprisingly dense. She was small but it was as if there were stones in her body instead of organs. "Fuck!"

"Keep her there, Karen, very good."

"Thanks!" Karen beamed, which was a much more common expression on her than the bloodlust she'd shown earlier.

"This has nothing to do with you." You snarled, still wriggling. "This is between Regina and me."

"Whatever's between Regina is between us," Gretchen said, all hoity-toity. "Now, tell me exactly what you put in her locker."

"A fucking photo album." You hissed, closing your eyes and clenching your jaw. What lie could you come up with? "Our families used to know each other. It's mostly pictures of her, so I just thought to... Return it."

"Oh, that's so nice!" Karen's hold loosened and you went to escape.

"Nuh-uh, not good enough." Just like that, Karen's weight slammed back down onto you. Your breath wooshed out of your lungs.

"What more do you want?" You wheezed out, getting sick and tired of this.

"Why was it in your possession?"

"I don't fucking know! It just was!"

"Hmm. And why couldn't you just give it to her?"

"You think that would've gone well, Gretchen? Seriously?" You turned your head with great effort, staring up at the girl. "Please, just let me go."

"I don't think I believe you." Gretchen squatted next to your head. "We're going back and checking it's what you say it is. And then you might be free to go."

"Fuck you." You hissed but made no move to book it when Karen hauled you up.

"That's not very nice." Karen pointed out.

"I don't want to be nice to Gretchen right now." You had no real issue with Karen, even if she had just tackled you.

"Oh, okay." You couldn't see her when she was holding your wrists behind your back, but you could imagine she was bobbing her head up and down like she was known to do.

You were walked back into the building, going mostly without a fight. Gretchen strutted along proudly as if capturing you was some great victory. Regina had trained her well. You weren't sure if that was impressive or just sad.

"Open it." Gretchen gestured once you were back at Regina's locker.

"I need my hands to do that." You helped out, smiling at Gretchen like she was stupid. Sputtering and offended, she instructed Karen to let go.

Instead of running like you should've, taking the chance you could get out if Karen didn't get a one-up on you, you obediently cracked the code again. Was it selfish that you kind of wanted others to know about you and Regina? Was it totally horrible of you to want to know it was real and have proof of that? Well, if it was, there was no helping it.

Gretchen snatched the album from the locker before you could even think to touch it. Karen sidled up to her, peering over her shoulder as she opened it.

You stood by, waiting for their judgement and looking at the ceiling. There'd been a water leak right there, based on the discolouration. Gross.

"You... You're J. J is for Jorts." Gretchen said. She sounded weird, like hollow or something. "J is for Jorts." She said again, breathy and disbelieving.

"What?" What the fuck was going on?

Karen spoke then. "She talks about J a lot. Like, a lot a lot. A whole lot." You nodded slowly as Karen went on. "J's like, her true love. It's so cute."

"J is not her true love, Karen! They are both girls." Gretchen pointed out. You had to agree. "Are they?" She looked you up and down judgementally.

"Yes. I am a girl." You said. It was true, you were female and around the age that it was acceptable to be referred to as a girl. Even so, it made you distinctly uncomfortable.

"Hmm." Gretchen didn't seem to believe you. Karen was busy cooing at the pictures of small Regina. It was sheer luck they hadn't bothered to read your writings.

"Look, can I go now? I know I'm busted, you're probably gonna confiscate the album, and Regina will never see it. Happy?"

"No. Karen, please put it back in the locker." Gretchen said, not taking her eyes off of you. Karen did as asked with a pout. "What is your relationship with Regina?" The album was back in the locker, but it hadn't been locked again.

"Nothing." And that was true. There was nothing there anymore.

"That's a lie and you know it. If you're J, then you've known each other at least since middle school. Based on the pictures, even longer."

"Who is J?" You asked in exasperation.

"Somebody who she has protected for years now. Somebody who is always better than we could ever be." Gretchen pointed between herself and Karen. "J is important to her."

"Okay, well, good for J, I guess."

"You're so infuriating." Gretchen sighed, pinching the skin between her eyes.

"You aren't the first to tell me that."

"Of course, because Regina has said that to you. Because you've known each other forever. Because you're J."

"Listen, I may look a bit butch, but I have a perfectly ordinary girl name."

"That is not the point!" She spoke fast and high-pitched. "You. It's you. You've been under our noses this entire time! Do you realize how much easier things could've been if you were around?"

"Excuse me?" Now, you were really lost.

"You're excused," Karen said cheerfully. You nodded to her in thanks.

"We could never be as good as you. It was like we were placeholders for the ultimate pretty girl she'd somehow let slip. And it's you. In a flannel and hoodie, ratty jeans, dirty shoes, no fashion sense to speak of. It's you." She said that last part with contempt.

You were reeling. Regina had talked about you to these two. Had compared them to you, cited that you were better. For years she'd done that. She'd never forgotten about you.

"Look, Gretchen, I'm sorry Regina's treated you badly." You'd lost the need to defend her, even still. Then again, even if you hadn't, there was little you could argue about with the two she'd tormented the most. "You can probably tell this is something Regina doesn't want coming out."

"What does that matter?" Gretchen asked, eyes far away and legs beginning to pace. "We could- could finally bring her down. Yes. We have J, we have everything she wants. She'll come grovelling."

You took a deep breath. You didn't feel angry, you were too tired to get angry at mean girls at this point. Besides, nobody could rile you up like Regina.

"You're wrong." You put it plainly. "What Regina's been doing to these people, to everyone around her, is wrong. But what I find despicable is how everybody is the same. I know her reasons, I can sympathise with her, but I can't say the same for you. So tell me." You paused to take a deep breath. "Why?"

"I'm not good at riddles, I'm sorry." Karen said, looking genuinely apologetic.

"It's okay, Karen, Gretchen can answer for you both."

"She deserves it." Gretchen said, steel in her tone.

"You sound just like Cady Heron and Janis 'Imi'ike. She hurt them too. What do you think ruining her life will achieve?"

"I'll be the new Regina George."

"Do you hear yourself? You still idolize her. If you're gonna be the new Regina George, it's always going to be a Regina George world. Don't you want to be Gretchen Wieners?"

"No!" She screeched. "Gretchen Wieners is lame, boring, too eager, a slut, desperate-" She took a deep breath.

"Okay." You said. "Why? Because Regina said so? Why would you believe her? She's just the same as you. Look," You pulled the album back out.

"Here we're in the Georges' pool. She would not go to the deep end. Y'know, she refused to even go in without those arm floaties for the longest time. Eventually, some boy made fun of her for them and that was the last time.

"And in this one we're driving back from summer camp. Regina was already tall enough to go without a booster seat, but I wasn't. She'd just thrown the biggest tantrum 'cause Mrs George didn't allow her to take off her seatbelt to sleep. She went out like a light, anyway.

"We're in Six Flags there. We'd just gotten those ice creams and you can see that Regina's isn't sticking to the cone all that well. Right after the shot, it just slid off. Regina was inconsolable. I offered her mine so we could share, and that seemed to be good enough for her but her dad was not having it. He threatened to take us home if she didn't stop crying right then, that it'd be all her fault that their whole family wasted money and time on this stupid trip. Eventually she calmed down and Mr George didn't have to drive us back."

You sighed. "I already tried this with Janis, in a way. I don't think Regina would appreciate me airing out her personal life like this, but... I don't know..." You closed your eyes for a moment. "I just want people to stop making things worse for her. She's been so wrong for so long, and I know I can't keep defending her, but I just don't think revenge will make her regret anything that she's done."

Karen hummed. "My auntie's been teaching me about karma. So, like, if she feels what she's made others feel, then won't that like... Fix her?"

"I don't want to hurt her." You said, resolute. "Maybe, it could be the most effective way to make her see her shortcomings. But I don't want to. I do not want to hurt her." You looked between the two. "And that's where we differ, I guess."

Gretchen didn't say anything, eyes glued to a picture from the Six Flags trip. Regina had mustard and ketchup smeared all over her face while she was holding a napkin to your lips, in the process of wiping your face.

With that, you snatched the album from her hands, deposited it back into the locker and slammed it shut. The lock clicked. Without a word, you began to talk towards the exit. Neither of them followed you or said anything to you.

You couldn't stop people from taking their revenge. You had done your best to be diplomatic. Evoking sympathy in hormonal teenagers wasn't something easily done, or maybe you were just shitty at it, but there was little else you could do. If you went ahead and retaliated, hurt them for hurting someone you cared about, the lines blurred.

You'd just be another mean girl.

Notes: Sorry for the delay! The next chapter will be the last one, unless I start rambling or something. After that, I'll do a less structured series of epilogues. Loosely related oneshots, that kinda vibe.

Also, my writing assistant stopped working in the middle of this, so if there's stupid typos I'll come fix them later.

I swear to fucking god if the taglist doesn't work I'll start breaking bones.

Taglist: @autorasexy, @wedfan2, @unadulterated-moron, @modernsapphicism , @9unknown0 , @sage-rose2000 , @massive-honkas , @nattys-swiftie , @likefirenrain , @luz-enjoyer , @dandelions4us , @natashamaximoff-69 , @alexkolax , @jareaul0ver , @here4theqts , @charleeeesworld , @natsbiggestfan1 , @brocoliisscared , @yellowwallflowers , @scarlettbitchx , @ayoungexwife , @cyberbonesworld , @syddie-reads , @screechcat , @theenglishswiftie , @gabby-duhh , @sweetmissnothing , @masterofpuppets-10 , @l1lass , @starved-mortal , @nothanksbye07 , @nenas19 , @jvuyii , @starry-night17 , @reneeswife24 , @glorioushamsterqueen , @krononan , @slug-on-bike , @rayisaknight , @chaseatlanticlover91 , @reginassweetheart , @mirage018

(this actually makes me angry. why. why doesnt it work. i type in the @ and then i type in the name and then it shows up in the lil' box and i click it but then it don't show up ;-;)

(this is cyber bullying. the cybers are bullying me.)

(anyway, if you want to be added to the taglist there is no gurantee if it'll work, but i'll add you if you want! just comment on this post :) if anybody has any ideas why it's like this, lmk!)

#mean girls #mean girls 2004 #mean girls 2024 #regina george #regina george x reader #regina george x you #regina george x oc #regina george x ofc #mean girls x reader #lesbian regina george #wlw #fic: yard work

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theplumsoldier · 9 months

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loverboy

summary: carmen makes a move on you while you think he's still got a girlfriend. could've gone smoother but you end up inviting him

pairing: carmy berzatto x afab!reader

word count: 4,2k

warnings: insecurities, self-doubt, small lies (carm makes you believe he lives closer to you than he does), vulgar language, mention of "setting boundaries" of a not-yet-existing-fwb-relationship, 18+ MDNI; smut, unprotected sex, semi-public grinding, oral (f&m receiving) soft!carm, idiots in love, friends to lovers!!

"You know, I don't think I've said this." He hadn't. "But I'm-I'm really—we're all really glad to have you here."

He was nodding to himself as he said it, and he hoped you didn't notice the hesitation. Carmy wasn't for a second doubtful that they were happy—he was certainly happy that you had joined the crew during the hectic weeks prior to The Bear's opening.

It was just that now, here, sitting alone with you in the back alley of the restaurant, sharing one of the bottles of expensive-as-shit Coup Beaujolais, he was getting unsure of himself. On whether he had completely misread your banter. He wasn't very good with that, flirting—never knew when someone was hitting on him and always double-checking whether he himself was, in fact, hitting on someone. Richie had said the chemistry between you guys was more dangerous than Fak recalibrating. Fucking stupid, he thought, but it made him think.

And then Carmy realized he had been flirting with you, in his own stupid fucking way which he worried you hadn't picked up on. Shit, he hadn't noticed it before Richie told him. Now that he sat there, with you, alone, he wondered if Richie had been fucking with him again.

Carmy wanted to know how you felt about him, but he didn't want to fuck up as was his specialty lately—didn't wanna make you uncomfortable, didn't wanna make anything weird.

"Yeah, uh. Thanks, chef," said you, chewing at your bottom lip to ease the tension. Carmy had a real habit of making situations awkward. "I'm glad you'll have me."

Phrasing.

Carm nodded, the persistent way he does whenever he's turning words in his head. You could almost hear the gears scraping.

"You always seem so cool—about everything. Like, even though we're jumpin' off the fuckin' walls, screaming n'shit, you'll just—you're collected. S'a real good quality, you know?"

You grinned, thinking of those exact memories, some just a couple of hours old. "Yeah, well—I'm sure it's more hectic n'the kitchen, right? Like there's, open fire, sharp knives and shit. Gotta be jumpin', like, all the time, yeah? To avoid the obstacles n'stuff."

"Yeah," he chuckled. "Peter Parker-type shit."

"Yeah."

You held the plastic cup out and he poured you another one.

"Anyway, keeps me sane, you know? I think—I think at some point you made me realize that—that, you know, it's not normal to fuckin' scream all day. Like I didn't even realize I got fuckin' migraines 'til it was quiet, you feel me?"

It made you bubbly, to hear that Carmen did in fact appreciate having you be a part of the team.

You just sat there, quietly watching him. His bicep popped when he poured a slob into his own cup. You watched as his tongue darted out to wet his lips before taking a sip.

You sat like that, speaking mindlessly for a while, sharing experiences and goofing around. You loved this, getting to know him better, but when you suddenly found that he had sought closer to you, you felt your heart leap.

His body was so close you could feel the heat of his body radiate. It was intoxicating, more than the wine and though your subconscious reminded you it was wrong to lean into his welcoming touch, you couldn't help but forget what was right and wrong.

His crystal blue eyes caught the light from the street lamp, and you were mesmerized as he looked into your soul. You felt vulnerable but safe in his company.

Though there had been much lead-up, it seemed to come out of the blue. Carmy leaned in, and his eyes were fixated on your lips. Before your lips touched, your senses returned and you moved back against the fence.

"Yo, what the fuck are you doing?"

Fuck.

"Wait—I'm sorry! I'm sorry."

"You have a girlfriend!"

Oh.

"Wha—no, no—shit, that's not—" he stumbled back, running a hand over his dazed face, dragging the expression down with it.

Fuck—fuck! Carmen thought he must look like a fucking jagoff.

He stood with his back to you, but you could see the way his broad shoulders heaved with every.

You pushed, not appreciating the silence. "Yeah, no—her name is Claire. You've been dating her a couple months now and known her, for like, forever. That ring any bells?"

When Carmen turned around to face you, he looked defeated. He then crouched down beside you again.

"We broke up."

What?

Carmen told you how he had had an existential crisis during opening night, how he had thought he vented to Tina while stuck in the walk-in, and Claire had heard everything he had said. You could sense the sadness in his voice, but there was no regret. It spread a warm feeling in your chest, and you immediately felt a pang of guilt. When you had first met Carm, he had been with Claire and so the immediate attraction you had felt—well, you had obviously tried to suppress that.

"—I guess I just... I realized I can't both manage a—a restaurant and a relationship. I—I don't know, it don't come natural to me."

Your brows were furrowed, mixed feeling prickling at your skin. "So... why'd you try to kiss me just now?"

Again, he looked despondent.

"I—fuck, I don't know, I've—I guess I've just been feeling this for a while now, with—with you and I dunno. Richie's been getting in my head and I had a stupid thought and figured fuck it, you know?"

It wasn't a question but he was looking for an answer on your expression. Carmen feared you had stopped him from kissing you, not because you thought he had a girlfriend, but because you didn't want to kiss him.

Carmy watched as you looked thoughtfully at the ground, his hands fidgeting as you did the same.

Fuck.

It's over, he thought to himself.

Battling the voices in your head telling you not to, you said: "You know, it's not that the thought of kissing you, like, disgusts me."

His head tilted upward, hope in his sorry eyes.

"No?" he quizzed sheepishly.

"No," you chuckled. "I mean, I've thought about it before."

Carm lit up. "Ye—yeah?"

"Yeah," nodded you, wetting your lips as you recalled your fantasies. "It'd probably be stupid though, right?"

"So stupid," he agreed, nodding vigorously as if trying to shake the thought. It would be fucking stupid. He knew it. But it didn't deter him. Carm wanted to take the chance. He shouldn't, after all, he broke it off with Claire because he "wasn't ready". Why would he be ready now? "Still want to, though."

So badly. It felt more like an urge; a need rather than a want.

"So do it," you finally tested.

If you didn't, you were sure you'd back out, run into the kitchen with your tail between your legs. But you would regret that, you knew it. You tried to convince yourself you shouldn't back away. You wanted this—had for a while. Carm was the one who should second-guess himself, not you. He had ended a relationship because he couldn't dedicate himself and now he wanted to give it another shot. With you. It made you desperate, knowing he wanted you like you wanted him. Still, you worried he would kiss you and regret it immediately, confirmed in his suspicions—he didn't have time for romance. Keep your eye on the price.

"Fuck it," breathed he, putting aside an internal battle and leaned closer, knocking aside the bottle of wine as he pressed his hungry lips to you.

Your lips felt plump against his, chewed with anticipation and soft with spit. You tasted like a perfect dessert.

Lost in the growing heat, you cradled his face, swiping your warm tongue over his needy lips and Carmen did not hesitate to grant you entrance. A desperate although soft whine escaped him and you swallowed it down, living for the way he desired you.

Without interrupting the dance your tongues twirled, Carmen's large palm grasped your hip and pulled you into his lap. Automatically you ground down on him and moaned at the sensation of what you did to him.

You'd thought about how he would feel against you. From behind the bar, you always had a perfect view of his station and often got distracted by the way he moved—the way his mouth curled when he would scream commands, the way his arms would flex as he worked. It was a surprise nobody had filed a complaint against you. On more than one occasion you had mixed the wrong drink or spilled liquor because you just couldn't keep your eyes off of him. It was unprofessional, but he was mesmerizing like a starry sky; the longer you looked, the deeper you fell into the abyss.

Carmen mumbled a curse under his breath as he broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he ground up into your clothes sex.

"Do—doesn't feel so stupid, huh?"

You grinned and shook your head lightly, pressing your forehead against his.

"If we're gonna fuck we should probably talk about it," you said blatantly. "Set some ground rules."

Carmen was caught off guard for a second. He knew what he wanted but when you said it so casually it made something twitch in him.

His eyes were attached to your lips. They looked so delicious, kissed rough and he pulled at your bottom lip with his thumb before he even registered it.

"Probably," he breathed even though he wasn't quite sure what your words actually meant. He was quite literally thinking with his cock.

Carmen clashed his insatiable lips to yours again, but the second he did so, the back door to The Bear clicked open and Marcus appeared, garbage bags in hand. By the time you looked up at him, you had clumsily shuffled off of Carmen, sitting awkwardly with your legs to your chest. You weren't sure what he'd seen nor what he made of it.

"Hey," he hummed, moving to sling the plastic bags into the container.

"Sup, bro," acknowledged Carm, putting his hands on his hips, suddenly standing up, playing it cool.

"Imma call it a night," Marcus said. "See y'all tomorrow."

"Yeah, uh—good job t'day."

Marcus disappeared and Carmen looked back down at you, holding out a hand to help you to your feet. The interruption had broken the spell.

"Can I walk you home?" he offered. It made more sense to him, taking you home. He wasn't about to violate health code on the kitchen floor of his own restaurant.

"You live close to Maygrey?"

No.

"Yeah."

The walk might do him some good, he figured. Perhaps the chivalrous gesture would help him get lucky tonight, and even if you decided you were not about to fool around with him, he could at least say he had done a good deed today.

Carm hadn't realized you made a twenty-minute walk every night, and although he often did the same, it bothered him a great deal. He hadn't had any uncomfortable encounters himself, but he knew Sugar had. One time when she had been late to dinner at his place because of some creep bothering her on the street, and he had asked her why she hadn't called him (he would have picked her up), she told him it was not a first nor was it a last. It angered him, knowing it was not unusual for a woman to feel afraid when walking alone.

Carmen recalled your mention of ground rules, but you didn't once embark on the topic. Instead of talking about sex, you joked as if you were friends and nothing more. It made him wonder if you regretted kissing him.

Of course you invited him up. How could you not?

Carm looked dubious suddenly and you raised a brow, giving him a soft smile.

"I won't be mad if you turn me down now. No hard feelings."

He realized you were just a pair of self-doubting idiots—none of you wanting to pressure the other into something you might regret. And Carmen knew he might just do that—not because he was unsure whether he wanted this with you (he hadn't wanted something this much in a long time), no—he feared he would find himself in the same emotional clusterfuck he had with Claire.

Something about you made him want to throw caution to the wind and become the loverboy he so pathetically wanted to be for you.

How could he ever turn you down? A simple kiss in a back alley had dragged him in too deep.

You stood atop the staircase and watched curiously as Carmen closed the space. His hand cradled your face and he planted a soft kiss on your lips, not as vigorous a kiss as earlier that night, but just as hungry, just as passionate.

He then gave you a reassuring look and you knew you had it bad cause you could've sworn you fell in love with him just then.

Grabbing his hand you dragged him along with you, eagerly pulling him up the steps to your apartment, not wasting a goddamn second in connecting your lips again.

Carm chuckled against your lips as you pushed him into the door, closing it with him as if locking you away from the outside world. It was just the two of you.

Carmen was too far away to realize you had undone his belt until the familiar clinking sounded. He was so fucking hard by now, aroused by your eagerness. It was almost mortifying.

He composed himself. "Where's the bedroom?"

You gave him a look. "It's a one-room apartment, Carm."

For the first time, he looked around and got the message. The kitchen was awkwardly lodged into a small corner of the living room and the living room was also the bedroom. There was a door three feet ahead but he was unsure whether it was a closet or a bathroom.

"So when I fuck you on the couch I'll also be fucking you in the dining room?"

You looped your arms around his front from behind, pointing to the corner of the room. "Yeah, n'the trashcan over there's the bathroom."

He spun around, placing his large hands on your hips to keep you close. "Cozy."

There was a glimmering to his eyes, and his contagious charm infected you with an enticing smirk. You leaned in, cradling your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent.

"So you gonna fuck me Carmy? Or are ya just all talk?" teased you, planting wet kisses against his throat, sucking the place below his ear. That's the spot.

In a flash, he hooked your legs around his waist and you would've been embarrassed by the stupid fucking giggle escaping you if a low moan hadn't interrupted you. His restrained cock felt even bigger now, pressing up into your clothed crotch.

You could hardly wait to see his weeping head.

Carmen straddled you on the couch, breaking your lips apart to shift his focus. Peppering kisses down your neck, your chest heaved with a shaky breath, whining for him. You wondered if he would flip you over and fuck you roughly if you asked nicely.

Another time you told yourself. Tonight, you were too ecstatic as he worshipped your body like the prettiest fucking tenderloin he'd ever seen. The thought made you smile into your arm, gasping as his hot breath swept over your belly.

"So fuckin' beautiful," he murmured against your skin, tongue poking out to taste the flesh.

Writhing beneath him, you tugged at his curls, and he swore he was about to bust right there, with your glossy and dazed eyes blinking down at him. Fuck, Carm wanted to hear you beg for him.

"What is it, baby girl?" he taunted, looking curiously at you while he peppered kisses across the skin he exposed by lifting up your shirt.

When you ground up your hips to show him where you wanted him, he kept you pressed against the cushion. You cried out.

"Carmy!" you mewled, helplessly thrashing.

After removing your shirt, he praised your patience: "you're so good for me," he said and unbuttoned your jeans. "Tell me what you want, sweet girl."

You threw your head back into a pillow with a thud, wanting to both strangle and fuck him (which you had wanted many times already since you started bartending at The Bear) as he pressed teasing, open-mouthed kisses by the seams of your panty line.

"Just—mpff! Fuck me already, Carm," you whined.

His face tilted up and you wanted to slap the smirk right off of his sly face. "In a minute, baby."

As he moved back a little, you thought he was finally going to give you what you wanted, but when you arched your back with need he used your movements to flip you onto your stomach. He roughly placed you as he pleased, propping you on your knees, and slid in under you.

"Just a quick taste, baby," he drawled.

Realizing he was gonna eat you out, you melted completely, seated perfectly on his face as was his wish. You barely managed to get comfortable before he hooked a finger through the leg of your underwear, the cold of his ring making you shiver and he dug in like a man starved.

A sound bordering on a thirsty moan and a dry cry escaped you. Carmen looped his arms around your thighs. His tongue explored the nooks of your lips, lapping slick from your folds and into your pussy.

A string of curses left your lips as he relished your juices, groaning into your cunt. He couldn't help but relieve some of the pressure on his impossibly hard cock by palming himself through his jeans.

He had lost himself for a moment there and when he looked up, he became doe-eyed with adoration. You had removed your bra.

His hand left his cock and slid up your curves, palming your breast instead and the other went to deftly work your clit. He elicited a muffled shriek from you, obviously surprised by the sudden added sensation to the delicate bud.

"Carmy," you panted, grinding your hips against his mouth, all of it seeming both too much and not enough. He was going to ruin you and you would let him. "Fu—fuck! M'gonna come, Carm."

Your confession merely made him more eager, more hungry and he concentrated on bringing you closer, encouraging each wave of your hips with a low moan. Carmen let you fuck his face, rolling and grinding on him to persuade your release closer. You grabbed at his curls to steady yourself as it came in euphoric waves, moaning, crying, whimpering, and grinning as he lapped your cum, savoring every last drop. It quickly became too much though, and as his nose tickled your sensitive clit, you fell apart, tilting over and crashing above him.

"Ho—holy fuck," you panted and he stood up from the couch, ridding himself of his clothes until there was nothing but a gold chain gleaming at his chest.

Still recovering from your orgasm, you gaped at his size. The head was red and strained, pre-cum beading the slit making it look like it was crying. The shaft was long with protruding veins drawing purple along the length and he was thick, too thick to fit in the circle created when you connect the tip of your index with that of your thumb.

He was perfect.

Carmen looked a bit flustered from your shameless gawking but you couldn't help it. "You're beautiful, Carm."

He grinned sheepishly down at you, grasping your legs, pulling you to the edge of the couch, resting your calves on his shoulders.

"You are," he insisted, pressing his lips to yours in a feverishly soft kiss as he aligned his head with your folds.

Gasping, you took a second to relax around his head, knowing it would sting painfully if you didn't. You wouldn't let anything ruin this moment. Not with his eyes gazing so intensely down at you; not with saliva connecting your mouths with a string, not with him before you like this, looking like he was carved by fucking Donatello, nothing hiding an inch of his tantalizingly soft skin bar the gold chain dangling from his neck.

You instinctively edged closer, putting a hand on his shoulder to guide him into you. He eased into you as he kissed you hungrily—insatiable, always needing more of your taste.

Carm held his breath as he bottomed out, finally exhaling a shaky breath. He couldn't believe how good you felt around him, hugging—no squeezing the life out of his cock as you desperately clawed on his back, feeling every cleft and hill, moaning into his mouth. He hoped your nails would leave marks on his skin.

With your forehead pressed against his, you looked down with hooded eyes and watch as he slid in, devastatingly slow, inch by inch. Carm followed your gaze.

"God, look how good you're takin' me, baby. Doin' so well f'me—doin' so good," he groaned, head digging into your neck, licking, sucking, biting.

He commenced a thrusting-grinding pace, reaching every crevice inside you, tickling all the right places. You cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure so delicious as he poked and prodded places untouched. He felt unreal.

Soon Carmen drilled into you like a madman, steadying himself against your hips, rutting into you at a bruising pace. You'd feel him long after he was gone.

You held him close by his neck, securing him by threading your fingers through that damn sexy gold chain and the locks of his hair. His brows were furrowed, concentration and bliss evident in his expression.

You begged him to go faster, harder—before you knew it he granted your wish and his hand had returned to your poor clit, and you grasped whatever you could, the armrest, cushions, him.

You chanted his name, exchanging your vocabulary for his name so that he was all you knew. Carm fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own as you cried his name. The combination of your moans, your begging, and the vulgar sounds of your skin slapping—it made him fucking delirious.

His bicep flexed delectably as he put all his weight on his right arm, making a considerate pause for a sweet but overwhelmingly intense kiss, only to thrust impossibly deeper.

Feeling his consistent pace become erratic, you begged him. "Please, please, Carm—fill me up."

You could feel your frantic pleas going straight to his cock as he twitched inside you, groaning—but fuck it sounded like a frail whimper.

The furrow between his brows deepened, a red blush painting his face and chest.

"You're fuckin' unreal," he manages, shaking his head.

Carmy's pace became sloppier and more desperate, cursing into your mouth as he stuttered, a strangled moan signaling his high.

He filled you up, squirting white ropes of velvety cum into you. You felt his seed trickle out as if there was not enough room for his generous load. Then he collapsed beside you.

You lay still for a minute or so, chests heaving in unison as you came back down to Earth.

"Fuck," he said after some time, pronouncing the cuss as if he had just learned the word.

You chuckled, agreeing. "Yeah."

"Shit, lemme get ya somethin' for the—"

"No, no—don't worry," you stopped him, already getting up before he could do much. He watched you go, admiring your naked body. You reached between your legs, feeling his cum trickle down your thighs. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

Carmy laughed when he realized what was going on, a sort of childish grin he couldn't hold back from rumbling in his chest. He hadn't felt this comfortable in a long time.

You disappeared out of sight. He heard water running splash and he figured you were cleaning yourself. Carmen wondered if he would get to fill you up again—preferably sometime soon.

You returned with a damp washcloth, your feet padding softly against the floor as you approached him. Carm couldn't help but smile endearingly as he went to move to free up space for you, but you placed a soft hand on his thigh as if telling him to lie still instead.

"Oh—" he began when he noticed the washcloth, but to his surprise you wrapped your lips around his cock, earning a strangled moan from him. Your warm tongue licked him clean and you hollowed your cheeks around him as if vacuuming his mess.

The pleasure turned into a ticklish feeling and he felt like grinning and kicking his feet suddenly. You looked up through your lashes, and he felt as if his eyes had remolded into heart shapes.

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, looking at you with such tooth-rotting affection it made him wonder if he loved you. In this situation, it felt natural to say to you—it felt easy and welcome, right on the tip of his tongue.

You offered him an enchanting smile and took his large hand to your mouth, kissing his knuckles, then began cleaning his cock with the washcloth.

Carmen's head dropped back at your touch and he exhaled deeply.

A smile danced across his face and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand; the one you had kissed.

What am I going to do with you?

#theplumsoldier #carmy x reader #carmy the bear #carmy berzatto smut #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #the bear carmy #the bear #jeremy allen white #the bear fx

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umuulandito · 10 months

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for me, the way i viewed the conversation between the old woman and barbie on the bench is also a matter of confidence.

when you compare the barbies in barbieland and the old woman on the bench, they practically say the same thing ("i'm beautiful") but their confidence and the core and roots behind it is so different.

the barbies in barbieland are confident out of ignorant, they have nothing to not be confident about. they're made of plastic, they have no cellulite, no private parts; it's always perfect in barbieland, so their hair is always perfect, their clothes, their shoes, everything is perfect. there's no bad day, no prejudice, no standards that you can't be part of in barbieland. so when the barbies say "i'm beautiful", they say it because they're ignorant. the core of their confidence is ignorance.

but when the old woman responds to barbie with "i know" to the "you're beautiful" comment, the confidence she has has a completely different core than the barbies. the old woman is the antithesis of everything you should be in barbieland. she's old, she has wrinkles, crow's feet, white hair, no hair. she has all of these qualities that our society will say is not beautiful, is ugly that these are things you avoid with skincare, retinol, botox all these things. the old woman lives in a society where the mass will not view her as beautiful.

and yet she's still confident, she still says "i know" because despite what everyone says, what all the standards are, she knows she's beautiful. thousands of people can disagree and say she's not, it won't matter because she knows she is. the old woman is confident despite knowing.

#barbie #barbie spoilers #barbie movie #barbie movie spoilers #barbie 2023 #margot robbie #ken #kenough #ryan gosling #film #filmmaking #greta gerwig #barbenheimer #writing #america ferrera #will ferrell #kate mackinnon #simu liu #michael cera

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teaboot · 1 year

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Yo I haven't done it in forever so I forgot that working at a sex shop gives you superpowers

1. The We-Vibe Tango is a low frequency and fully waterproof rechargeable bullet vibrator that we used to sell for about $150. A new model came out about a year ago so it's on sale now online for $47. Can confirm that shipping is discreet and they have a really good warranty, just keep the packaging.

*(I'm not sponsored to say that and nobody is paying me rn, it's just a legit good deal.)

2. There are essentially three bases used for lube: Water, Oil, and Silicone. Oil breaks down any materials other than glass or metal, and Silicone breaks down Silicone toys and sometimes condoms. Water is safe for everything but tends to dry out, so people don't like it- but if you add water or spit, drying water-based lube will slick right back up.

3. If your water-based lube has given you any itching, tightening, or burning sensations, you probably have a chemical sensitivity. Obviously everyone has different preferences, but my number one recommendation is Water Slide- it's a super reasonable price compared to other lubes, it feels natural, it's incredibly gentle on the skin, and it doesn't stain sheets.

**(Again, I'm not being paid for this. By anyone. At all. I'm just sick of hearing people come in and tell me they don't use lube cause it hurts, or that they're using fucking coconut oil in their vagina. Please, God, don't put coconut oil in your vagina.)

4. A lot of massage oils use almond oil to suspend other ingredients, and warming products sometimes use cinnamon. Always, always, always check people's allergies.

5. You can buy toys off cheap sites if you want, just be wary of quality and ALWAYS read the product description. I personally wouldn't buy anything that isn't Silicone, stainless steel, or glass, because unlike jelly, plastic, "fantaflesh", and Silicon, (which is NOT Silicone!!!) They are non-porous, sterile, and don't melt in contact with each other. This means that as long as you clean them properly and don't use the wrong lubes, they will not hold bacteria or break down, which makes them safe for both you to reuse and your partner/s to share. (And to switch between front door/back door, so long as you wash before going back to front.)

6. Cotton and polyester bondage rope are cheap and great to practice with. Silk sounds fancy and is very strong but be advised that a lot of silk rope is "Silk(TM)", not actual silk. Read the product description. (I personally am reluctant to spend more than about $2 per foot for mass-produced synthetic rope, but could be persuaded to pay more for ACTUAL silk, nylon, handmade ropes, or especially attractive colors/patterns/textures.) You want your rope to be at least as thick as your thumb and layered to avoid lacerations, and taut (not stretchy) to be sure you're in control of how much pressure you're putting on.

7. Choking someone by pressing on the windpipe is painful and inefficient. If you want to, stay very, very light, as it's a very delicate area. If you want a head rush, press down on the sides of the windpipe, just below the corners of their lower jaw. You will feel a pulse there. That's the carotid artery. It carries oxygen to the brain. Pressing there will allow them to breathe, but will still "choke" the air going to their head. It's faster and painless. Only hold this for 3-4 seconds if you lack experience. It takes just under 15 seconds to make someone pass out from a blood choke, and after that you risk causing *permanent brain damage*. If your partner passes out, release pressure immediately and keep their airways clear. If you're the one being choked, know that your only warning will be spotty vision and a dizzy sensation. Communicate with your partner/s and for the love of God, do your research first. I'm not a doctor. Please God, please do your research.

8. Don't reduce blood flow to any part of the body for more than 20 minutes. This includes cock rings. Take a break for an hour between uses.

9. Most 'dick pills' are just a stimulant, a mild vasodilator, and a placebo. Usually mostly caffeine. They are not worth $20 apiece. Take a minute to meditate, have a hot shower, drink some black tea, have a coffee, go for a run, whatever- you'll get the same effect. And no, there is not a single ethical and legal sex shop in the country that can sell you viagra. You would have better luck on Facebook. Do not buy viagra on Facebook.

10. There are no "male toys" and "female toys". Your only limitations are safety and creativity. If youre sticking something into something else, just make sure everything is clean, not too big, not sharp or abrasive, and can be taken back out.

11. If something "goes missing" in your vagina and you panic, you muscles will tense up and it'll it'll harder to get back. Relax and stand up. Wait a minute. Chill. Calm down. Jump a couple times. There's nowhere for it to go and worst case scenario, I promise the emergency walk-in has seen something weirder or worse in the past hour or so.

12. You cannot return toys that you buy and don't like and I swear to God if you come into my store with an opened product and try to give it back I will lose my shit

13. Actually while I'm at it, people who work at sex shops are more often than not not sex workers and even if they were, it would still not be appropriate to flash or grope them or ask them "what they use", I will run you over in the fucking parking lot

#Sex education #Information #Body health #Not for work #Yes I will take questions please ask questions just let me know if u wanna be anon in the response

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ataraxiaspainting · 5 months

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Careless Whisper.

Yan Gojo x F Reader.

Synopsis: After a long game of playing hard to get, Satoru finally gets you to go on a date with him. But you didn’t expect him to choose a farmer’s market of all places for it to happen.

Warnings: Yandere themes, threats of kidnapping, manipulation, and stalking.

Continuation of There is an Uproar.

Word Count: 1.6k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

This Could Be Us by Rae Sremmurd

Get Up by NewJeans

Supermassive Black Hole by Muse

Bathroom by Montell Fish

Hotel by Montell Fish

Money Trees by Kendrick Lamar (feat. Jay Rock)

After Hours by The Weeknd

Government Hooker by Lady Gaga

Do I Wanna Know? by Arctic Monkeys

The Walls by Chase Atlantic

“You’re killing me; don’t you see that you’re the winner of the game?” – Benét, Killing Eve

*~*~*~*

You hold onto the basket like a lifeline.

You grasp the handle so tightly it leaves a mark on your palm and the inner parts of your fingers, and you can practically feel splinters impaling them.

They say the devil takes on many forms, and if it were said that the devil could take the form of a white-haired man with sunglasses in whatever religious texts you were given in your childhood, you would believe that without question.

The identity of whoever or whatever forced you on this little outing is not human. You know this. He can’t be. If he is, your view of humanity will decrease tenfold from where it once was.

Should you pray to all the higher powers and heavens above that he is or is not?

“Come on, let’s get moving!” They say monsters speak in either honeyed, calm, and sweet voices or grimy and croaky ones; but this one is neither. “I kinda want to pet a chicken.”

*~*~*~*

“There’s my girlie!”

You were not surprised in the slightest when Satoru pulled up to your door with a Rolls-Royce. At the sight and the called-out nickname, you even roll your eyes and cross your arms, much to the driver’s amusement. The car is adorned with lamb's wool carpets, embellished with stunning wood and milled aluminum accents, and encased in box grain leather. Only the highest quality materials for the all-high and mighty Satoru Gojo. It is the topmost privilege for a mere mortal like you to even see it.

“You ready?” As you ever will be.

“Yeah.” Your response is quick and to the point. “You still haven’t even told me where we are going for this… date.”

The smirk that appears on his face instantly gives you the impulse to slap it off. But he is stronger, and will most likely not let you, because he is the one in control and not you. So, as he beckons you closer, you close the car door behind you and sit down on the leather seat. The drive to hit him still stands for as long as you anticipated. You just look out the window and hope it goes away.

It is nice outside. Though if Satoru’s foot was not on the peddle, you would have liked it more.

It’s spring now. The grass is bright green and tall, and you could swear that you can smell it. Tiny circles of flowers are there now and then. Dandelions and daffodils mostly. You could count them if Satoru was not driving so damn fast you think he is speeding.

He put your purse and phone in the back seat because, of course, he would want no distractions to stop you from paying attention to him.

He starts talking about how nice your dress looks and how happy he is to have you as his girlfriend.

You want to puke.

It would take at least two weeks for the smell to go away. He would have to clean it up because you would refuse to. Any damage done to his ego no matter how small is a win in your book.

You could picture it now. Satoru, long plastic gloves on his hands and wearing an apron, scrubbing the expensive carpet stained with bile and looking disgusted with you. Maybe he would give up on you then.

You almost laugh at the thought but decide against it when he starts talking with a smile that does not exactly reach his eyes.

*~*~*~*

He is tailing behind you like a grim reaper.

The black turtleneck he is wearing you suppose could count as a cloak. His face is white enough to be a skull, his hair helping you see it in your mind. All the expectations he has for you could be considered a guillotine’s blade that is ready to be let loose at any moment. Maybe a scythe. Don’t lose your head. That is what you keep telling yourself as you go down the aisles of sewn aprons and freshly baked bread and chickens wandering not too far off from the butcher’s cutting board. Don’t lose your head.

So, you keep walking to not be the victim of Satoru’s wrath.

“They’re so cute!” He exclaims, bending down to get a better look at the rabbits that are trapped within the confines of the barbed fence. “I just want to take one home! It would be like having another you around!”

His cooing makes you want to stab your eardrums out with the plastic fork you were given along with a free sample of chicken pot pie.

But you can’t ignore him either, he yearns for your responses like an addict.

“I’m not a rabbit.” You roll your eyes. Satoru responds by turning his head at you and then turning it again to make a visibly confused expression. “I’m a human. Not a pet. Not something to… lock up.” As his countenance turns somber and a hint of amusement lingers, the playful aura dissipates. Your breathing hastens, and your heart races. Perhaps voicing your thoughts was an ill-advised choice. Maybe an alternate utterance would have been wiser. Any alternative, for that expression, is one you wish to never witness again.

As you struggle to catch your breath, Satoru's steady grip on your shoulder brings a faint awareness to your hyperventilation. He calls out your name repeatedly, trying to reach through the haze of tears in your eyes. However, his words offer no solace or relief.

“Come on! Of course, you are.”

Maybe you will puke after all. But not on purpose like you originally intended.

His smile feels like a stab to the chest. Everything he does feels that way.

“...What do you mean?” What exactly does he have planned for you?

How far back do they go? Days, months, years, decades?

“You’ll see. You’ll like them, I know you will.” His hand clasps over your free one like a noose. “Either when you first know them or further down the line. I’ll be with you every step of the way no matter what you think. But just know I only have your best intentions at heart, okay? I can promise you that at least.”

“...Mmhmm. Let’s just… get moving.” Once again, you are off within a labyrinth of stalls.

You liked farmer’s markets during the warmer months, with your family and friends during school breaks and vacation times. Is that why he chose this place? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he also likes them. However, you cannot process the words Satoru and farmer’s market in the same sentence.

You pictured him bringing you to some nightclub and forcing you to dance under disco lights and loud music until you nearly faint from exhaustion. As much as you don’t want to admit it, maybe this is the better option.

You can’t imagine any other option. It could be worse. Those threats of his can easily become true, he could just lock you up in his penthouse and refuse to let you leave.

So, you don’t complain. You don’t want Satoru to get upset, even if you haven’t seen him that way.

“We’ll eventually move in together. Get married further down the line. Maybe have a kid or two, if we are really up to it, though I don’t mind if it is just the two of us.”

For once, you hope Satoru chooses his initial thought. You don’t want to bring any child into this hell.

“Romantic, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

His finger traces the bridge of your nose downward and the tip of it presses on its end.

“Boop!”

“Sigh…”

He does it again.

“So cute…”

“Let’s just continue.” You try so hard not to seethe. “I heard at this specific market they have good lentil soup. Focaccia too. Let’s go.”

He nods.

“Okay! We’re off!”

There is no escape, is there?

“It should be by the coffee stalls if I remember correctly.” You don’t get to finish because of course Satoru found a brand new interest to fixate on.

Aprons. Specifically, the pink lacy one that he is holding gently like a baby. “[First]! Look! You should wear it. It suits you!”

You shake your head immediately. To this, Satoru frowns. You’re hungry after being hauled around from stall to stall for the past hour or so. Can’t he understand that?

He holds the apron up closer to your face.

You turn away from it. Satoru only puts it closer. He really can be stubborn. That is what got you in this situation in the first place. As stubborn as you sometimes are, you can hardly compare to him. But that is with most things.

Money, power, influence, he will always have more than you will, won’t he? Damn it. No escape. Not from him.

Not from him.

But you can try, can’t you? You can at least try. “Come on! It would look so cute on you.” You shake your head. His frown only deepens and he sighs.

Then he shoots you a look again. The look demanding of you to be good or else. The look that gets you to obey him every time he uses it. Every time he puts his foot down.

Don’t lose your head.

Evade the blade.

“Good,” He says, handing you the apron with the smile you unsurprisingly prefer over the hellish expression he just showed you. “Go.”

You do.

Damn it. As long as Satoru keeps toying with you, you won’t ever be able to find peace. No escape. Damn it.

You slip the apron on as he watches, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

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ddejavvu · 2 years

Text

Lost and Found - Eddie Munson x Reader (Part 2) | Part 1

WC: 7.0K / navi / preview / request

Summary: Eddie is happy to teach you everything he knows about DnD, he just wishes you weren't so goddamn distracting

Contents/Warnings: eddie n wayne, besties forever <3 very very fluffy lots of yearning and ridiculously cheesy moments, lovesick!eddie, reader wears a skirt and eddie's hellfire shirt from part 1, suggestive material, but still minor-friendly (part three will not be)

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

“Christ on a cracker, son,” Wayne swears, nearly pushed to the ground as Eddie slams the trailer door open, “Calm down.”

“Sorry Wayne!” Eddie barely takes a second to breathe before he flies through the space, feet pounding on the matted carpet of the trailer as he races to his bedroom.

“What’s the rush?” Wayne is well aware of his nephew’s recreational habits, as well as his business endeavors, and shudders to think that there might be some drug-crazed lunatic after the boy.

But Eddie pops his wide-eyed face out from his bedroom only seconds later, shirt and pants torn off to leave him in his boxers as he darts for the shower, “There’s a girl coming over.”

That’s a new one. Wayne has heard a few feminine voices outside the trailer before, when they’re out of stock and need replenishing, but Eddie never showers for them. He probably should, Wayne always tells the boy that if he stinks any worse he’ll have to move out, but he’s never shown an interest until now.

“And,” Wayne peers into the bathroom, seeing Eddie frantically combing out his hair, the plastic nearly snapping under the pressure he’s putting on it, “This is a special girl?”

“I- I don’t know,” Eddie huffs, his crazed panic still alive as he whirls around the bathroom for a clean towel, “Sort of. I don’t really know her yet.”

“Y’know ‘er enough to care.” Wayne prompts him, and Eddie deflates slightly. He’s looking in the mirror, trying to part his hair neatly so that he can wash it easier. He stops, his hands falling from his head to his sides as he stares hard at his reflection.

“I want to impress her.” Eddie admits, his usual self-assuredness now gone, “Or- impress isn’t right,” He puzzles for a moment, his eyes drifting over his features, “Just- I don’t want to scare her away.”

“Well I think it’s good you’re showering then,” Wayne lightens the mood, “‘Not sure she could handle your B.O.”

“Shut up,” Eddie takes the out, shoving at his uncle’s shoulder with no real force, “I’m gonna order pizza for us. She wants to learn how to play DnD.”

Wayne’s eyebrows skyrocket, “She wants to learn? Or have you kidnapped and brainwashed her like those basketball players tell me you do?”

“She’s under my control,” Eddie rasps, his voice thick in his throat.

Wayne snorts, standing up straight from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe, “Alright, boy. I’ll leave you to it, but if you need help getting ready for tonight, I’m here.”

“Thanks,” Eddie breathes, flashing his signature grin at his uncle before he shuts the door.

Wayne watches the closed door with something light and airy filling his chest, maybe laughing gas at the way he chortles hearing Eddie drop the comb into the sink for the tenth time since he started. Then he turns, and the reality of their home hits him.

It’s messy.

Far too messy to accept company, which is why the pair hasn’t for years. Aside from Eddie’s trusted friends, all of whom are far too sloppy themselves to bat an eye at the general clutter around the trailer, no one has set foot in their space for five long years.

Now, he’s all for encouraging Eddie to be himself, that if someone doesn’t like who he is, then they’re not fit for a friend. But he’s sure that you’re far too important to Eddie for that test just yet, and he’s not sure he wants you to get to know his nephew as messy when there’s so many other qualities he possesses. That’s something you can discover later, when you’re hooked on his charm and wit and won’t mind stepping on a pair of boxers or two to get down the hallway. He gets to work clearing away mindless clutter, collecting shirts strewn over the furniture and paper plates tucked under the couch.

By the time Eddie finishes showering (and falling, twice), Wayne has the entire living room de-cluttered, although most of the loose papers and items have made their way onto the kitchen table instead of being put in their places. Eddie steps out of the bathroom, towel tucked around his waist and a hand in his curls, dragging his fingers through the wet tangles, and he stops dead in the doorway, eyes wide.

“Shit,” He breathes, watching his uncle crouch to tug an empty beer can out from behind the door and stuff it into the trash bag he’s got going, “Wayne, what are you doing?”

“Cleaning up,” Wayne states the obvious, raising an eyebrow unimpressed at his nephew’s cognitive skills, “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Are-” Eddie stops combing through his hair, standing limply in front of his uncle, “Are you doing this ‘cause Y/N’s coming over?”

“That’s her name?” Wayne smiles, “‘S a pretty one.”

“You are,” Eddie marvels, “Uh, thanks, Wayne.”

Wayne’s hands and knees burn against the scratchy carpet, the beer can in his hands sharp from being crushed. He stands, the worn fabric of his flannel falling limp against his distressed jeans. He stands there, tattered and messy, looking at the way Eddie’s cleaned himself up.

He’s wearing a tank top, a KISS shirt that he was gifted on his tenth birthday. It’s got tour dates on the back, one of which Wayne took Eddie to as a present. Apparently it didn’t look good enough as a t-shirt though, because the boy had taken scissors to it a few years back, carving out holes the size of craters that expose part of his side.

His hair is bundled up in a bun atop his head, scrunched up and crimping itself while it dries. He always tells Eddie not to do that, to leave it down so that each strand can dry individually, but Eddie hates the feeling of wet hair on his skin, so he pulls it up and leaves it sitting until he can blow-dry it.

The same ripped jeans he’d worn to school are back on his waist, belt cinched tight around him with his handcuffs pinned there. Wayne always tells him he’ll confuse someone, make them think he’s an undercover cop, but Eddie only laughs at him. There’s a chain hooked through his belt that rests on his hip, dipping close to his knee and gleaming in the artificial light above them.

There’s two necklaces bouncing against his chest as he walks over to help Wayne with the overflowing trash bag, his typical guitar pick and a dog tag he’d found in the street one day. It says Sprinkles on one side, but Eddie swears that it looks metal if he turns it the other way, the owner’s number stamped across it.

He has an earring in. Eddie almost never puts an earring in, because his at-home ear piercing hadn’t produced the most sanitary results. He says it burns when he wears earrings, but here he is, a heavy silver hoop through one ear and a black cuff pinched tight at the helix of the other.

Wayne looks at his nephew, his boy, and pride surges through his chest. Pride, a little bit of awe, and happiness. He cares. This is something Eddie really cares about, you are something Eddie really cares about, and it’s obvious by the things he’s done for you before you’ve even come over. Eddie has always cared, perhaps a bit too much, and it’s easy to tell when he does from the little things he pieces together to show it.

“You look good, boy.” Wayne breaks the careful silence the two had slipped into, watching Eddie tug the straps to the garbage bag. He reddens slightly, his cheeks flaring in color, something akin to the shade of the tomato soup he’d managed to botch for last thursday’s dinner. How the boy had undercooked a can of soup, he’d never know.

“Thanks, Wayne.” Eddie mumbles, forearms flexing as he ties a knot into the strings of the garbage bag, “I’ll take this out.”

“We should start on your room,” Wayne points out as Eddie tries making his frantic exit, spooked by praise. Eddie nods once, and Wayne lets him escape to the dumpster to process the emotions he’s got swirling inside of him.

He knows the boy gets shy around praise, which is why he tries not to overwhelm him. But today is different, today is a bigger step than he’s seen Eddie take in a long time, and it’s hard not to burst with pride.

When Eddie comes back inside Wayne is already tiptoeing around his room, dodging suspicious socks and cassette tapes strewn about. Eddie gets to work stacking those, a comfortable silence falling over the pair as they set to work.

“Wayne?” Eddie’s voice is timid, meek.

“Yeah?” Wayne reaches under his bed, pulling out a magazine that he shouldn’t have and a sock, something Wayne doesn’t want to think about as a pair.

“Do you.. Do you really think I look nice?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth he’s stammering, shaking his head so that his bun wobbles dangerously, “I- I mean, like- not like nice, but do you… you think she’ll like it?”

“Son, if she asked you to teach her about your game, I’m sure she’s not scared of you.”

“But is that enough? Shouldn’t she,” Eddie abandons the cassettes in his hand, scratching bashfully at the back of his neck and combing through the stray hairs there, “I dunno, like me? Not just not hate me?”

“Well I’d give her some time if I were you,” Wayne chuckles, reminded of the restlessness of youth, “You’ve only known her a day.”

“Right.” Eddie nods frantically, eyes glued to the tapes he busies himself with again, “Yeah, I will.”

“Hey,” Wayne reaches out, bracing a hand on Eddie’s knee that’s bouncing frantically, “You’ve got this, boy. You can do this. She’ll love you.”

The word love has Eddie’s cheeks flaring the color of it, a deep red that Wayne sees most often on valentine’s day cards. He chuckles once more at his nephew’s crush, shaking his head and getting back to sorting through clutter.

By the time Eddie’s watch beeps, a tinny, mechanical sound that has him leaping onto his feet to rush for the door, they’ve gotten his room mostly under control. There’s a pile of dirty laundry stull bulging out of the closet, but that can’t be avoided, as the hamper is broken from a rather unfortunate sledding endeavor a few months back. You’ll just have to live with the sight of yesterday’s t-shirt in the corner, they decide.

“Okay, uh- thanks, Wayne.” Eddie brushes his hands on his pants, already sweaty from nerves, “I’m gonna go pick her up now.”

“Right,” Wayne stands, trash bag in hand with all of Eddie’s discarded food wrappers and beer cans, “Good luck, son.”

The term flares up Eddie’s blush again, but Wayne doesn’t comment on it, offering him a quick hug, a simple pat to the back. It’s all Eddie can handle right now, already a bundle of nerves that he doesn’t want spilling out.

“There’s a $10 on the fridge,” Wayne calls out after Eddie bounds down the steps of the trailer,tugging the rubber band out of his hair and letting it spill over his shoulders, “Use it for pizza!”

“No, no,” Eddie waves his uncle off, plunging his hand into his pocket to retrieve his wallet, “I got it!”

“Eddie,” Wayne glares at the stubborn boy, “Use the money on the fridge.”

Eddie balks at the aggressively kind gesture, but a wry smile curves over his lips, “Whatever. I’ll just sneak cash into your jacket while you’re asleep.”

“You will not,” Wayne huffs, but Eddie’s already taken off for his van, slamming the door behind him with a hearty laugh at his uncle’s grouchiness.

When Eddie pulls up to your house, having checked the little slip of paper buried in his pocket, oh, around a thousand times, one of the upstairs lights is on. It’s the only one on, the rest of the windows pitch black, and Eddie worries that maybe something is wrong. Your house looks near abandoned, but at the rough chugchugchugging of his engine, a downstairs light flicks on. He catches your silhouette thumping down the stairs and sees the outline of a skirt over your hips. His stomach flips and he shuts off the van, hurrying out so that he can beat you to the door. It seems gentlemanly, something he’s never been too concerned about, but it feels right in the moment.

He’s inches from the door as you wrench it open, a fist raised to knock while you step out of it, not expecting him there on the other side. Your eyes widen but you can’t stop your momentum, stumbling clumsily into his chest despite your efforts to slow down.

“Oh!”

“Eddie!” You speak in unison, your voices mingling just as your limbs do. His arms wind around your waist, laying over his hellfire shirt that you’ve tucked into the waistband of your skirt. The material is soft under his touch, but not as soft as your face, which hits his shoulder in your scuffle. Eddie feels a burst of warmth flood through him at the skin-on-skin contact, and holds you steady as you right yourself against his chest. Your hands brace themselves frantically on his stomach, your chest heaving as you gape at him, “I’m so sorry! I- I wasn’t paying attention, I just heard you coming, and- and,”

“If you were that excited to see me,” Eddie doesn’t know how he’s being as suave as he is, because his heart is practically hammering through his ribcage to affix itself to you like a lovesick leech, “You could have asked me to come earlier.”

You feel your cheeks flare with heat as you slump forwards, the crown of your head hitting Eddie’s clothed chest, “Stoooop.”

Eddie chuckles, adjusting the pitch of his voice to your own, “Stoooop.”

“You’re mocking me!” You shove at him lightly, making him stumble a step backwards, “You’re the worst.”

“Hey,” Eddie finally lets you go, his skin instantly cold where it had once touched yours, “You gotta be nice to me. I’m teaching you DnD, remember?”

“Fine,” You huff dramatically, “You get a pass, but only for tonight!”

“Deal.” Eddie’s eyes gleam with mischief, “Ready?”

“Ready.” You confirm, bouncing excitedly on the balls of your feet.

“Van’s there,” Eddie gestures to his van, nearly tripping over his own feet when you grab his hand, eagerly tugging him along, “Woah!”

“I told you I was ready.” You gush, the words coming out in a soft giggle that makes his heart burst.

You look out of place in his van, too heavenly to be wriggling comfortably into his worn seats. There’s a half-drunk water bottle by your feet that crunches beneath your shoe, and you apologize hurriedly for crushing it.

“‘S okay sweetheart,” Eddie snickers, reaching down to pluck it out from under your feet, “It’s, like, months old.”

“Eddie,” You chide, “It’s probably growing something!”

“It’s fine,” He urges, snickering at your horror, “It’ll put some hair on your chest.”

He leaves you with that, shutting the door to your side of the car and jogging around to the driver’s side door. He wrenches it open, his hair bouncing against his chest as he sits down with a flounce. The radio that he has is already preloaded with the cassette tape he uses whenever he drives Wayne anywhere, his favorite metal artists and their less-overwhelming songs. Wayne always says heavy metal ‘makes his ears bleed’, he’s more into classic rock, but Eddie will be damned if he isn't listening to Mötley Crüe on any drive longer than two minutes. He figures that he’ll be courteous to you at first, just in case metal isn’t your thing either.

To his surprise, a minute into Merry Go Round, your brow dips in concentration.

“Mötley Crüe, right?”

Eddie swears he nearly passes out. His usual response to surprising information, a dramatic flailing of his limbs, doesn’t seem very safe just now, and you’re lucky he doesn’t jerk the wheel to the side.

“Yeah,” He grins dazedly, “You listen?”

“Sometimes!” You pick at a loose thread on your skirt, “I’m into a bit of everything. Really jus’ whatever comes on the radio.”

Eddie suddenly likes you more, if possible. Everything new that he learns about you only adds to the little list of Reasons he Cares, the first and most important being that you’re kind to him. He would never admit it, but he’s like a little lost puppy, trailing after the first person to scratch behind his ears.

“I like your van.” You muse, and it’s so genuinely sweet it nearly makes Eddie scream. You brush your fingers over a Black Sabbath sticker that’s peeling off of the dash, reaffixing the dusty backing to the smooth plastic. It doesn’t stay, it pops right back up again, but you’re onto the next detail now, a pair of old sneakers in the door, autographed by the patrons that watch him perform with his band.

“These are cool,” You marvel at the sloppy, mostly-drunken signatures scrawled over the canvas, “Who are they?”

“Our fans,” Eddie boasts proudly, even though he’s sure seven hammered 40 year olds aren’t the most impressive thing in the world when it comes to an audience, “They watch us perform, remember my band I told you about?”

Eddie watches your eyes light up from the rear-view mirror, but you’re lucky he doesn’t take his eyes off the road completely to see them unfiltered.

“That’s right!” You remember your earlier conversation, “That’s so cool, Eddie, you’ve got fans!”

“We do,” He chuckles, fingers sweating against the steering wheel as you near his trailer, “You should come to one of our shows sometime.”

“If I do, do I get to sign the sneakers?” You’re far too excited to put your name on a pair of ratty old shoes, repurposed as a trophy, but Eddie would be willing to buy a new pair just so that your name can be the only one on the fabric. He thinks about that, about having your name displayed over him, and blushes. He hopes you don’t catch it.

“Of course you can,” Eddie promises, turning much more carefully than he normally does into his typical parking spot, the van sputtering to a stop when he removes the key. He turns to you before you open the door, “How about this saturday?”

“Next,” You compromise, “My parents get back Saturday night and I can’t be out without them knowing.”

“Your parents are gone?” Eddie cocks his head to the side, crimped hair bouncing as he does.

“They’re getting the last of our stuff from our old house,” You nod solemnly, “We don’t even have mattresses here yet.”

“No shit? What have you been sleeping on?”

“The couch,” You recount sadly, “It’s not very comfortable, but it’s better than the floor.”

“Damn,” Eddie sympathizes, yanking on the latch of his door and hopping down, “Well, babe, I’ve got a mattress inside, if you’re interested in staying the night.”

It’s bold, brazen, uncouth, but he tops it off with a teasing grin, so it’s okay. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you, happy that it mostly filled the empty van as he slams his door, rounding the front to open your own for you.

“Very gentlemanly,” You praise him, slipping your hand into his to step down from the lifted van, “I’m impressed.”

“Well don’t get used to it,” He teases, squeezing you against his side with a hand that drifts suspiciously low, “I’m not usually this nice.”

“I must be special.” You concur, giddiness in your grin that sends Eddie’s stomach into a cartwheel.

You are, Eddie nods once at you, afraid to voice his thoughts in case they somehow ruin the unspoken adoration between you, More than you know.

Eddie’s pleased to find nothing but a slight oil stain in Wayne’s usual parking spot, his uncle having predicted that Eddie would want alone time with you. He’s half expecting to find a box of condoms on the kitchen counter when he walks in with you, but flicking on the light of the trailer reveals only a spotless living space, junk shoved in drawers to be dealt with later.

“I like it.” You decide with a curt nod, eyes landing on the array of DnD paraphernalia stacked on the couch, “Oh, I almost forgot! I brought you this.”

You reach into the waistband of your skirt, the slim paperback book you were reading earlier neatly molded to your side. It doesn’t retain the curve of your side, flattening back out into its shape as you hold it out to Eddie.

You swear you catch his eyes wandering towards the spot that you’d just pulled the book from, but they snap up to meet your own before you can verify it. He takes the book from you with an eager grin, “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Y’wanna swap?” You stride over to the couch, plucking a book titled Players Handbook: Compiled Information for Players and Dungeon Masters out of the pile.

Eddie falters slightly, surprised that you’re so eager to get into what might be the least exciting part of learning DnD: the rules.

“Sure,” He nods carefully, taken aback, “Lemme just clear the couch.”

He bends over to do so, and you can’t help that your eyes trace the newly-exposed skin of his chest. The shirt he’s wearing already reveals his side, but as his arms stretch to grab boxes and papers off of the cushions in front of you, it shifts to show his stomach.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he stops in front of you, an eyebrow raised that you don’t catch because you’re ogling him.

“Everything okay?” To your horror, there’s a twinge of amusement in his voice, and you’re certain he’s caught you.

“Yes!” You scramble to act casual, thumbing past the cover of the book to appear busy, “Yes, let’s get started.”

Eddie sits before you do, surveying you with that same cocky gaze. It makes you nervous, your stomach churning slightly, and you perch on the end of the couch that he’s not spread out over.

He lets out a scoff, reaching out, “You can get comfortable, Y/N, I don’t bite.”

He does, however, grab, which you find out when he yanks your legs out from under you, tugging them outwards so that they rest over his lap. He’s reclined against both the arm of the couch and the back cushion of it, looking far too composed for the rampage of butterflies against his stomach.

You melt into your new position so naturally that it scares you. It feels right, cracking the spine of the handbook while your legs are draped casually over Eddie’s lap. Stretching out and getting comfortable on Eddie’s couch seems just as casual as it does on your couch, and you can’t help the dizzy grin that spreads over your face as you realize this.

“Somethin’ funny?” Eddie’s brow quirks at your expression, and you bury it behind the book, shaking your head.

“Right,” He sets a hand over your ankles, locking your legs into their position on his lap, “Lemme know if you’re confused, babe, I’m here to help.”

Though the DnD handbook is informative, and slightly exhilarating to peruse, you hope that the actual gameplay is less complicated than it sounds. You’re barely twenty pages in, a good 40 minutes gone by, and you’re not sure you can keep all of the information straight in your head. Hopefully Eddie cuts you some slack, or else you might seriously slow down their game.

"Page?" Eddie glances up from the pages of your novel, peering over at the handbook in your grip.

You look to the corner of the page from where you'd been reading up on character classes, "23."

"The Fighter." He speaks in a low voice, raspy and dramatic. You giggle, half amused by his theatrics and half impressed that he's managed to memorize the 130-page handbook in front of you.

"What about you?" You glance pointedly at the book in his hands, shifting your feet in his lap slightly. You don't realize it, but they press against a rather sensitive spot, and Eddie hunches slightly, his stomach caving in as he tries remaining composed.

"Uh," His eyes frantically skim the page, wide and panicked until they lock on a familiar name, "Weylin- Weylin is just, uh, crossing over the Bridge of Lost Souls."

"Ooh," You wriggle slightly in your place on the couch, consequently burrowing your feet further into Eddie's lap, "I love that part! You meet Ionia soon, you'll love her!"

He can’t take it anymore.

“Uh,” He shoots off of the couch, lowering your feet carefully back down to the cushions where he was sitting, “I’m getting kinda hungry. Pizza time?”

“Pizza time.” You nod jovially, flipping a page in the handbook, seemingly unconscious of Eddie’s predicament, “Pepperoni?”

“And sausage.” Eddie nods, “Be right back.”

When he comes back, tugging a crumpled bill out of his pocket to use for the food and pointedly avoiding his uncle’s money, you tuck your legs up under you to set him sit down. He peers over the top of the handbook, eyes drifting to the words appearing upside-down in front of his face.

His nose hooks over the tops of the pages, and you can’t help it: you giggle. He glances up amusedly at you, his own sweet laugh filling the air as he crumples into your lap. You raise the book over your head so that he doesn’t have to slip under it, and his eyes meet yours from where he lays on your legs.

You stare down at him, entranced by his features. His soft cheeks, his sloped nose, the tinge of red that spreads over his skin. His eyes, shiny and smooth, like melted chocolate that you can taste on your tongue. You brush a hand over his forehead, gathering up loose flyaway hairs that have gathered there. They’re malleable and wiry in your grip, and you twirl them around your finger once, twice, thrice, until they form a spiraled curl.

His eyes follow your finger, doe-like as they cross to track your movement. When you let the hair go it springs off of your finger, bouncing down to rest over his nose, and his eyes dart inwards to follow it.

Apparently it tickles his nose, because he scrunches it up, miniscule wrinkles etched like waterways on a map into his skin. You smooth the terrain, running the soft pad of your finger down the bridge of his nose and marveling how his face relaxes as your touch waves over it.

He shivers slightly under your finger, and you notice a bridge of freckles, the lightest you’ve ever seen, dotting his nose. They stand strong over all of the rivers you have yet to flatten, stretching down towards his mouth in beautiful smile lines.

“You’re pretty.” You muse, your voice barely more than a whisper as you trace his features. He lets his eyes flutter shut when your fingers brush under them, his lashes tickling your skin.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” He coos, the softness of his voice gaping that growing sinkhole of adoration that’s been tugging at your chest ever since you met him. His pretty face, his sweet words, his kind actions, all of them mark him as safe, as good, as loveable.

With his eyes closed, you’re allowed to be as obvious as you want when ogling him, not that you were very subtle before. Your eyes latch onto his lips in a similar fashion as you want your own to do, roving over every crease, mark, and indent in the soft, pillowy muscles.

Before you can think about it, you touch them. Your fingers, their pads soft and hesitant, prod gently at his lips. That has his eyes shooting open, carmeled brown irises meeting yours in shock.

Though you feel his gaze on you, you don’t stop. You let your hands linger on his face, soaking up every second of dazzlingly intimate contact you can get with the man. He studies your face while you study his, the both of you barely breathing while watching the other sit pretty. You swear you feel Eddie’s lips shift under your fingers, puckering ever-so-slightly to kiss the tips of your fingers, but then-

The hollow, sharp knock on the door of Eddie’s trailer shatters the intimacy of the moment, plunging you back into reality from the serene haze you’d been trapped in. You both fall from the clouds you’d lounged atop, plummeting back to earth with the thump of your hearts in your chests.

“I’ll get it,” Eddie scrambles up from where he’s draped over your lap, rushing to the door and snatching the cash off of the counter. You straighten yourself out while he grabs the pizza, cheeks aflame as you look around the room to avoid looking at him. You see a stack of vhs movies in the corner by the television set, and your eyes catch a familiar title.

Labyrinth.

“Okay,” Eddie sets the pizza on the counter, grateful for the paper plates the place provided you, “One slice or two?”

“Two,” You grin eagerly, reaching for the tape, “Are you the reason this was missing from the video store yesterday?”

He laughs at the sight of the VHS in your hands, “Yep, ‘had it since it came out.”

“Rude,” You scoff, “I wanted to watch it last night!”

“Bummer,” Eddie scrunches his brows, faux-sympathy written on his face, “‘Guess you’ll just have to come over whenever you wanna watch it.”

“Well I’m here now…” You push, clutching the case hopefully.

“Pop it in,” Eddie laughs, gesturing towards the machine, “‘Should be rewound already.”

You kneel by the VHS player while Eddie brings your plates over, and your back faces him. It gives him the perfect opportunity to ogle you, only feeling slightly guilty when his eyes trace the curve of your ass.

You turn before he can admire how the Hellfire shirt exposes the angles of your shoulders, abandoning its post and leaving your neck bare. He watches the skin there shift, muscles beneath the surface tensing as you crane it downwards to slide the tape into the receiver.

“We’ll work more on DnD later,” Eddie promises as the main titles roll, music filling the otherwise silent trailer, “We’ve still gotta get a character figured out for you.”

“‘M excited,” You speak through a mouthful of greasy pizza, pepperoni sticking to your lip, “Thanks for the pizza, Eddie.”

“‘Course sweetheart,” He grins at you, then hides his blush in the red tomato sauce on his bread.

Eddie truly believes that you’ll go over more later for the game. But when you finish both slices of your pizza, hands covering your stomach tenderly as he’s sure it’s stuffed, and curl up against the arm of the couch, he knows nothing else is getting done tonight. Your eyes are glued to the screen, Sarah’s dress glittering as her hair flounces with every movement of the couple. He’s never been a Bowie fan, but he reckons you are by the way your eyes shine whenever he’s on screen.

He’s jealous of David Bowie.

Oh, fuck, he never thought he’d sink this low. But he feels something unfamiliar and sharp prod at his chest whenever you pay just a little too much attention to the man on screen, and he prods at your feet with his own.

“Hoggin’ the couch,” He chides you, with no real scorn as he tangles his legs with yours, “Stretched out like you own the place.”

“Sor-ry,” You huff dramatically, clocking his teasing grin and knowing he’s just messing around, “It’s not my fault your couch is comfier than mine.”

Eddie remembers your admission, that you’ve been sleeping on your couch for god-knows-how-long, and his stomach sours. He studies your face, the way that your eyelids droop even though you’re clearly enjoying the movie, the wrinkling of your chin as you yawn. You’re clearly exhausted, and his space is the comfort you need.

He feels something akin to pride at that. You not only feel comfortable enough around him to curl up on his couch, but you feel comfortable enough to fall asleep. He might be new at this, the whole relationship thing, but he knows that’s big.

Suddenly he doesn’t feel such a large blade of jealousy stabbing at his heart anymore, because you’re not cuddled up to David Bowie on David Bowie’s couch, are you? No. You’re curled up with him, on his couch.

Take that, Bowie.

It’s around the one-and-a-half hour mark, only ten minutes before the movie ends, that he realizes he’s the only one watching. He’s been glancing back and forth between the screen and you for ages now, but when he checks up on you this time, you’re asleep. He can see your chest rising and falling, his shirt still worn proudly over your frame, and a sleepy smile curves over his face. Your lashes kiss your cheeks, casting shadows down your face that look like spiderwebs. It looks cool, and he makes a mental note to ask you if you’d let him put eyeliner on you to see if he can turn it into a spiderweb. It’s a design he’s been meaning to do on himself, but if he needs a model, why would you turn him down?

The end of the movie isn’t so entrancing to him anymore now that you’re snoozing, and once more he lets his eyes drift over your frame. Your skirt is tucked neatly under your bum, but your thighs peek out of it, soft and plumped by the way you’re laying. Then his eyes rove over your shirt, the familiar, hand-crafted design looking better on you than it ever has on him or his friends. It’s odd, seeing the shirt on anyone but the boys in his friend group, but he quickly decides that it’s his favorite outfit of yours, and that nothing in the world could top it.

The end credits announce themselves in an encore of the film’s soundtrack, and Eddie reluctantly parts from the cozy embrace you’ve found yourself in. He ejects the tape, stuffing it back into its case and tucking it carefully back onto the stack. Now that he knows it’s his ticket to time spent with you, he’s much more reluctant to take it back to Family Video tomorrow like he’d planned. Maybe he’ll keep it, late fee be damned.

“Y/N,” He hates the thought of waking you, but he hates the thought of inconveniencing his uncle even more, and you’re curled up on what will become Wayne’s pull-out.

“Y/N,” He tries again, soft and soothing as he taps your shoulder gently, “Wake up, we’ve gotta get you home.”

The clock only reads 10:23, but he’d feel guilty getting you home at an indecent hour. Typically, Eddie’s philosophy is etiquette be damned, but he has a feeling you wouldn’t be too happy about being dumped on your front porch after two in the morning.

“Y/N,” He slips a hand under your torso, his other sliding under your legs, “C’mon, wake up.”

You don’t. You must have really had trouble sleeping on your couch, because now that you’re dozing off, you don’t seem to wake up easily. Worry gnaws at Eddie’s chest as he hoists you into his arms and you don’t wake, only sighing contentedly and curling closer to him.

His eyes widen and his cheeks burn as you snuggle up to him unconsciously, your cheek pressed against his KISS-clad chest. Your nose nudges into his neck and he swears he sees stars, his knees weakening at the intimate contact like you hadn’t just been touching his lips hours beforehand.

“‘Gonna be the death of me,” He mutters, voice devoid of any real anger as he trudges down the hall to his room. His bed is neatly made, pillows stacked at the head that he reaches up and kicks down with one of his socked feet. It flops flat onto the mattress with a thump, and Eddie lowers you as carefully as humanly possible onto the bed. You aren’t too keen to let go, though, because your arms stay tightly wound around his neck. He tries straightening but you come right back up with him, brows scrunching in displeasure at being jostled around.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie laughs, lovestruck, “‘Gotta let go.”

“Eddie,” You mumble hazily, sound far too much like a lover he’s just accidentally jostled by getting out of bed to get ready for work in the morning, “Don’ go.”

“I can’t leave you here,” He reasons, returning your favor and smoothing out the wrinkle in your brows with his thumb, “I’ve gotta grab my keys and shoes, then we’ll take you home.”

“Nooo,” You whine, sleep tugging at your voice, “‘S too cozy here. I don’t wanna leave.”

“But no one knows you’re staying here,” Eddie’s afraid that your parents might come home early, discover their child missing, and storm his trailer with pitchforks, “Don’t you wanna head back home to your own bed?”

"Couch.” You mumble grouchily, “My parents aren't home," Your voice is groggy and weak, but Eddie swears it's more angelic than any hymn he's ever heard, "'S okay."

"Are you sure?" He reaches up, smooths a hand over your forehead then down your cheek without thinking, but before he can panic over the intimate gesture you're leaning into it, letting out a contented hum that quite reminds him of a kitten's purr.

"'M sure," You promise, already curling up cozily beneath his blanket, looking far too natural and perfect in a space you'd never occupied before, and Eddie feared, never would again.

"Okay." He's breathless and weak as your eyes drift shut, his hand lingering against the curve of your face, "G'night sweetheart."

He isn’t sure what to do from there. He could move his hand, he probably should move his hand, so that he doesn’t stand there for hours holding you, but that seems all the more tempting with every passing second. He marvels at his luck, how he’s managed to get to heaven without dying. Unless he is dead. But he’s almost certain he’ll be sent to hell for the sheer amount of drugs he’s sold to high school students, so he’s sure it isn’t that.

You must be an angel, he decides, one that isn’t afraid of the devil everyone says he is. He gets a brief vision of matching halloween costumes to that effect, a wiry halo perched on your head while devil ears adorn his. The scene’s unfiltered domesticity stuns him, along with how perfect it feels. It doesn’t feel awkward or forced, instead like something you’d come up with on the phone at ungodly hours and commit to months before the holiday.

He’ll bring the idea up to you tomorrow.

For now, he has to figure out where he’s sleeping. He’s not taking Wayne’s bed, but you’re in his, and that would be wrong.

Right?

Eddie studies the way your body is laid out on his mattress, knees tucked towards your chest and arms bundled up below your face, clutching the blanket he’d thrown over you. You take up a fraction of the mattress, the side that he normally sleeps on still unobscured.

Would it really be that bad if he laid opposite you? He wouldn’t touch you, he wouldn’t throw an arm over your waist, he wouldn’t tangle his legs with yours, he wouldn’t press a soft kiss to your forehead before drifting off. He wouldn’t.

He wants to, though.

He gives into another temptation, hopefully his last for the night, and lets himself indulge in your presence. He slides onto the end of the mattress, careful not to disrupt you as you slumber.

It feels weird, having someone in his bed beside him. Weird, but good. He decides, in fact, that there’s no better feeling aside from your fingers on his lips, than you in bed beside him. He stares up at the ceiling, willing the urge to kiss your nose away before he can screw up the best thing that’s happened to him in years.

One single, cautious glance thrown your way, and it’s all over.

Your hand is bared towards him, the smooth skin on the back of it in perfect kissing-range. He would be an idiot not to, right? That’s what gentlemen do, after all, they kiss the back of their lady’s hand. Typically not without her knowledge, or while she’s in bed with him, but it’s the principle of it, not the specific scenario.

He reaches for your hand hesitantly, and once his skin brushes yours he sees fireworks that light up the dark room. They nearly short out his vision, and when he sees clearly again, your hand is poised directly in front of his lips, his own hand still clutching it securely.

“Sleep good, sweetheart.” He whispers, near-inaudible in the darkness, then his lips press delicately against your hand.

Such unimaginable warmth and giddiness fill his chest, that he’s sure he’ll explode. There’s going to be Eddie Guts on the walls and ceiling, rotted sickly sweet from how infatuated with you he’s become in such a short time. Kissing you, albeit only your hand, feels like something he wants to do for the rest of his life, and he can only hope you’re gracious enough to grant him that privilege.

That’s a discussion for the morning, though, or never, Eddie reminds himself. He’s just kissed your hand in the middle of the night while you’re sleeping like a creep, he might not be too eager to admit that to you in the morning in a desperate plea to do it again. He refrains from peppering the rest of your skin in adoring kisses, but keeps your hand clutched in his own, marveling at the way that you can warm him up completely from a single touch.

It must be an angel thing, he decides, as he drifts off into a happy slumber, tomorrow he’ll ask you if it hurt when you fell from heaven.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

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yougavemeyourheartyouknow · 6 months

Text

Oh, you wanna play psycho killer? (Ghostface! Miguel O’Hara x Fem! Reader x Ghostface! Peter B Parker) Part 1

RAAAAA! Excited about this one! Based off this post. Inspired by this drawing from Andalusia_Lu on Tiktok. Not proofread. Tbh I’m kinda nervous about this one but…Enjoy! Also in this story MJ and Peter are just friends. This is probably the darkest think I’ve written.

(Y/N) - Your name.

NSFW!!, Cursing, use of alcohol, death, murder, yandere behavior, Reader has a bf who does die, violence, blood, said reader’s bf calls her derogatory remarks behind her back, religious imagery(I think???), stalking, male masturbation, invasion of privacy, reader being drugged, panty stealing, stalking, implied kidnapping, gore, cameras being placed in readers home without their knowledge, it’s a horror one shot so… you know what you’re walking into. Dead Dove Do not eat, MDNI!

Word count: 2.5k

Part 2

Masterlist

—

October 31st, Halloween night. Also know as the night that gives college students an excuse to get fucked up while in a shit quality costume that cost 50 bucks at spirit Halloween.

That little rule you are not exempt from, that’s how you found yourself in a random college frat party at NYU, a bottle of beer in one hand, and your boyfriend’s in the other as you drag him through the crowd so you both can dance. The alcohol in your system made your whole body relaxed and your cheeks glow with a dash of red over them, your eyes half-lidded and your smile wide as you looked up at Daniel while Promiscuous from Nelly Furtado blasted through the house. You looked like an angel straight from heaven, although that might be due to your customer, being dressed up as Juliet from the 1996 movie, while your boyfriend was clattered in armor as Romeo. The costumes being your idea after having rewatched the movie a few weeks ago.

You both had lost the rest of your group in the crowd, Jess and MJ had said they were going to the kitchen while Miguel and Peter had said they were going outside to get fresh air but you haven’t seen them since, you wouldn't have extremely worried, if it wasn’t for the reason sightings of the ghostface killer that had been popping up on the news though. Sure maybe going to a party wasn’t the best idea either but you figured you would have been fine since you were going in a group, I mean, what wouldn’t you be okay? It’s not like an actual serial killer goes after a group of young adults who are all drunk right? But now you’ve lost 4 out of 6 people in said group. But maybe in the small chance you do get targeted, you should be able to stand a chance since your Daniel was always in the gym with Miguel, so he was pretty jacked (not as jacked as Miguel though but you’ll never say that out loud).

One song turned to two then to three, just like the beers in Daniel’s hand, you had slowed down so you could at least be sober enough to order a Lyft for when the night was over. Eventually you were whisked away from your boyfriend by MJ and Jess, thankful that they were still at the party and nothing happened to them.

“Hey, have you guys seen Peter or Miguel?” You shouted over the music after a while, Jess just shrugged, before MJ answered.

“They texted me that they found Daniel and he’s like, fucked up apparently.”

—

“Please!”

Stab.

“I don’t want to die! Please stop!”

Stab.

“I’ll give anything! Just don’t kill me!”

The begs and pleads become more desperate and sloppy with every second, the words slurring more together from the alcohol and the crimson red liquid dribbling out of Daniel's mouth. The sight was almost enough to make the two men feel pity. Almost.

“Anything?” The shorter one asked with an agonizingly slow head tilt, his voice altered from the voice changer attached to the plastic mask, signaling for the other to stop plugging the knife into their victim’s stomach. Despite not liking being told what to do, he dropped Daniel on the floor with a snarl. Daniel quickly retracted into a small ball, shaking arms going to cover his bloody wound with a groan and whimper.

“We want (Y/N).” If it weren't for him being in excruciating pain and bleeding out, Daniel would have thought they were joking, but the tone in which the words were spoken made his blood that was spilling out from his stomach and mouth run cold.

“W-what?” He asked as he tried to keep his breathing from becoming shallow and his head from becoming too dizzy, but he was failing miserably.

“You heard us. We. Want. (Y/N).” The larger one spoke this time. How badly, he wanted to emphasize each word with another stab, the knife in his hands twitched a bit as he tightened his grip on the black handle. He was itching for an excuse, but he’ll refrain.

For now.

Maybe it was the way he responded to a stressful situation, or maybe it was the lack of blood finally affecting his brain, but Daniel had the nerve to laugh. Fucking laugh. The laugh was breathy, and in between coughs and groans, causing Miguel and Peter to look at their prey like he was the crazy one. Rage filled their bodies when Daniel finally composed himself enough to talk again.

“Y-you can’t be serious? …Right? You-you’re gonna kill-kill me over some bitch?”

How fucking dare he.

How dare he speak about you like you were some random skank, like you were a pile of dirt. You were a fucking goddess, Miguel and Peter knew that, because they worshipped you like one. They didn’t see what you saw in Daniel, he didn’t deserve you, no one did, except Miguel and Peter, they would treat you better than any other man that roamed this stupid planet, and especially far better then the sorry excuse of a boyfriend that they had on the ground like he was a wounded animal.

For someone who was about to die, he sure had a lot of nerve.

He didn’t love you like they did, he didn’t know your every move like they did. They were like your real life guardian angels, always following behind you to make sure no one would harm so much as a hair on your pretty little head, and how lucky were they, that you were juuust oblivious enough that you don’t notice them, just enough to brush of your rummaged trash as raccoons, just enough that you didn’t noticed when a pair or two of your dirty panties go missing, you had too many to keep track of all of them anyways. Never knowing that one of the two would sneak into your apartment while you were asleep to grab them from your hamper, no matter which boy had decided to embark on their mission, both of them had to fight against the struggle to not stay and watch you sleep, fighting the urge to release their painful hard members and stroke while watching you sleep. They’d be lying to themselves if they said they haven’t lost the battle at least once before, biting into their free hand to stop any moans from escaping and waking you up, while they fist fuck their cocks with the other, but can you blame them?

They just loved you so much and you loved them too, you just haven’t realized it yet. How could you when that pest of a boyfriend of yours was pumping your head full of false thoughts? He didn’t love you like Peter and Miguel did. Sure Daniel might seem like he loved you so much, going as far as to get you flowers and gifts from time to time, but Miguel and Peter’s gifts they would give you were so much better, because these gifts were all given to you with the same purpose. To help them watch over you, make sure you were safe, strategically planning to make sure to eventually fill your entire home with cameras right under your adorable nose. The teddy bear that sits on your bed and the light up mirror over your bathroom sink were first of course.

Peter couldn’t help himself, with all of his force, he kicked Daniel right in the balls, causing him to curl up more in pain. Miguel was going to do the same when his phone pinged in his pocket, he quickly took it out and checked it, your name filling his screen made his heart skip a beat.

“It’s (Y/N). She’s asking where we are, and wants us to meet her at her apartment after she drops off Jess and MJ in 15 minutes.” Miguel mumbled as he looked down at his phone, before looking up at Peter then down at their prey on the ground. “She probably thinks we’re still with him, what should we do with him?”

Peter’s eyes followed Miguel’s gaze down to the half- conscious Daniel, silent as if thinking about what to say, or more likely what to do with him.

“We could leave him here for dead?” Peter suggested, but Miguel shook his head at the thought, too risky, they couldn’t have the chance of him being found by someone and taken to the hospital, that could ruin everything.

“You both… ar-are fucking psychotic! Killing me over some-some bitch who doesn’t eve-even give good fucking… fucking head!” Daniel yelled between coughs, more blood falling from his blue-turning lips, he looked like he had seen a ghost due to how pale he was becoming from the blood lost, and now he’s gonna become one. Miguel’s phone buzzed again, this time you only sent a single question mark, looking down at his phone.

“I want you to know that if I wasn’t about to be late to see you, I would beat this guy bloody, for the way he talks about you.” Miguel said out loud as if you could actually hear him, as if you were actually here to hear how true those words were, but instead Miguel raised his knife with one hand and grabbed Daniel’s hair with the other. Enjoying the way the Dani’s eyes widened in fear, his weak arms flailed around as he tried to fight the larger man off of him, but it was no use. “Guess I’ll just have to cut straight to the point.” He said, the smirk evident threw his altered voice before putting his knife against Daniel’s throat and slashing it open. Watching whatever life that was left in him drain from his eyes.

Peter being the skilled photographer he was, took a selfie of the two with their slayed animal, now it’s time to go claim their trophy.

—

Something was off.

Like seriously off, ever since Peter and Miguel disappeared at the party neither of them had answered their phone, and as soon Dani disappeared neither had he. Maybe the party wasn’t the best idea in retrospect, you let out a sigh as you entered your apartment, and collapsed on your couch, wanting to try and calm your racing thoughts a bit before you changed out of your costume. Closing your eyes, and taking in a deep breath.

Your phone started to ring.

Usually, you didn’t answer calls from people who weren’t already in your contacts, so the “blocked number” would normally set off red flags, but maybe the alcohol was still making your brain foggy, because without thinking you answer the call and put your phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

No answer.

You left out a huff and tried again.

“Hellooo?”

When you didn’t get an answer again you rolled your eyes.

“I think you got the wrong numb-“

“Wanna play a game?”

“I’m-I’m sorry?”

“I said, wanna play a game?”

“Um no thanks. I'm hanging up now.”

“Hang up and you won’t get to see your special surprise though.” Oddly enough, you grew a bit curious.

“Wha..what do I have to do?” You asked.

“It’s simple, We’re gonna play a small game of hot and cold.” You had a feeling this wasn’t a good idea, maybe you shouldn’t answer the call. “Right now you’re cold.”

Without another word, you slowly got up, and made your way down the hall, your floorboard creaking underneath your heels.

“Warmer.”

Your heart begins to beat in your ears, you bring a shaky hand up to the doorknob of your bathroom, you go to open the door when the voice from the other end of the phone spoke again.

“Colder.”

You quickly bring your hand back down to your side and let your heavy footsteps make your way into your bedroom.

“Hotter.”

You swallowed the thick lump of saliva down your throat as you made your way to the left side room, your eyes dead set on your closet.

“Hotter.”

You closed the gap between you and the closet, and brought your hand to the handle, mentally preparing yourself for whatever hides before the wooden doors.

“You're on fucking fire baby.”

Your hand drew back the door, the sight made you let out a blood curdling scream, almost dropping your phone in the process. Your Daniel, dead, sitting on the closet floor, gutted out like a fish. The voice on the other end of the phone let out a sly chuckle before speaking once again.

“Sorry about your boyfriend, guess all those muscles didn’t help much.” He mocked before the call went dead, and you finally released your phone, it falling to the floor, as your body began to shake and your breathing became rapid.

You let out a sob and began to stumble away from the mangled corpse that you once called your boyfriend, only for your back to meet with a what felt like a wall of muscle, you quickly look up over your shoulder, being met with the infamous ghostface mask that has been plastered all over the news.

“What’s the matter (Y/N)? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The altered voice taunted. No, no, no,no. This cannot be happening. You shook your head as another sob left your lips stumbling away from the masked killer and into the hallway, expecting him to follow after you, but instead he just watched you. If you were thinking straight. You’d probably realized that this was a trap, but you weren’t thinking straight, as you finally reached the front door, you went to unlock the door and leave your apartment, but before you even stepped foot out of the door a large hand came and grabbed you around your waist. You take in a deep breath and open your mouth to scream, but instead a white cloth came and covered your nose and mouth, the strong smell of chemicals quickly filling your lungs.

“Surprised (Y/N).” This voice was a bit deeper, then the one from your bedroom, your head became dizzy as you eyes fluttered, your vision was beginning to blacken, before you were fully go under, you saw the man holding you still was a lot larger than the other one, it clicked, there were two of them.

You black out.

—

“She out?” Peter asked Miguel as he slipped off his mask, Miguel following suit.

“Like a light.” Miguel smirks as he goes to pick you up bridal style, your body limply laying in his arms. The two couldn’t help but smile as they watched your sleeping form, so peaceful looking, like an Angel. Their angel. Their plan played out just as they wanted, you were theirs now, and theirs alone. No one could come in the way of you three anymore, all they had to do now was make sure you wouldn’t leave them. But how would you do that if you didn’t know where you were? You couldn’t. That’s why Miguel gently placed you in the backseat of Peter’s car, before getting into the passenger’s seat. They were going to make sure you were far, far away from your old life, so you could start your new one with your lovesick killers.

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zepskies · 8 months

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Smoke Eater - Part 2

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real.

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.

AN: I was overwhelmed by the response on Part 1 (in the BEST way). 🥹 Thank you so much for everyone who read and sent me your lovely amazing comments! Here's Part 2 a bit early for ya. 😘

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 6,400 Tags/Warnings: Idiots flirting, with a side of sexual harassment. 😪

Part 2: "Lieutenant Winchester"

Firehouse 25 was just as much a house as it was a home.

Especially for Dean Winchester.

In the common room, he sat down at his preferred corner of the sofa with a cup of coffee. By now, the guys knew this was his spot, perfectly angled toward the new flatscreen TV someone donated last month.

Up until then, they’d had to hotwire the same tank from 1995, which had only got basic cable. Now at least the newer smart TV came with a subscription to Netflix, courtesy of the donor.

Dean raised his favorite Batman mug to his face, expecting to imbibe some rich dark roast. What he got was a travesty.

Spitting out the brown soil water back into the mug, he coughed and grimaced.

“Jack!” he called out.

Jack Kline, the newest addition to the house, raised his head from where he was trying to scramble eggs in the open kitchen directly behind the couch.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” he replied.

“Why does this coffee taste like ass?” Dean asked. His voice was still gruff with sleep, as he depended on his morning coffee to wake him up, not assault his tongue.

Behind him, Jack blinked in confusion. “Uh…”

Dean finally turned around and gave the younger man a raised brow.

“What brand did you buy, Candidate?” he asked.

A candidate was a freshly graduated firefighter on probation. They were the rookie, the bottom rung of the totem pole, and Jack was that proverbial whipping post.

“Um…” Jack went to find the coffee canister he’d put away in the cupboards. He showed Dean the red plastic jug. “Folgers. It was on sale.”

“Fuck me,” Dean muttered. “Never Folgers, Candidate. Anything but fucking Folgers. The one thing we don’t skimp out on is quality joe.”

“That ain’t nothin’ but dirt water, son,” Benny remarked, as he and Gordon entered the common room. Benny held a to-go mug he’d brought from home. After he’d seen what Jack brought for groceries yesterday, he’d taken no chances.

“What you wanna get is Gevalia,” Benny added.

“That European crap?” said Gordon. He took his usual spot at the dining table, leaning back in his chair. It left Benny to sit at the other end of the couch with Dean.

“Better than that piss water you drink,” Benny said with a smirk. Gordon raised a brow at him.

“Tea is medicinal, jackass.” The Black man raised a finger to punctuate his point. “It’s good for you. Unlike that carburetor fluid y’all drink.”

“Whatever, man,” Dean said, even though a grin edged at his lips. “All I know is, we need premium coffee, stat. Or it’s gonna be a cranky shift.”

“I can go to the store real quick,” Jack offered.

Say what you want about the kid’s poor taste in grocery buying, he was always willing to jump in when you needed him.

“Nah, stay on breakfast,” said Dean. “I’ll go afterwards. But remember, today you’re practicing rappelling drills.”

Jack nodded. “And lunch duty. And helping clean the truck, and all the bathrooms…did I miss anything?”

Dean shared a look with Gordon. Not only did he drive the truck, but he was one of the men Dean relied on most, as he had the next highest seniority on the job out of the whole firehouse.

Well, except for Benny Lafitte, Captain of the Rescue Squad. Squad members were considered specialists in complex rescue situations. They were highly trained on more sophisticated technical rescue equipment and rappelling, even scuba diving.

It took long years for a firefighter to make it onto Squad; something that Dean used to have ambitions for. But ever since he got promoted to Lieutenant on Truck 79, he realized that his role in this house was best served on the Truck, not on Squad.

“If he gets through all that, Meg might have something for him too,” Gordon said.

“Oh, don’t bring me into this,” remarked a droll voice. “I’ve already got one pound puppy to look after.”

Their Paramedic in Charge strode in with Chuck on her heels. They’d just pulled into the firehouse driveway on Ambulance 7.

“Nice. That’s how you talk about your partner of three years?” Chuck said with a frown. Meg turned to him with a wry grin.

“Only the ones who can hack it on my Ambo,” she replied. “What can I say. You’re special, Shurley. Either that, or a glutton for punishment.”

Gordon shook his head and looked over at Jack.

“Careful with that one. She chewed and hacked out her last partner in under a month.”

“Poor guy didn’t even transfer,” Dean added, making a “flatlining” motion with his hand. “He just quit. Dropped out of the Fire Academy that same day.”

Not all firefighters were made through Meg’s department, but it was a common route, working as a paramedic while getting put through your paces in the Fire Academy. Dean himself had gone straight to the Academy after getting his EMT certification.

But at Dean’s words, Jack’s eyes widened a fraction. Meg turned to him with an almost feline smile.

“How was the call?” Benny asked her, speaking of the job they’d just returned from. Meg’s expression dimmed a little, as did Chuck’s as they both sat down at the table.

“Ah, just Henry again,” she said. “Overdosed on his insulin.”

Benny frowned, while Dean shook his head. Jack’s brows furrowed.

“Who’s Henry?” he asked.

Meg sat back in her chair with a subtle sigh. Knowing his work partner’s mood, Chuck answered the young man’s question.

“He’s homeless, lives by the river,” he said. “He’s one of our ‘regulars,’ you could say. When we get the call, usually he’s passed out. Dehydration. But sometimes it’s more serious.”

“You can’t take him to the hospital?” Jack asked in concern.

“Today we did,” Meg said. Her brown eyes met Jack’s, her mouth in a thin line. “But without health insurance, there’s only so much they can do after they get him stable.”

That fell a bit heavily into the room. It wasn’t a pleasant fact, but it was the reality. Jack was learning more and more about that aspect of this job, and learning if he could handle the darker shades of what it could bring.

“Well, breakfast is ready,” he said, bringing a large plate of eggs and toast onto the counter. Dean tossed him an appreciative half-smile and got up from the couch.

“Thanks, kid,” he said, walking over along with everyone else. He took a moment to pat Jack on the shoulder.

“What do you want to do first: run drills, or help me and Gordon wash the truck?” Dean asked.

Jack looked up with a smile. “Can we run drills first?”

Dean nodded, grinning back at him. “Good answer.”

The rest of the Truck and Squad crews ambled in at both the announcement and the smell of food. And before long, the common room was filled with conversation, good-natured teasing, and shitty coffee all around.

From his vantage point facing the open door to the driveway, Benny caught sight of a young woman heading towards the double doors with a large tupperware bin in hand. Bonnie the receptionist happened to be coming in at the same time. You asked her a question Benny couldn’t quite hear.

“Dean… Oh, you’re looking for Lieutenant Winchester?” Bonnie asked. Her voice tended to carry. “Right in there, hun.”

“Well, that sure is interesting,” Benny murmured with a smile. He glanced over slyly at his friend. “Heads up, brother.”

Dean looked up from his plate of eggs expectantly. Benny gestured over with his eyes, just as you walked into the firehouse, both cautious and unsure of where you were going.

Dean’s brows raised. He found himself setting down his plate and getting up from the couch before he really knew what he was doing.

You looked exactly how he remembered. Though this time, you weren’t coffee stained in your professional blouse and black pencil skirt. His attention drew briefly downwards to your heels, this time solid black (and even taller than the last pair, damn).

He noticed all the same things he had last time: the shade of your hair, pinned up again with a clip as stray pieces framed your face. The way you carried yourself when you finally saw him, straightening with a subtle confidence in your shoulders, even though you looked a bit nervous. And the pretty curve of your lips when your eyes found his.

“Hey, there,” Dean said. He gave you one of his trademark smiles. “Good to see you again.”

“Uh, hi,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you remember me.”

Dean nodded. “‘Course I do. What can I do for you?”

Your face seemed to freeze up a bit as you looked up at him.

“Oh, um, nothing really. I just wanted to say thank you, again,” you said. And you glanced past him, where the rest of the firehouse members were discreetly watching. “All of you, actually. And my friend told me that firefighters really like food…but, I mean, doesn’t everyone?”

You laughed a little, in a nervous way that made Dean struggle not to smile too much.

“Anyway, I like to bake,” you twittered on, “and I had some time this week after…well, you know what happened. So…I brought this!”

You raised up your tupperware with a smile.

And you were damn adorable, Dean thought. His own smile deepened as he glanced down at the offering, then at you. He took the container and opened the lid, and was honestly surprised at what he saw.

He could’ve sworn these were Bonafede, just-poured-out-of-the-box Girl Scout cookies. Dozens of them. He saw shortbreads (complete with the little wavy lines), Samoa cookies with the coconut flakes, and even what looked like chocolate covered Thin Mints. They also smelled delicious.

“Wow. Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, with genuine warmth. “I’m pretty sure the guys are gonna tear these apart the second I put ‘em down.”

Your face brightened, and Dean noticed how it reached your eyes with a bit of a blush.

“Well, I hope you guys enjoy,” you said. Your hands fiddled with your purse next.

“Heading off to work now?” he asked.

“Yep,” you nodded, with a certain glint in your eye. “I plan on taking the stairs this time.”

Dean raised a brow. “All 22 floors?”

“Gotta get my steps in somehow,” you joked. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to become a repeat offender, make you guys come all the way back across town again.”

“Aw, I wouldn’t mind,” he said, meeting your eyes. And he found that he meant it. In fact, he didn’t think he’d mind if your building’s elevator broke down every damn week.

Your expression shifted towards amusement. “Well, you must be very dedicated to your job.”

“Protect and serve,” Dean teased back. “That’s our motto, you know.”

“Isn’t that for police officers?” you quipped.

He chuckled. “Hey, if the shoe fits.”

“Well…” you considered that with a tilt of your head, more seriously than he expected you to. You met him with a more earnest gaze. “I think it does.”

Right then, Dean had a feeling, deep in his gut, that he needed to know you. He had half a mind to heed his instincts, to take advantage of the signals he thought you were sending him, and ask if he could take you out sometime.

But it was unprofessional here at the firehouse (not that that had stopped him before). He’d been making efforts to curb that kind of behavior for the past few months.

He also remembered the 30 floors of your massive, fancy office building. He considered the price tags that probably came with the admittedly sexy, high-powered corporate look you had going on. Those were probably a lot more zeros than he was used to seeing on his paycheck.

So for once, he didn’t pull the trigger.

“Well, thanks. I really do appreciate that,” Dean replied. His smile then was more sincere, if also more professional. He gestured at the container in his hand. “And on behalf of all the guys, thanks for this too.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied. “I have to go, but…thanks again, Lieutenant Winchester.”

“Ah,” he shook his head, “just call me Dean.”

You agreed by smiling, just a little bit more.

“Dean.”

He nodded back, sending you off with a smile of his own. He forced himself to taper it down after you left, and he had to turn around to meet his friends. Their grins reminded him of piranhas.

“All right. Out with it, you freakin’ jackals.” He waved his free hand in a “bring it on” gesture.

Meg was the first one to burst out laughing. It spearheaded the rest of them, whooping and catcalling and generally being menaces. Even Jack was grinning at his lieutenant’s expense.

Meg got up from her seat and bumped Dean’s shoulder on her way to the kitchen, where she dumped her dishes.

“Thanks again, Lieutenant Winchester,” she mocked in a saccharine sweet voice. Then she lowered it into an exaggerated mimic of his deeper one, “Call me Dean, baby girl. Fucking priceless. You should get your own Hallmark movie.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He’d been prepared for this, but his face was still getting warm.

“Shut up, Meg,” he tossed back. They all had an ongoing Family Guy joke that never failed to make their PIC narrow her eyes. And she did so now, giving him a fake grimace as she left the kitchen.

“All right, kiddos. If you need me, don’t,” she said. “Chuck! Let’s sort the ambo’s inventory.”

“Got it,” her partner nodded. He too got up and placed his dishes in the sink before he took off after Meg.

This left Dean with the rest of the guys, who still gave him knowing smiles as he set your bin of cookies down on the table. He blew out a breath before he returned to the couch and sat down heavily across from Benny and Gordon.

“I never thought I’d see the day that Dean Winchester bitched out,” Gordon remarked.

Once again, Dean rolled his eyes.

“Truly incredible,” Benny added. He shook his head when Dean just crossed his arms. “She was eying you like a pork cutlet, and you just let her walk outta here.”

“We’re in the house, guys. What was I supposed to do?” Dean groused.

Benny and Gordon looked at him like he’d just denounced Led Zeppelin (his favorite band of all time).

“Get her goddamn number, Winchester,” said Gordon. The man’s lips curved. “Or at least, introduce her to a brother.”

Dean shot him a glance. Gordon Walker was damn good at driving the truck, but he was also known for being a hunter of the ladies himself.

“She seemed nice,” Jack put his two cents in with a smile. He was standing behind the couch, leaning his elbows on it. Gordon scoffed, nodding his agreement.

“Yeah, with a fat ass too,” he said, sipping his tea.

Benny reached over and hit his shoulder to shut him up.

“That’s a lady, Gordon,” he said. Though a suspect smile graced his lips as he glanced at Dean. “A lady with a nice ass.”

Dean shook his head, but he couldn’t disagree. The first time he met you, he’d been impressed by the way you stood your ground with your asshole boss. Dean thought you were going to chuck that lethal looking heel at the guy. But behind that steely exterior was a kind little softie.

Today, he got your sweet side. It was equal parts sexy and adorable.

And damn if you didn’t have a nice ass, nice curves, and a nice mouth.

But your eyes, he thought. Those were nothing short of beautiful.

About twenty minutes across town, an apartment building was swarmed by police cars. One unit in particular was sealed off with yellow caution tape as a team of officers drifted in and out.

What a fucked way to die.

Detective John Winchester observed the unnatural angle that the victim—Jerry Stillwell, a certified public accountant—had his throat cut with a jagged weapon.

It hadn’t been clean in the least. And he’d bled out across his work desk and a stack of papers, as well as his desktop computer. He was 45, unmarried, and murdered in his own home in the middle of a Friday afternoon.

The computer wouldn’t turn on, and not because of the blood. It had been wiped with magnetized technology, most likely by the intruder. Though there was no sign of forced entry, according to John’s partner. The murder weapon was missing as well, though it looked like a knife wound.

John leaned over the on-site medical examiner’s shoulder to peer closer at the man’s wounds. Stillwell had most likely been grabbed from behind. So far, the signs pointed to the culprit being someone the victim knew.

They probably took Stillwell by surprise, but he was a large man. If John had to guess, over 250 pounds, unathletic, but still, not easy to overpower. Likely the suspect was a man over 6 feet; strong, and efficient. Though the messiness of the kill made John think this guy took "pride" his work, so to speak.

“Signs of struggle,” said the M.E. “Skin under the fingernails. He fought back, and…huh.”

John’s interest piqued at the man’s shift in tone. “What?”

“Take a look at this.” The M.E. was holding Stillwell’s right hand, palm-up, revealing a small burn on the inside of the wrist. John’s gaze sharpened on the mark.

“Cas, come here,” he said. Across the room, Detective Cas Novak paused in his task of examining the entry points of the apartment to join John at his side. His blue eyes widened a fraction at seeing the burn. It was a symbol of a snake eating its own tail.

“That makes four,” Cas said.

“Yep. We’ve got ourselves a murder cluster,” John said. Cas nodded. He beckoned John to the side, making sure the M.E. was out of earshot before he spoke. “Isn’t it time we brought Sam up to speed on this, at least?”

John’s brows furrowed.

“No,” he said. “Sam’s an ADA. We don’t go to him until we have someone to indict.”

He walked away from Cas, who frowned. John knew damn well that wasn’t what he meant. This was the fourth murder within six months of this nature. The fourth to be branded with the mark of Azazel…a criminal who supposedly disappeared decades ago.

Shortly after November 2, 1983, the day of Mary Winchester’s death.

Seeing Dean again had gone better than you thought it would. It left you feeling light and downright cheerful when you left the firehouse this morning. Unfortunately, the great start to your morning only crumbled when you reached your office.

Now, even at the end of your day, finally back at home and in the familiarity of your kitchen, the tension headache was back.

“Dre, I’m tired. Can’t we do this another night?” you asked.

Your cell phone was balanced between your ear and your shoulder as you counted out your grandfather’s pills, and placed them in each “Monday through Sunday” box in the blue container.

“No, we absolutely cannot. Because today was horrific,” Andréa said. “For me, because my coworker decided to play hookie on the day our top account needed the mockups of their new website. Never mind that she hadn’t even started.”

Pause for an aggravated breath, through which you frowned in sympathy. She’d told you the entire story over lunch today.

“And for you, because Nick once again displayed why he’s a subhuman neanderthal, in spectacular fashion,” she added.

Your grimace deepened at the reminder.

Earlier today, just before a sales meeting you were set to lead, you’d turned away from the conference table to set up the projector. Nick was early for once, making it just him and you in the room.

He’d sat back in his chair and uttered a remark that set the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

“I’ll tell you what, babe. You sure know how to wear a skirt.”

Your back straightened, and slowly you turned. Your face was set in stone, save for a solitary raise of your brow.

“Excuse me?”

Nick’s smirk was lazy as he kicked his feet up on the table. His hand held a tumbler of whiskey. You noted the half empty carafe, which just yesterday had been full and untouched.

“Fucking fantastic legs,” he said, vaguely outlining your shape with his hand. “I applaud you. It’s all very…sexy secretary. Oooh! Sexcretary. Fucking brilliant.”

You gaped, trying to put a clamp on the furious spike in your blood.

“Are you drunk?” you asked incredulously.

He raised his fingers an inch or so apart, scrunching up his face and trying not to laugh.

“Actually nah, not at all,” he bluffed.

He let his hand fall back into his lap. You shook your head and set down your papers in order to cross your arms.

“Good. Then you’ll hear me clearly when I say, I’m filing a formal complaint with Billie in HR,” you said.

“Whaaat? Why?” he complained. You huffed incredulously.

“For your little comments, which are getting more and more heinous. Not to mention your excessive drinking during company hours.”

Nick pursed his lips. “Christ on a stick. Can’t you take a fucking compliment?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “What I refuse to take is any further sexual harassment. This isn’t the first incident I could disclose, but I’m damn sure you’ll want it to be the last.”

He kicked his feet off the table and slowly stood. You didn’t want to be afraid of this sloppy, frat boy drunken attitude, but a tendril of trepidation still laced down your spine as you took a step back.

“You could do that,” he nodded, tilting his head. “Or, I’ll give your Zimmerman account to Josh, along with your commission.”

You frowned, and shock made your entire body tense.

“You…you can’t do that!” you exclaimed. Your insides fairly shook with frustration tinged with anger. “I’ll sue you.”

“With what money?” Nick scoffed.

Your brows knitted together then. How the hell would he know anything about your finances?

The man noted your reaction with a nod.

“Yeah, I know all about grammy and gramps. Surgeries, funerals, treatments…” he said. He leaned against the table with one hand, and still he fairly loomed over you.

He wasn't as broad as someone like Dean, but he was tall and lean. His dirty blonde hair was swept to the side, his blue eyes bearing down on you.

“I am this company. If you don’t like it, you can get the fuck out, sweetheart,” he said.

His gaze lowered, roaming your glowering face.

“And good luck getting anywhere else without a reference from one of the biggest corporations in Lawrence, Kansas.”

You sighed. Yeah, you might’ve shed some frankly embarrassing tears in the women’s bathroom after that. You hadn’t even told Andréa the full story, which included the details of his comments, along with his threats.

You didn’t want her to worry. And maybe, more selfishly, you were embarrassed at having to deal with it at all.

Truth be told, you still didn’t know what the hell you were going to do. About Nick, or your job…but somehow, getting drunk at a bar seemed about the last thing you should be doing.

“I need a drink,” Andréa insisted. “Which means you definitely need a drink. And I know exactly where we’re going.”

After a long moment, you leaned your elbows on the kitchen counter and rubbed through the persistent ache in your forehead. Maybe, just this once, you deserved to forget about reality. Just for a little while.

“Fine. Where?” you asked.

“It’s this great bar Meg told me about. The Roadhouse.”

“Ah, the usual suspects,” Ellen drawled at the men who managed to find seats at her bar, next to the rest of their party. The Roadhouse was packed on a Friday night, but she always had room for these two.

Benny and Dean wore similar tired, but pleasant smiles as they greeted their esteemed barkeep.

“What’s it been, Ellen, a whole shift since I’ve seen your delightful face?” Dean said.

Ellen gave him a mocking smile as she poured him his favorite beer on tap. Dean grinned and clapped his younger brother on the shoulder as he sat down. He and Cas had been waiting for a little while.

…Well, maybe longer than a little.

“Hey, dude,” Dean said. Sam perked up from his second beer with pursed lips.

“You know we’ve been waiting on you for like an hour, right?” he said.

“Aw, don’t get your panties in a twist, Sammy,” Dean teased. He nodded his thanks at Ellen when she set his beer in front of him, and a glass of whiskey for Benny. “We had a last-minute call. Some guy just couldn’t wait to start his Happy Hour. Drove his car into the company fountain.”

Sam’s brows raised incredulously. He looked over at Benny for confirmation, and the other man gave a resigned nod.

“Apparently it set the ducks into a tizzy,” he said. “The guy’s fine. Probably gonna get slapped with a DUI.”

Dean smirked and raised a finger at both Sam and Cas. “Duck Guy’s your problem now.”

Cas shook his head and raised his beer to his lips.

“Not my department.”

“Mine either,” Sam scoffed. Both of them worked in homicide cases, just from the differing sides of law and order. In fact, they worked together more often than Dean and Cas did.

Dean looked over at his friend Cas for a moment. He looked like more of a hot mess than usual, with his tie half undone, and a scruffy half-beard covering his face.

“Geez, man. You look like shit,” Dean remarked. “You and Meg fighting again?”

“No,” Cas replied, his brows furrowing. “…Well, yes. But nothing more than her usual insanity. Something about the cat preferring to sleep next to me than to her.”

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Benny said. “My dog don’t like her either.”

“Maybe they can smell that she’s feral,” Dean quipped. Cas sent him a dry look at that.

“She threatened to move out,” he revealed. “Even packed a bag at 3:00 in the morning. I spent two hours unpacking what she was re-packing, all while we argued in our underwear, not sleeping.”

Sam and Dean shared bemused looks, while Benny shook his head into his whiskey.

“So how’d it end up?” Sam asked. Cas sighed and took another long sip of his beer.

“Like it always ends, Sam,” he said, his lips quirking. “With our neighbors calling the precinct to complain, and me, somehow ending up sleeping on the couch for a crime I didn’t commit. If she wants to blame someone, blame the goddamn cat.”

Dean chortled. He brought his beer to his lips, but couldn’t resist a light jab at his best friend first.

“Dude, I love her like a sister, but your girlfriend’s unhinged,” he said.

Cas could only nod. “Most are, I’ve come to find.”

Sam scoffed and shook his head. “Not mine.”

“Yeah, that’s because Eileen doesn’t have to see you more than two minutes at a time,” Dean teased. He and his brother still shared an apartment, and Sam’s job as an Assistant District Attorney wrought demanding hours.

Sam shot his brother a flat look.

“Oh, I’m not taking that from the serial playboy,” he said.

Dean’s brows knitted together.

“All right, calm down,” he said. “I’m not Hugh Hefner.”

“Mr. Hit and Run,” Cas added, a smirk gracing his features.

“Chief ‘No Daddy Issues,’” Benny tipped in, giving his annoyed, green-eyed friend a sly glance. “With a side helping of the Clap.”

Dean’s lips pressed into a line. He leveled a finger at Benny.

“That girl was clean, okay? False alarm,” Dean said. His gaze raised heavenward as he sipped his beer. Thank Christ for that one. “The rash was just carpet burn.”

Sam shook his head and turned to his brother more seriously.

“Bottom line: until you date a woman for more than two weeks—hell, two days at a time—you don’t get to comment on the happily committed,” he said.

Dean rolled his eyes. He knew his track record with relationships. As in, he didn’t really have a record…but it wasn’t for lack of trying. At least, not for the past few months.

Sam managed to break Dean out of his thoughts by clearing his throat, pushing his empty bottle across the counter.

“All right, speaking of. I gotta go,” he said.

��Aw, why? We just got here. Let me buy you another,” Dean offered.

Sam shot his brother another knowing look. Dean knew it well; it said, if he’d been here on time, they would’ve shared the first two drinks.

“I’m picking up Eileen,” Sam said, grabbing his blazer and fixing the collar when he put it on. “There’s this Latin club she wants to go to.”

Dean raised incredulous brows.

“My brother’s going salsa dancing?”

Sam sighed in exasperation, despite his smile. “Bye, Dean.”

He shot his other two friends a nod.

“See you guys.”

Cas and Benny both saw him off with a subtle raise of their drinks, while Dean just shook his head.

“All right, Samantha,” he called out. Sam didn’t bother to turn around as he raised up a choice finger behind him.

Dean snorted into his drink. “Very mature.”

Benny and Cas shared a wry look. They were relieved when Ellen’s daughter Jo came by, picking up the slack for her mom, who was serving a rowdy group of college kids at a nearby table.

“Hey, guys. Need another round?” Jo asked. She gave them all a familiar smile, but her eyes lingered on Dean. He gave her a more reserved smile back.

“Hey, Jo,” he nodded. “I uh…actually think I’m good right now.”

“Me too,” Cas said. He even stood up and grabbed his trenchcoat in similar fashion as Sam had. The two had paid for their beers before Benny and Dean even got there.

“Aw, not you too,” Dean groused.

“If I don’t make dinner, we run the risk of the apartment going up in flames,” Cas informed him. Dean could only assume he was talking about Meg. “Despite working with the Fire Department for ten years, the woman can’t manage to boil an egg without supervision.”

Jo raised a brow, but her smile was bemused as she turned to Benny. “Anything for you?”

“Nah, darlin’. I’m good,” he said. But sensing the unspoken request in her eyes when she glanced at Dean, Benny straightened and raised from his seat. “But I’ll be back. Need’a hit the head.”

Dean internally sighed as Benny left him alone at the bar. Or, well, relatively alone. Jo lingered in front of him to wash and dry out a few glasses. The air between them was stiff, and a little awkward.

Dean’s thoughts shifted back to his brother then; while he still couldn’t believe Eileen had wrangled his gangly Sasquatch of a brother into going dancing, Dean was happy for him. Truly and sincerely. Sam deserved having someone who softened him, made him break away from his endless cases and have some fun.

Dean could also admit, if only to himself, that he was maybe a little jealous. Sam had something good with his girl. Something real.

Dean had carpet burn.

“So, how’s studying going?” he asked Jo. He couldn’t stand awkward silences. “Still planning on giving your mom a heart attack when you get into the Police Academy?”

Jo’s blue eyes flicked up to his. She brushed a coil of blond hair behind her ear after she finished drying a glass, and a smile raised the corner of her lips.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I gave her something to yell about,” she quipped. “But since you asked…my exam is in three months.”

“Good,” Dean nodded. “You’ve got time. Study your ass off. Keep up the conditioning routine I gave you, and you’ll be set. Just don’t forget the strength training. Very important.”

“I got it,” she said, this time with a brighter smile. “Some old firefighter gave me some pointers.”

Dean tilted his beer at her accusingly.

“Hey, don’t pin that old shit on me yet. Benny’s got more mileage than I do…”

He considered her then, after briefly looking down at the counter.

“What?” she said.

He kept his lips tight. “Nothin’.”

“No, Dean. What?” Jo pressed. “You want to say something. Say it.”

He blew out a breath and shook his head.

“Ellen’s not the only one who’s gonna worry about you on the job, that’s all,” he said. Jo flickered at a rueful frown.

“That’s ironic,” she said. “I can handle myself, Dean. Something you so often seem to forget.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it,” he shot back. His hand tightened around his beer.

Jo’s face fell into irritation, mostly to cover up the hurt he saw buried deep behind her eyes. She gave him some relief by glancing away from him.

“And this is why we didn’t work out,” she muttered. Sighing through her nose, her eyes met his again. “You know what I hate, more than anything? People worrying.”

Dean carded his fingers through his hair, his brows knitting together in aggravation.

“Yeah, well, maybe they have good reason to,” he said. He could’ve predicted the way she tightened up. “And if I remember right, you did your fair share of hand-wringing the next time I responded to a fire on the job.”

He knew it was a low blow. But his point was made, and he fully expected the anger in Jo’s tight frown. They’d dated for a few weeks, mostly in secret.

That had been enough for Ellen to blow her top. Not because she had anything against Dean…just his job: at the very same firehouse her late husband had once served.

So Dean had backed off. He’d ultimately felt he had to end it. And clearly, Jo still resented him for it.

Slowly, however, the fire in her eyes dimmed. Her finger tapped on her side of the bar counter.

“You think I don’t worry anymore just because we’re not together?” she asked him.

Dean didn’t have a good answer for her. So his gaze fell to his nearly empty beer.

But he was even more relieved when Benny finally got back from the bathroom, or wherever he’d fucked off to for the past few minutes.

He did seem to know that he was interrupting a rather tense moment. Seeing as neither Dean nor Jo wanted to break the silence, Benny supposed it fell on him.

He reclaimed his seat and raised a smile up at Jo.

“I think I’m ready for the next round,” he said, glancing at Dean’s soured mood. “Two whiskeys, please, Joanna.”

Jo treated Benny with a half-smile. He was the only one besides her mother who called her Joanna (and got away with it). After one last look at Dean, she reached over for the Jim Beam.

You met Andréa at the bar in your own car, just in case you needed to dip out early to check on Grandpa George. He was happy to see you going out.

“You’re pretty as a doll, sweetheart,” he’d said, patting your cheek after you kissed his goodbye.

The thought made you smile, even though you thought you were dressed casually in your dark wash jeans and blouse. When Andréa met you outside the bar, she nodded in approval.

“Good. I like the hint of sexy,” she said, plucking at the sweetheart neckline of your top. You rolled your eyes and tried to cover up the cleavage a little, but she batted at your hand.

“No, no. Leave your professionalism at work,” she said. “Tonight, you’re going to relax and have some fun.”

It was hard to think about loosening up when you were literally getting belittled and threatened at work…but you supposed she had a point. You always had to be put together. You had to be sharp, because this world wouldn’t hand you anything on a silver platter.

And not to mention, you couldn’t just think about yourself. You also had to provide and take care of your grandfather too. He was the only family you had left, and you were it for him too…

But you took in a slow, deep breath. Tonight, you could have a couple of drinks with your friend. You could just be yourself, with no responsibilities other than not getting too drunk to drive yourself home later.

So with a sigh, you smiled and linked your arm with Andréa as you headed inside the Roadhouse.

It looked kind of divey from the outside, a worn-looking brown building with a faded red sign. But inside it was all dark wood and leather barstools and rows of soft lighting overhead.

There were records displayed on the wall; Prince’s Purple Rain, the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper, and David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust, among others. Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” played on the wall speakers.

There were several tables, both high top and regular four-seaters, as well as a long bar that spanned the far wall, where rows and rows of liquor were showcased. You followed Andréa’s lead to the bar, where you took a seat at the far end and tried to feel like you belonged here. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d gone out to a place like this.

“This is nice,” she leaned over into your ear to say. “Next time my cousin should meet us here. She’s a handful, but I think you’d like her.”

You agreed with a smile. “If she’s anything like you, I think I’m well trained to handle your brand of insanity.”

Andréa leveled you with a playfully mocking look.

“Ah, you’ve got jokes tonight. Okay.” She waved over the blonde bartender.

“Hi, ladies,” she greeted. “I’m Jo. What’re we starting off with tonight?”

Before you could order for yourself, Andréa grabbed your arm and spoke over you.

“Do you have absinthe?” she asked.

Your eyes widened. “What?! I’m not drinking that—”

“Sure do,” Jo replied in amusement.

“Great,” said Andréa. You didn’t like her sly grin. “She’ll have an Aunt Roberta. I’ll have a vodka cranberry.”

“What the hell is an Aunt Roberta?” you asked.

Jo listed the ingredients on her fingers. “A nice molotov of brandy, vodka, gin, blackberry liqueur, and of course, absinthe.”

Jesus Christ. You shot Andréa a glare, even though you were trying to dim your smile.

“Are you trying to chill me out or fucking end me?” you asked.

Andréa smirked. “Whatever it takes.”

You rolled your eyes, but you nodded your agreement. Jo’s smile remained as she went to prepare your drinks. Meanwhile, your eyes wandered as you once again took in your surroundings.

Really is a cool place, you thought. And it was busy without being overbearingly crowded. There were even a few seats between you and the rest of the patrons at the bar. Your gaze drew a path onwards, eventually reaching the other end of the bar.

There you caught sight of red flannel over a black undershirt, familiar broad shoulders, and an even more familiar face. Your eyes widened a fraction as his met yours, gleaming with recognition…and interest.

That slow smile of his was familiar too. It made a lance of heat run down your spine. You gripped the counter, mostly to steady yourself as you let out a breath.

Lieutenant Winchester.

AN: *rubs hands together* It begins. 😏

Lol how'd you like Dean's little moment with the reader at the firehouse? Plus the introduction of the rest of our cast!

(And a possible serial killer on the loose?) Though sorry about Nick. He's a douchecanoe.

Next Time:

Anticipation and nerves coiled together in your lower belly. You turned to your friend, who was already sipping at her vodka cranberry.

“Dre, help me,” you pleaded.

Andréa discreetly followed the path of your gaze, and her brows raised. A smirk curved her lips.

“Oh, babe. You need to help yourself,” she replied.

“I haven’t done that in a while,” you admitted. Your dating life had been sorely lacking, between the demands of your job and taking care of things at home. “I’m gonna say something demented.”

Andréa huffed in amusement.

“So? That’s half the fun,” she said.

Keep Reading: PART 3

Dean Winchester Masterlist

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