#even the messy graffiti | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

insuke69 · 5 months

Text

What's in a name?

✰⁂ Hobie brown × Rich!Osborn!reader

Part I, Part II

1/3

Synopsis: Osborn is almost a disgusting name because of the messed up things it has and the dirty money that holds it up by threads. And here is the child that sneaks out one night and meets a punk that goes directly against her father.

✩Warnings: cussing, Some angst, 'crybaby' reader, misunderstandings.

(mostly based on how earth-138 is)

Rated 13+(??).

✰5.7k words.

⚥Afab reader

_________________

Osborn.

“Norman Osborn”

A name everyone has learned for the worst part, the name ‘Osborn’ has run though the streets of Camden through the blood and dirt that drips through its pristine and marble image, spoken like the candyman–as if it were uttered three times, they’d be cursed and face the consequences. The man who hated the poor and less fortunate that were scattered through England. The man who kept his paws clean by hiring those who needed the money, then turning them into the crooked police for the crimes he made them do. The cruel family man who’s destroyed homeless shelters and remade them into his own buildings for business, legal or not.

“(Y/N) Osborn.”

Here she was. The daughter of this monster, the girl who receives bloody money that her father steals from the innocent, The daughter who people are afraid to even talk to out of fear of her dad, the girl who can’t refuse what she’s given because she understands how much worse it can be. That doesn’t stop her from still trying as much as she can. Sneaking out of her mansion most nights to try and get a taste of college parties. Whenever she goes out during the day with her dad’s black card, She spends it on clothes and gives it away to those she knows really needs it, always wearing a face-covering balaclava so her father doesn’t somehow find this out. Instead of the piano lessons she attended where her fingers gracefully flowed between those white elegant tiles to create beautiful classical music–she tried to learn the electric guitar, mostly teaching herself to the rhythmic sounds and rough rumble of the guitar that Hobie Brown wields.

“Hobie Brown“

A name recognized as well throughout Camdon but for the exact opposite reasons, a name that drips with earned respect, a firm rough hardwood image that's covered in stuck-out nails and splinters. A Punk that directly strives against fascists like Osborn, and who’s blood boils when he learns Osborn’s cruel plans to begin using the old Canals again–mostly to flush out the homeless that reside there, The homeless who Spiderpunk always seems to be visiting and helping out.

“Spiderpunk”

Oh. Spiderpunk. A name Y/N can recognise due to her father’s phone calls that she overhears late at night, a name she always hears that is spit out with venom through her fathers and his colleagues lips, the name she sees in bold graffiti almost daily on her dads main company building. Jet black graffiti and red with blue undertones that drip almost beautifully down the glass panes it was sprayed upon. She always bites back a grin smile whenever she hears her dad ranting about the punk he ever so clearly despises.

_____________

Rough Meeting.

It was one of those days, those days where you despised everything in your life–that was unlucky, bad luck of yours to have been born in this universe. Bad luck that you were the daughter of a sadistic monster, how you were seen as a monster for even being related to him.

Guilt.

Rage.

Frustration.

These emotions burned through your veins, making your hands tense and chest heavy. These emotions pool in your eyes the moment you walk through your large white bedroom door and crash into your Jado Steel Style Rose-Gold Bed. Your tense body relaxing but messy black mascara tears flowing down your face. Nobody understood, it's like you were speaking their language on deaf ears that didn’t care to hear you out. They didn’t care to hear out the brat, The Spoiled girl who has her life handed to her, the brat that no matter how hard she tries-

Can’t prove anything to everyone who is dead set on her being a spoiled daddy’s girl.

With boiling tears drying upon your soft smooth skin, You get up and change out of the clothes your main ‘Maid’, Roxanne, had put out for you earlier for your Dads event of a damn Factory opening that was built over another destroyed shelter. Removing the ruffle black dress with small cute green ribbons to show off your dads company colors along for him to display his gorgeous daughter. It’s not like he cared for anyone's image besides his own anyways.

Glancing at the clock, you sigh and dip your head into the pillow again,

6:36pm

You take a calming breath and change into some jeans and a loose black tee after crying some more for a few moments, the shirt only allowed for you to wear at home since it wasn’t perfect and elegant enough for the Osborn image. Ugh. You enter your private marble bathroom to wash your face free of those streaks of ‘weakness’ as your dad would call it.

“Hey! Uhm, Roxy?” You call out softly, your door soon opening with Roxanne standing by it and looking over at you expectantly.

“Yes, Miss?” Roxy said back in her usual calm and blank expression, her expression shifting ever so slightly at the sight of you wearing your usual clothing you do whenever you plan on sneaking out without Osborn knowing.

“Don’t let father see me going out, if he asks about me, tell him that I’m upset and tired from the event and to not disturb me.” you tell her as you reach under your bed to grab a shoebox where your balaclava, hoodie, and gloves are stored and hidden away. You wish you didn’t have to wear all this just to be an actually not-bad person, but you can’t risk angering your dad. He always told you to never dwell on what has to be done.

“It’s a dog eat dog world, You can’t cry about others who don’t have the guts to do what has to be done.”

Those words are always playing in the back of your head, your own dad telling it to you soothingly to help stop your tears–when you were about eight. You were crying because you were thinking about the lives he’s ruined and took for you two. Well.. More like for Oscorp.

You snap out of that memory as you clear your throat and put everything on to hide the safety of your identity while Roxy watches with that neutral face you’ve seen and known your whole life. She’s the closest thing you’ve ever had to a mother, by textbook definition because she brought you up with care and some affection. But your actual birth mom had died while giving birth to you, you never met her once besides the moment she passed with you in her arms. Since then, Your dad has seen you as if you were the last living part of her that he has besides memories and pictures of her. He's always telling you that you’re her spitting image but you just.. Can’t see it. Probably because she is always glowing and happy in her pictures with anyone, she had a normal college student experience with friends and parties, she didn’t have an overprotective dad.

You roll the glove over your wrist, pausing ever so slightly at a white gold bracelet your dad gave you when you turned thirteen, with your grandmas and mother’s name engraved into it, and yours engraved below theirs. An important and old heirloom to your dad since he wants you to always remain in touch with your moms side of the family–not like your dad spent much time with his family anyways.

“When are you going to get over this phase?” You suddenly hear Roxy ask from behind you which makes you jump ever so slightly before subtly moving it a bit lower on your wrist so the bracelet chain does not get caught in the fabric of the gloves.

“You really want me to answer that?” You ask rhetorically before fixing the balaclava over your features while walking to your window and sitting on the sil, Kicking your legs out and looking out on the city and lowering sun before actually answering Roxy, realizing she sounded even a little.. Disappointed.. in you.

“The Osborn name has done- Irreversible damage, And I’m just trying to help out the people who need it, and pay for my dads actions with actual kindness.” Your tone is soft and a bit honest, you adjust your hands to push yourself out of the window before Roxy can even reply.

Your thick black boots break your landing as you fall in the green fluffy grass garden that surrounds your mansion, rose bushes and flowers adding some color to it since your dad agreed it would look good for our image, as if it wasn’t soiled already.

You make your way out of your house and just walk, stopping by an old tree that stood beside the path from your house to the city. Your foot stands on a nook where the tree had a brach that went out and folded in itself and your hand stretched up into one of its hard woodend pockets until you feel a familiar fabric, you pull on it until the backpack falls out with your hand holding it by the handle and hopping off of the tree.

This was your secret backpack that you didn’t even want on your own property so you kept it safe in a tree. This bag contained little necessities along with spray paint, some basic tools, cash, and pepper spray. You keep walking down the path and arriving at the city, where the air was polluted and slightly hard to breathe while the rest of the city had occasional litter, trash, and shady looking people who make it seem like it's better to walk across the street to the other sidewalk.

You usually went out at night to be able to put some of your art on display in the streets: You had a sketchbook full of small things that you usually spray-painted on canals, or outside the wall of abandoned buildings. You didn’t know what this secret ‘hobby’ was really called, you just walked the streets of the city until you found a good spot and started to make your art.

Nothing was out of the ordinary until you walked past an alleyway and in the corner of your eye, you saw someone in dirty clothes wearing messed up jeans and a worn out jacket, sitting on the ground outside a little blue tent with a small fire in a bin that lights up some of the alley.

You come to a small halt and debate whether walking over to the person or leaving them alone, your vision focusing in the dim lighting and revealing the other few tents there, some of the tents zipped up and indicating that whoever is in there is sleeping, and some people standing around with a lit cigarette in their calloused hand.

You swallow that gut feeling to leave them alone and walk over to a gas station, buying some instant pizza, sandwiches, and food for the people you told yourself not to bother and walk back over to them with the plastic bag in hand.

You approach the person you saw, but they look over at you and seem to tense and quickly stand as they face you.

“Hey! Hi, relax, I brought some things for you and your friends?” You said with a gentle soft tone as you stepped closer slowly since the vagabond seemed wary of you with their eyes locked on your face.

“Oh! Damn, I forgot, hang on.” You murmur as you reach up to pull your mask over your eyes to show your face so that the person would be less afraid of you, holding out the bag of food.

Their face changes into a grimace, as if disgusted at how you’re trying to help them out. Recognizing you as the creation they and their whole community despised due to the cruel name that comes after your first.

Osborn

They grimace at you and stare at you as if you were the one trying to drive them out of the city. The one that’s destroying non-profit shelters, as if it were your company that’s dumping all kinds of waste to the community- but that didn’t seem to have any matter to them anyways.

Staring at you like you were some Monster.

“You’re not welcome here.” The person murmurs with a coldness and genuine hatred in their tone, sharp like an icicle that cuts through your heart sharply. It’s not like you couldn’t understand that, they didn’t know anything about you besides what your dad has done.

Before you can respond, they continue as they walk closer to you with their hands fisted to their sides,

“You aren’t welcome anywhere around here, you don’t even know what has been going on here, ‘princess’. You’re just some brat who needs some kind of sick ego boost to try and make people love you and respect your image.” Each word spat like venomous cold spikes as they gesture one of their hands, as they get closer–you can see the other people in the alley look over and seem to tense up and get worried in some way.

“I know what my father does, I’m so s-” You begin as you take a step back, but being cut off be the person speaking louder with exasperation in their tone.

“No you don’t! You don’t have any idea what Norman is even doing to us! You just sit there and look pretty while your dad is ruining lives!” And if there weren’t other people around- well, if there weren't one of their friends, a girl with baggy jeans and a gray beanie holding them back, you don’t question what would’ve happened to you or what they would’ve done if that girl wasn’t holding them back.

“Dude..” The girl whisper yelled as she pulled the person yelling at you away from you and closer to herself, “What the hell are you doing? Don’t piss her off because she’ll tell her dad and he’ll fuck over each and everyone in this damn alleyway.” and she swats them on the shoulder.

Damn.

You really are just ‘daddy’s girl’.

You stay quiet and just place down the bag of treats and just walk off, out of the alleyway. Feeling the earlier emotions come to a boil once again as you fix the balaclava back on your face and walk down the pavement of the dimly lit street.

Rage.

Guilt.

Frustration.

With your eyes prickling with tears and resurfaced emotions following, you decide to walk to a part to calm down as the hot watered sadness drips from your eyes, down your cheeks and soaking into the fabric covering your face.

You find yourself here. Late at night. Silently sobbing your eyes out on a cold metallic bench you vividly remember your dad showing it to you when you were a kid.

You were about seven and you had fallen off a swing set and scraped your knee badly, you still have it slightly scarred on your knee if you looked for it enough.

Hot tears because of the burning pain on your soft flesh, you were sitting in this exact spot as your small hands were holding up your black and white striped leggings with your leg up, and Roxy tending to your wound with your dad sitting right beside you with his hand on his shoulder.

“You were reckless, and your mistake cost you. You don’t want to be getting hurt,” He begins before gently taking your chin with his calloused hand and making you look at him through sniffled sobs, “and you can’t be showing this weakness unless you want it to hurt you later on.” Your dad continued as he wiped away your tears with his leathery thumb brushing against your babyfat-filled cheeks.

And Now.

Crying like now you always did, as if you didn’t change. Still that little girl who only knows one thing: how to cry.

You sit back and hold your legs with your face in your knees, it's like everything that has been being held in–caused by your father or not.. Was crashing down and flooding your eyes like a broken dam through a canal. The balaclava grew damp before you hear an odd THWAP sound which makes you raise your head and look in the direction of the sound.

You see a familiar man with his gaze focused on you, wearing what seems to be a red spandex suit below a torn blue t-shirt and black ripped jeans that accentuate his already skinny and lanky body with a spiked leather jacket over his shoulders with several pins that decorate the chest and a spiked mohawk on his head.

Once you notice him approaching you quickly reach your hand under the balaclava to wipe your cheeks from the excess tears, internally grateful that your mask was already dark and the moisture from your tears won’t be too visible to this man.

“Excuse me? You- you alrigh’?” The man asks, his soft yet cockney voice immediately making you recall who this man specifically was: You’ve heard his booming words at protest rallies but never saw from who the vocal fighting came from because of your dad and his security quickly ushering you away to keep you safe–or to keep you unaware of your father’s negative popularity.

You sniffle for a second before answering “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just been a shitty night.” while you clutch your bag a bit closer to you since he was still a stranger to you. He sees you tense and he chuckles while shaking his head and putting his hands into his pockets.

“Calm down there, ‘m just making sure you’re not some dealer tryna make bad lives worse.” He says jokingly as he glances at the bag you’re clutching, but also at your body language, “You’ve gotta understand how it looks for me, to find some masked person sitting in a bench in the crappy part of town.” His voice was playful yet gentle as if to calm you, he had some kind of charm that made him seem almost easy to talk to–especially since this is the first conversation you’ve had in a while that wasn’t swayed against you due to your name.

“And imagine how this looks for me, some dude walking up to me as I’m sat happily on a park bench.” You say back to him with a smirk under your mask.

“Touché.” He chuckled as he shook his head and stepped closer while offering his hand, “The Name’s Spiderpunk.” Once he introduced himself, you felt a splash of relief as he confirmed who he was. His name is said in his own way, in such a calm manner that contrasts the venomous words your father speaks of him when he thinks you can’t hear his disrespectful language. “And you are..?”

His body language is weirdly calm and relaxed, not at all judging you or making you uncomfortable.. Is that a green flag or a red one? You take and shake his gloved hand with yours. This was the only time a stranger wasn’t immediately hostile or rude to you, and you didn’t want to lose that. ..So what’s a little white lie?

“Emily.” You answer him with a soft nod. Your mothers name? Why say her name?

“Emily,” Spiderpunk echoed with a smile in his voice, “And uh.. Wha’s with the whole.. getup?” He asked as he gestured to you vaguely, mostly to your mask that's covering your face and only shows your dark eyes and long lashes, that were ever so slightly red and puffy because of the earlier crying.

“Don’t worry about it, just- lets just say my face around here is.. Disliked.” Because of my damn father.

He nods slightly, if he has some kind of expression on his face then you can’t even tell what it is because of his mask, you open your mouth to at least try and ask about that but he continued without realizing he practically interrupted you: your face is equally as covered.

“And uh.. Not that I don’ believe ya for your word, but I’ll have ‘o check that bag.” He says while gesturing at your backpack that you're clutching against you.

What? What kind of request is that? It’s not like you’ve even done anything to prompt this question in the first place, and who is he to ask about the bag or something?

“What are you, a cop? Some kind of narc?” You ask with your tone slightly more hostile than you’d want it to be. It’s not like you’re hiding anything either, but you literally have money and spray paint: You can get in trouble for some vandalism you haven’t even done yet.

He pauses for a second, seeming genuinely offended that you accused him of being a cop, as if you called him something below the respect that even vermin have.

“No. Nothing of the sort, never compare me to a cop.” He tells you firmly before muttering under his breath, “fucking pigs.” and without warning, he thwips a white silky rope out of his wrist and it attaches itself to your bag and rips it from your grasp.

You find yourself staring at Spiderpunk as he starts to casually go through your bag as if it were nothing and like you fully offered it to him. He chuckles as he sees some of your spray paint, you hear the cans clink as he shoves his hand into it and checks everything out.

“Tha’s it? Here I was partly thinking you’re some dealer trying to make sure this part of camden stays ghetto, but nah,” He hands you back your bag–He seems mostly amused by the obvious grin in his voice, “You’re just a stree’ artist?”

Street artist? That's what it’s called? You always loved art ever since you were a kid–So your dad always provided you art lessons, good paint, expensive sketching pencils, but he always made you draw boring things like fruit bowls or paint sunsets. But you even one time helped him with ideas for the Oscorp logo! That was fun for you at the time before you knew the shit Oscorp was doing.

But you realize he was pretty much asking for you to confirm if you’re a street artist or not. “Yeah- Yeah, I’m a.. Street artist?” You respond as you take the bag back, not even knowing if you’re saying it right, but you shouldn’t rely on someone to teach you so you reword what you said with a bit more of a firm tone “Yeah. I’m a street artist, tonight I haven’t really done art though.”

He nods and stays quiet for a moment as he looks at your masked face before he looks around and holds out his hand for you as if to help you up.

“Come with me, I know a good spot where you can put up your stuff. I was on my way there anyway so I could show you.” He had this tone where you knew you could say no, swat his hand away and run, politely decline and leave, Something but..

“Sure.”

You take his hand and stand before slinging your backpack handle over one of your shoulders. His mask hiding every bit of emotion he can possibly be showing besides the lenses over his eyes that squint slightly at an expression every once in a while but beyond that–you have to heavily rely on reading his tones and body language.

“Do you trust me?” He asked as he glanced over at you. He seemed like he wanted to do something and just wanted some of your approval. He seems strong and like he’s able to do a lot–and he leaves the decision all up to you.

With an unsure nod of your head, he pulls you closer and wraps his arm around your waist, "Hold on." He told you before shooting a web of his up to a building, your arms wrap around his neck–over his shoulders.

You shut your eyes tightly as you suddenly stop feeling the ground below your feet and cold air hitting and blowing against your body as you swing through the city and hold onto him for dear fucking life.

“My god, holy shit.” You say as you try not to yell but unable to be silent. Spiderpunk holds on to you with one strong slim arm around you and the other expertly shooting webs and slinging through the streets of Camden as if it's some common occurrence for him–well, it was.

Your vision is slightly blurred with the lights and the slight tears forming because of the dry wind blown against them. But before you know it–you’re on the ground again with a soft thud with Spiderpunk still holding onto you like it's nothing.

“You alrigh’?” He asks with some kind of smug tone that implies he somehow finds how you clung on to him amusing.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It's just that not everyone is used to slinging through the air.” You respond sarcastically as you let go of his with his hand on your waist lingering for a second before it falls to his side and his other arm raising his hand to gesture where you guys are and you feel your stomach drop once you see a familiar green logo- no, a familiar cut ribbon as well.

This is the new factory my dad opened.

Well, it wasn’t completely new that Spiderpunk was on his way to vandalize your dads newest business- how could you have forgotten? Your heart beats in your ribs as your eyes dart to the hidden cameras you know are there because your dad asked you to adjust them and help so you make sure they cover the whole area. “W-we shouldn't be here, at all.” you tell him as you grab his arm to keep him from getting too close to which he fully laughs while shaking his head and putting a hand over his eyes, Is this some sick joke to him?

“Didn’ think of you as the type to be afraid of Osborn. You’re full of surprises.” He coos while softly clutching his stomach teasingly.

“What? No! It’s just- there's security and-” You begin, before being cut off before he shoots webs in all directions and corners of the wall as though to cover the cameras- he over did some webs but they are definitely covered now.

“And we’re wearing masks. Osborn has nothing on us- and that sadistic fascist probably can pay someone to clean up. Bet this is worth pennies to him.” Spiderpunk scoffs, his voice full of disdain and genuine venom towards your father–and he doesn’t even know it.

Something about his words ring into your ears, it’s not like you didn’t know your dad was practically hated by everyone that wasn’t rich and privileged.

So why did this feel more.. real?

More true?

As if watching these acts in person other than the news you secretly watch is more.. In your face about these situations?

You swallow a big gulp and nod and take out your bag and open it to show the spray paints. Spiderpunk’s lenses squint as if he were smiling at you.

“Good girl.” He teased

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur. A blur full of laughter, smiling, story telling, and paint. Spiderpunk makes his usual tag on the building as you try to get the hang of using spray paint cans. Genuine laughs from Spiderpunk when you have a stupid yet funny comment, and a smile seen in your eyes when he has a joke. Something warm develops in your chest and cheeks by being in his playful presence, a bit foreign but it's a nice feeling. Like a warm hug..

At one point you two actually get to painting, with a practice ‘drawing’ being a little spider like the one he has on the back of his jacket. “Aw, nice! Am I like your muse?” He coos as he looks at the art you’re making with a hand on his hip.

You chuckle as you glance at him then look away to focus on the spider itself, “Like it? It looks l-” You pause and cut yourself off at the sound of a camera and a light flashing. Your head whips towards the sound and you see Spiderpunk took a polaroid picture of you.

You watch as the picture prints and he shakes it while it develops before giving it to you with a squinted lensed smile again. You see the picture is of you with your back turned and the spray paint can in your hand while it decorates the blank gray wall it's on.

“Keep i’, let it be a reminder of the time you met Spiderpunk.” He comments playfully as he picks up another spray paint can and goes to the free spot of the wall beside you which makes you laugh and shake your head while he chuckles softly.

But then you think of a question that ends up erupting from your throat as you put the picture into your jean pocket.

“Hey, Spiderpunk..” You begin as you spray a line of your paint, leaving a streak of black since you’re starting on the outline.

“Yeah?” He responds as he holds his own spray paint can in one spot to create the little dripage to give his tag the right style.

“Why do you hate Osborn so much? I mean, I dislike him too, but do you have a specific reason to hate him?”

Spiderpunk pauses slightly but keeps his gaze to the wall instead of looking at you.

“He is ruining lives and screwing people over for his own selfish gains. He’s a fascist twa’ that likes the power trip. And I can’t stand his pompous daugh’er either.” He answers while going back to what he was doing with his paint.

At this, you’re the one who pauses and keeps your gaze away. Before you can ask a little follow up–your phone goes off and you check it with eyes going wide once you see the time.

1:03am

Shit.

How long have you two been spray painting? You have to seriously get home before Roxy worries-

Or before your dad finds out you’re gone.

“I have to get the hell home- like.. Right fucking now.” You say as you scramble to grab your things and shove the almost empty paint cans into your bag, suddenly aware of what can happen to you if you arrive late- Roxy is always giving passive aggressive threats of telling on you to Osborn if you arrive home late.

Spiderpunk gets confused at how you suddenly have an urge to leave but helps you pick up your stuff anyway. “Heh, did you sneak out or something..?” He asks with a chuckle but is mostly curious as to why you’re leaving in such a hurry now.

You breathlessly chuckle before zipping up your bag. “Yeah, something like that.. Can you-” You cut yourself off as you realize you were about to ask him to take you home. Obviously he can’t know who you are- you cant lose this friendship.. Or whatever this is.

“Take me over to the park you found me. Now. ..please.” You say as you sling your bag over your shoulder and wrap your arms around his neck again–even if this time his body is warmer and there's something there that makes your heartbeat a little faster.

“Wow, and I was ‘bout to ask if you were sick of me already.” He coos teasingly before putting his arm around your waist, and with a secure grip you’re swinging through the air again.

You roll your eyes and hold onto him, he comes to a stop at the park and leaves you exactly where he found you-

On the bench.

You awkwardly say your goodbyes before bolting away in the direction you first came, you hastily put your backpack back into the tree and make your way through the dark garden. You smile to yourself as you think back on everything that you and that masked punk did tonight.

You climb up the tree beside your window and jump into your warm bedroom where the only lighting was the bathroom light you probably forgot to turn off and the hallway light outside your bedroom door peeking in from below the wooden barrier.

You kick off your boots and start removing your mask as you walk back over to where the shoebox under your bed hides. You enter your dimly lit room and see it just how you left it. You take a breath of relief and smile to yourself like an idiot as you think about Spiderpunk, walking to your bed as you remove the balaclava from your face and put it into the box along with your gloves and the picture.

Once you close the box and safely hide it under your bed, your dad suddenly bursts through your bedroom door and Roxy behind him.

“No! Mr. Osborn, She’s-” Roxy was saying to your dad before she looks at you and stares daggers for a moment before continuing more calmly, “See, sir? She’s right here.”

She had been distracting your dad while you were gone and you definitely owed her something since she was busting her ass. Your Dad seems like he was fuming but his gaze softened when he saw his daughter in her room like roxy had been saying to him.

“Hey, sweetie.” He greeted, almost awkward because of his aggressive entry. “It’s late, you should go to bed.” Osborn says as he walked over to you kissed you on the forehead.

“Yeah, I was just about to do that.” You retort in the usual chipper tone you used with him so he really had no idea of all the things you did against his back.

___

The next morning you go downstairs to your kitchen but overhear your dad livid on a call, so you stand by the door and listen in without making yourself known.

“What?! What do you mean he already hit the damn new factory at Elm street?” He practically roars but keeps mind to his volume since he thinks you’re asleep.

You smile to yourself as he begins ranting about Spiderpunk, the grin widening once he says something that made your heart pump slightly faster.

“A second one? Who the hell does he think he is, bringing some kind of date to ruin my work.”

___ @eyesxxyou .... I did it.

I'll make part 2 if this does well since I also have sm shit to do now that I have a job.

#across the spiderverse #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown imagine #atsv hobie #hobie brown x reader #spider punk #hobie spiderverse #spiderpunk x reader #spiderman #fanfic #hobie brown #what’s in a name?

528 notes · View notes

familyvideostevie · 6 months

Text

a kind of hunger | chapter 1

joel miller x fem!reader

series masterlist

joel miller walks into your life just as it starts to fall apart. surely some hot nights with the bar's newest regular can't hurt, right?

length: 9.2k

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, fem!reader, unspecified age gap, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), doggy style, missionary, slightly painful sex, dirty talk, size kink if you squint, joel is a liiiiiiiitle mean if you squint, general feelings of loneliness and angst from r in her free time

a/n: huge thank you to @strangerfreaks without whom this would never have gotten off the ground. also to all the joel writers on this site, i love you, i am in awe of you. please allow me to give it a go myself <3

navigation | 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | 𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀

The first time you sleep with Joel Miller you know it won't be the last.

But that's not where this story starts.

It starts in a bar. Nothing special about it, really. Staffed half by college kids who come and go, half by drifters who, for some reason, stopped drifting once they found this dimly lit, sticky-floored hole in the wall. Not quite a local institution but not forgettable, never totally empty. It's got pool tables and a jukebox but also clean bathrooms aside from the graffiti and two new-ish TVs showing whatever the first guy who gets there wants to watch.

Point is, you work there. One of those drifters who stopped drifting. The guy who owns it, some crotchety old fuck called Bill, rents you the apartment above the bar for a decent price considering it's loud until 2am on the weekends and midnight all the other days. Loud enough that even on nights you don't work it feels like you're there anyway. But you get used to it. It's called Frank's, which you don't totally understand, but you're not about to ask questions of the guy who has finally allowed you to slow down and take a breath who is also your boss and landlord.

You've worked there long enough to have learned the names and orders of all the regulars who've been coming in since long before you walked through the door and to have seen some new regulars enter the rotation. In truth, you've worked there long enough to basically be running the place. It's still the bar in your head, not your bar because getting attached will do you no good. This is how it always goes: you care too much but it never seems like anyone cares back. You cut and run before you can be disappointed and you’ve already been here longer than you’d expected to be because it’s something close to comfortable.

Almost no one messes with you despite being younger than most of the clientele and on the off chance some frat boy from the city decides to take a cheap shot you've got a small army of imposing customers on your side. Between them and your coworkers, it's almost like you're not alone.

Almost.

The hours you spend away from the bar are spent alone. You don't have many numbers in your phone and the ones you do you don't call. You go on drives in the shitty truck you bought off some guy when you moved here. You browse used bookstores and suffer the heat of the day on long walks and wonder if this is all there is. You think of what it might be like to feel something other than rootless.

One thing that helps is…sex. Being close to someone for even a little while, letting yourself be seen in a way that doesn’t require you to totally show your hand. You try not to make a habit of actually fucking your clientele. It can get messy quickly, guys coming in and expecting more than a good pour. Being offended when you don't give them a free round, don't make eyes at them over the oiled wood. It's easier to be alone, that much you've learned. It's easier and it's simpler and it means you've only got yourself to blame for the hurt you sometimes feel laying in bed, staring at the ceiling as some rock song thrums up through the floor.

And if you do fuck someone from the bar, you keep it simple. You do, however, try really hard not to sleep with regulars. And no staying over. A classic, unspoken rule of sleeping with strangers that you rarely verbalize but make sure to enforce every time. It keeps things neat. The last thing you need is mess. Who knows how long you'll stay in this town, in this little apartment and this shitty bar. You've got a lot of years left, a lot of years you should probably spend in classrooms or an office or falling in love with some nice guy with a nice family who can give you a nice life.

But you're here.

And then, one day, so is Joel.

Being a good bartender is memorization, paying attention, and keeping a level head. You know how to make pretty much any drink even though your regulars are mostly the simple beer or Jack and Coke kind of people. You swear you can tell when a glass is going to fall a second before it shatters, spot a punch before it can be thrown. So you notice when a man you've never seen before walks through the door.

You notice how the energy of the room changes, how multiple pairs of eyes follow him as he settles at the end of the half-full bar. Dark hair shot through with grey, green shirt rolled up over chorded forearms that he rests on the wood. It feels like you should know him but you don't. You've never seen him before.

You finish pouring beers for some giggly girls before making your way over to him. His eyes track you.

You wonder what he'll order. A shot, maybe, based on the tense line of his shoulders. Or a dark beer. Maybe something strong. You hope he won't be one of those guys you have to peel off the bar in a few hours. "Can I get you something?"

"Whiskey, rocks," he says. You can hear the Texas drawl even from so few words. Deep, low, measured. "Cheapest you got."

For some reason, it feels like he's returning and you're the new one. "Wanna start a tab?"

"I'll do cash at the end," he says. Ah, one of those. Guy getting away from his wife, maybe. Tough day at work. Doesn't want to leave tracks. You can relate to that.

"Joel fuckin’ Miller," one of your regulars says as you turn to grab a glass. He claps the man -- Joel -- on the shoulder. "Heard you were back up this way," he says. "Good to see you, man."

Joel simply inclines his head once like he's not thrilled to be recognized. The dismissal is clear. And, weirdest of all, it works. You've seen insults hurled between friends for less.

You set his drink down, the amber liquid sloshing around the ice.

"Thanks," he mutters. The dismissal is...less clear, but you've got other customers to tend to. And Joel doesn't seem particularly chatty.

Your eyes return to him for the next hour or so but he never waves you over for another round. Heat trails up and down your spine and you have to tell yourself that he's not watching you. That would be too optimistic, right? At one point you take a bathroom break and when you're back he's gone, wrinkled bills stacked under the glass. Enough for his drink and a decent tip.

Joel comes in three more times over the next month before you sleep with him. Each time he orders the same drink, leaves the same tip. He sits alone at the bar, occasionally saying hello when someone approaches but no one ever sits next to him. He's gruff but only ever polite to you, doesn't get impatient when it takes you a minute to get to him.

And he's really something to look at. The tick in his jaw, the veins in his neck. His skin is tanned, dotted with small scars that must come from a lifetime of hard work. He wears a watch and jeans that hug his ass in an almost indecent way, a way that has you watching him when he's not on a stool. Sometimes you catch him smirking to himself when there's some shit going on at the bar, gossip or people being loud for no reason. You wonder what his laugh sounds like and scold yourself for it. No harm in looking but there's the possibility of harm in thinking too much. You know better.

The third time he comes in is a bad night. It's busy for some reason and everyone is a fucking asshole. You weren't even supposed to work tonight but one of the seasonal kids had banged on your door begging you to come help, promising you all the tips for tonight if you did. You knew it would make you look good to Bill and despite yourself, you didn’t want to leave them hanging, so here you are, sweaty and pissed and smelling like beer, doing your best to empty the dishwasher in between drink orders and praying the keg doesn't need changing.

You don't even notice when Joel comes in, only spotting him once he's managed to scare some college kid from a seat at the bar. For some reason, his presence makes you a little calmer in the chaos.

"Be with you in a sec, Joel," you say to him when you're near. You don't call him by his name since he never actually introduced himself to you but it slips out in the rush. His nostrils flare but you don't have time to linger on it even as you feel the hot weight of his gaze.

"No rush."

You manage to get him what you know by now to be his usual only to be called over by your least favorite customer of the night as soon as he's thanked you.

"Honey," the asshole says. This fucker's name is Seth and he's a pain in your ass. "Gimme another, will you? Make it a heavy pour." This would be his fifth and he's already slurring his words.

"Don't think so," you tell him firmly. "I'm cutting you off for tonight, Seth." He's liable to start some shit or at the very least throw up on the floor and you don't want to deal with either. You don't have time to deal with either.

His bloodshot eyes narrow and he slams a fist on the bar. You manage not to flinch, though pretty much everyone else does. "That's not good fucking service, sweetcheeks," he leers.

"Good thing I don't give a fuck," you snap. "Get the fuck out of here before you do something you regret, sweetcheeks.” The venom in your tone seems to surprise him before sheer rage takes over. You've thrown out plenty of assholes in your time here but it's not always a smooth experience.

Seth leans forward over the bar, reaches for you -- to do what, you have no idea -- and you prepare yourself to yell for backup and then kick him out for good and maybe get a punch in as he goes. His fingers manage to hook in your shirtsleeve before a hand closes around his wrist.

Before Seth can scream he's got his outstretched arm behind his back, face twisted in pain. Behind him is --

Joel?

The bar is almost silent. You can hear a few whispers over the blood pumping in your ears.

"I'd get out of here if I were you," Joel hisses. He glances at you, jaw tight and eyes narrowed. Are you okay? he seems to be asking. You nod.

Seth whimpers. "Let me go," he says weakly.

"Just gonna show you the door." Joel all but drags him through the parting crowd.

"Jesus," someone says behind you. One of the seasonal kids. "You okay?"

"I'm taking my break." You leave the kid behind the bar to fend for himself and barrel into the back and through the side door into the alley where you always take your 15. It's one of those weird cold fall nights, just the wrong side of chilly to be here without a jacket but you left it in the bar office.

The milk carton you sit on has been turned over so you kick it back with a thud and slump down onto it. The light above the door flickers. "This shit is getting old," you say to no one. You kick aside cigarette butts that aren't yours and wonder how long you can do this. What would be next, anyway? You've got a laundry list of failed dreams and no one wondering if you're going to make something of yourself. Long nights at a bar you care about more than you should and rowdy customers and handsome men who barely say a word to you can't last forever, can it? Would anyone here even notice if you left?

The door flies open, startling you out of your thoughts.

Joel steps into the alley. Somehow he manages to yet again look like he was meant to be here and you're the one who is out of place. You blink at him and he stares back like he wasn't sure he'd find you here.

"Got lost?" you ask. "Pretty sure you know where the front door is."

He lets the metal door swing shut and crosses his arms. "Was lookin' for you."

That catches you by surprise. "Why?"

Joel shrugs, a small lift of his shoulders. His expression doesn't budge. "Sorry for makin' trouble."

Oh, right. Seth. You wave him off. "Just another night," you say. "I'd have handled it." You stand from the crate and lean against the brick wall. It's true. Seth isn't the first asshole you've handled.

"I bet you would've," Joel mutters. He takes one step closer. You're reminded all at once how good-looking he is, how you've wondered what his hands would feel like on your skin. There's no way he's ever thought of you, right? You're just some girl who pours him drinks, too young and too forgettable. He was just having a man moment, wanting to save the day or some shit like that.

"I don't have a cigarette or anything if you want to smoke," you say. This close he doesn't smell like tobacco but you don't know what else to say. "Sorry."

"So you just sit in alleys on your break for fun?"

"I like this alley," you say, suddenly a bit defensive. "It's a nice alley." You take a step towards him. He uncrosses his arms and his hands flex at his sides. You shiver. "No one bothers me out here."

Joel tilts his head to the side. "That so?" His eyes are dark under the dim light. When did he get so close? When did your face get so hot?

"Except guys who drink whiskey on the rocks, I guess," you say. It comes out much softer than you'd like, your voice cracking. The air doesn't have the same bite as it did seconds ago. Joel's expression hovers between something you recognize and something you don't, something you desperately want to figure out. "Good thing I don't mind." The adrenaline from the small altercation hasn't left and the swirl of emotions about your whole shitty life has you on edge, has you wanting to play with fire.

You're so close now that you can feel his breath on your face, feel the heat of him in the still night. Joel's eyes rake over your face, looking for something, something you try very hard to show him so that he might fucking do it, meet the want that is suddenly uncontrollable halfway, or at least tell you if he's not interested so you can --

Your name is a groan in his throat and then he's kissing you. His palm cups the back of your head as he presses you into the wall, his other hand firm on your hip, fingertips pressing into your skin through your shirt hard enough to bruise. He tastes like the whiskey you served him. You fist one hand in his collar and wind the other into his hair.

Joel controls the kiss but you give as good as you get. He licks into your mouth and you suck on his lower lip. His beard rubs against your face in a delicious burn and when you tug on his hair he makes a noise you must hear again. The brick behind you scrapes a bit but you hardly notice when he presses against you, slides a thigh between your legs and you feel him hard through his jeans.

"S'not right, you lookin' so good yellin' at that asshole," he grumbles into your neck, teeth nipping at your pulse. You cant your hips and he hisses.

"Speak for yourself," you manage. "Always got your eyes on me, don't you?" It feels like a risk to call him on it. Control of the situation is slipping from your grasp, this man who you never thought would actually touch you now holding you in his arms, his lips on your skin. He pulls back from your neck and smirks, eyes dark.

"'Spose I do."

You can work with that. You surge forward to kiss him again and this time he lets you call the shots while still meeting your bruising caresses with his own.

"Joel." You tug on his hair.

He makes that noise again.

It might be five minutes, it might be an hour. You have no idea. All you know is you can still feel his cock through the denim and you're so turned on you might combust in this alley. Or at the very least let him fuck you in it.

"I don't close tonight," you pant. One of Joel's hands has worked its way into your back pocket and the other has rucked up your shirt to rest on your bare back.

"What?" he growls.

"My shift. I'm off at 11." You tap his watch. He glances at it and sees it read 10:30. "Half hour. I live upstairs."

For a second you think he'll say no. Walk away with a nod of his head and out of your life forever. Wouldn't be the first, wouldn't be the last. You're already breaking one of your rules by even considering sleeping with him but there's just something about him. The way he looks at you, the way his hands feel on your skin. You want to know what he'll feel like inside you. Maybe you’re still in this town because you were waiting for him to walk through the door.

"Alright," he says. He clears his throat and releases you. You fuss with your hair and straighten your shirt and he adjusts himself in his jeans. "Half hour." His dark eyes narrow as he glances down the alley back towards the street.

"Take a walk around the block or something," you tell him, swallowing the urge to laugh at him so handsome and disheveled from your hands. Never in a million years would you have predicted that tonight would go this way. "My door is on the other side of the building. I'll let you up."

The urge to flatten the damage your hands did to his hair is so overwhelming for a second that you step away from him towards the door. His eyes follow you, expression unreadable. How many nights would it take for you to know what he's thinking? Careful, you think, or you'll be tempted to find out.

Joel watches you until you give him a little wave and slip back into the bar. The metal door clangs shut behind you and you lean against it, knees still wobbly. Is this actually happening? Are you really this overwhelmed by making out with some guy in an alley? You check the clock on the wall and curse. Your break ended ten minutes ago though since no one came looking for you it's probably no big deal. Being mostly in charge has its perks.

The bar is a little less crowded than when you left so you grab a rag and start wiping down the bar. Joel's seat is empty, his glass gone.

"Oh, hey," the seasonal kid says. "That guy, uh, Joel? He said to make sure you get this." He pulls out Joel's usual tip from his apron and holds it out to you.

Considering you're planning to go upstairs and fuck him until you can't walk, you don't feel like taking his tip tonight. "It's yours," you say. "Thanks for handling everything while I was out back." The kid blinks at you but knows better than to refuse, pocketing the cash and going back to loading the dishwasher.

You finish your shift. Your blood feels electric, your skin hot. Can anyone in this bar tell what happened in the alley? You haven't felt this way about a hookup in ages. Like you were wanted, not just convenient. It's just one night, right? Maybe he'll never come to the bar again, which makes your chest tighten for a second. Maybe you're about to ruin something you don't totally understand. But you haven't gotten this far in life by worrying about shit like that, so you clock out and wave goodbye and make your way to the other side of the building.

Joel isn't there. You unlock the door to the stairwell so you can at least wait for him inside when you hear footsteps, the crunch of gravel under boots. You fist your key between your knuckles just in case but before you can turn around you hear your name in that Texas drawl.

"Just me," he says. You don't know if Joel Miller is capable of looking nervous but this is probably close. He shifts from one foot to the other, hands in his pockets. A thrill runs up your spine. Are you really doing this? Are you really about to bring this man up to your apartment and hope to god he does whatever you want to you?

"Come on up." Yes. Yes, you are. You give him a smile and he follows you up to the landing.

"S'loud," he mutters once you shut the door. The bar's music wasn't that loud when you were in it and up here it's a dull hum, people's voices and laughter slipping through the cracks like a TV left on a little too high in the other room. These days it's background noise to you but you figure Joel lives in a house somewhere with lots of land and open windows and silence. He seems like the type to like silence.

Jacket on the hook, shoes clumsily thrown on the mat, keys in the dish. Your normal routine except there’s a man in your living room, too. He looks around the space, hands still in his pockets. You try not to be self-conscious about your place. It's small, sure, the bedroom visible through the currently open French doors in the small living room. Your kitchen is tiny, bathroom tinier, but it's all yours. "You get used to it," you say. "I hardly mind it anymore."

"Didn't say I did," he says. You both stand there for a few moments before Joel takes two big steps and crowds you against the door, one hand on your hip and the other next to your head. "Means they won't hear us." You swallow a gasp as he drags his nose along the curve of your jaw, breath hot on your skin. You were going to ask him if you could shower first since you undoubtedly smell like sweat and beer but clearly, he doesn't mind. His tongue darts out and he sucks on your pulse point, your own hands clutching desperately at his shirt. If he moves you're sure you'll melt into a puddle on the floor. "Means you can be as loud as you want," he growls. "That sound good?"

Any breath remaining in your body rushes out and you jerk your hips to make contact with the hardness in his jeans. "Yeah," you gasp. You can feel something like a smile against your neck. "That sounds good."

It's a dynamic you don't mind stepping into -- whatever this is. Every second of your life you feel like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop, for everyone around you to get tired. Your eyes are always on the exit, always wondering where you'll go next, what you'll leave behind this time. Even when you're fucking strangers you're always wondering how you'll get them to leave. You’re better off alone. But right here, right now, with Joel's heavy scent of sawdust and whiskey and something earthy, something grounding, in your nostrils, his hands and his mouth on you, nothing else matters. Your brain shuts off and you're just here.

You grab Joel's jaw and guide his lips back to yours. He allows it and you moan deep in your throat as he tongues back into your mouth, your own trying to give as good as you're getting. He pops the button on your jeans and you help him with frantic hands, shoving them down your hips along with your underwear so he can ghost his fingers through your coarse curls. He pulls back from the kiss to watch as he drags two fingers through your folds. Your eyes lock and he smirks as your lids flutter.

"Soaked," is all he says. You tip your head forward and rest your forehead on his shoulder.

"Don't be smug."

He huffs. "I ain't trying to sound like an asshole, but --"

"Already failed." He nips at your earlobe.

"Gotta work you open a bit, sweetheart," he says. His fingers circle your clit once, ever so slowly. Your grip on his bicep tightens and you wonder if you'll leave bruises. You hope so. "Gonna be a tight fit."

"Heard -- fuck -- that before," you gasp. Joel really fucking knows what he's doing. "I -- bed?"

"Smart girl," he says. You're pretty sure you get wetter. He pulls his fingers free but keeps a hold on your hip like he knows your knees are jelly. "Sit on the edge."

You leave your jeans and underwear behind and make your way to the bed through the French doors, sitting heavily on the quilt, knees bent and leaning on your hands behind you. Before you can say another word, Joel lowers to his knees between yours. He pries them apart even further and runs his hands up and down your thighs.

For a few seconds, you can't find the words. This man, older than you and impossibly handsome, face lined with years he's lived and hands callused with work he's done, this man that you hardly know anything about but can't get out of your mind, is on his knees before you.

"You gonna be okay down there?" is what you come up with.

"You always talk this much?" he mutters, though his mouth tugs up at the corner. Joel's forearms wrap around your legs and he tugs. You fall flat on your back in surprise and your ass almost hangs off the bed. He draws one of your legs over his shoulder and kneads the flesh of your thigh, eyes dark and jaw twitching as he spreads you open and just looks. "Might have to help me up but I think I'll be just fine."

"Joel --"

The end of his name becomes a high-pitched moan when he leans in and buries his face in your cunt. He drags his tongue up and down through your folds, nose catching your clit in a way that makes you squirm. His beard scrapes against your skin deliciously, leaving a sting that you know you'll be able to see evidence of when he's done. He laps at you before finally taking your clit in his mouth and sucking like his life depends on it. It's only his hand on your outstretched thigh keeping you from suffocating him between your legs, though you're not sure he'd mind.

"Should be a crime," he says. You look down the length of your body at him. His chin is wet with you, eyes meeting yours when he feels your stare. "Cunt this pretty tastin' so good."

How do you reply to that?

He's back at it before you can even try. Joel gets messy with it, the sounds of his attention loud and filthy. He tells you how wet you are, how good you taste, and your eyes flutter shut again.

"How're we doing?"

"Don't stop," you manage. "Just, don't stop--"

He prods your entrance with one finger. "Reckon you can take it, hmm? You're so wet it'll be easy." There's a bite to his tone, a sense of amusement mixed with awe like he can hardly believe it either.

"Two," you gasp. "I can take two." You need two, in fact. His hands are one of the few parts of him you've been able to study and you know his fingers are long, much thicker than yours and you need them to fill you up, need them to stretch you out. You need something to clench around because right now you feel like you're on the edge of the pleasure building in your core and if you don't get a release soon you'll just…just…combust.

Joel hums but you feel a second finger nudge into you. He slides them in and curls them as he goes. Your back arches off the bed.

"Dunno," he coos. "Pretty tight, sweetheart." The slight meanness to his words is in complete contrast with the gentle, attentive way he handles you. Who knew he'd be such a fucking tease.

"Well get to work, then." He scissors the digits inside of you in reply and returns to sucking on your clit. You reach down and bury your hand in his silver-streaked hair, tugging a bit harder than you intend to. Joel just moans into your cunt, the vibration making it feel like your very pelvis is rattling as he continues to fuck you with his fingers.

Sweat beads on your brow as you try to hold on. He picks up the pace and presses into your walls with his fingertips like he's looking for something. His tongue wreaks havoc on the rest of you, sucking bruises into your inner thighs when he's not abusing your clit. If this is just the foreplay you don't know how you'll survive actually fucking him. And he hasn't even asked you to touch him, hasn't shown even a hint of expectation. He's doing this to get you ready but based on the blown state of his pupils he's enjoying it almost as much as you are.

"Getting close?" he asks, breath ragged. Your skin is starting to feel deliciously raw from his beard and the hook in your belly is pulling tighter and tighter.

"Yes -- fuck -- I'm close, Joel, keep --"

His hand moves faster than before and he latches back onto your clit. Your legs start to shake and you feel your orgasm coming, it's just right there, you just need him to --

His fingers find the spot he must have been looking for and your only warning is a sharp tug on his hair and then your back arches and you come all over his face. He fingers fucks you through it and you feel it as your walls clench around him, your mouth open in a high whine as your muscles finally relax and you flop back onto the bed. Joel keeps his face in your cunt, gently lapping at your release while avoiding your sensitive clit. You push his hair back from his face and try to get your breathing under control.

He manages to get up on his own with a grunt as you pant on the bed. "Okay?" he asks. "Lookin' a little tired." You show him your middle finger and he...laughs, lips shiny with your slick. So he can laugh.

"Are you going to keep your clothes on?" you ask him. His eyes travel slowly over your bare bottom half, the redness of your thighs from his beard and the way your shirt has rucked up to the wire of your bra.

"Nah." He sits heavily on the edge of the bed to take off his boots and socks. You want to ask him if you can undress him, slowly peel off his layers button by button and explore every inch of him but you won't be able to take it if he says no so you just watch. Already you know you'll be thinking about this night for a long fucking time. The way it seems like he cares about how you're feeling, how he wants to take his time with you, how he enjoys your pleasure. It's nice. It's...making you feel wanted.

His denim button-up is tossed on the floor and he stands, shirtless, to undo his belt. The forearms and small triangle at his throat that you've been treated with thus far when he sits at the bar in no way prepared you for the rest of him. Broad shoulders, thick, muscled arms from years of hard work. Graying chest hair that travels all the way down the slight softness of his belly and in a darker trail his jeans. Your mouth waters.

"You're starin'," he says softly before unzipping his fly and pushing his jeans and boxers down in one motion.

"Taste of your own medicine." The words come out with much less bite than you intended as his cock springs free.

Well, he wasn't lying. He is big. You knew he would be based on what you felt through his pants, but seeing it is something else.

You sit up and scoot to the end of the bed to be closer. Is he really going to fit? He's bigger than anyone you've fucked before, that's for sure. A ruddy color, a little darker than his tanned chest, the tip a little lighter and already leaking. A few veins run the length of him and the hair at the base of his shaft is clearly taken care of though a little wild and a shade of deep brown that hasn't grayed much yet. His balls hang heavy, one slightly bigger than the other. He twitches under your gaze. You look up at him and wait for him to call out your staring again but instead, he's just watching you, pupils blown.

"You are...so beautiful," you breathe. He makes a dismissive noise but a flush travels up his chest and to his face. It's true. There's something about him that makes you think you could look every second for the rest of your life and not get enough.

"Should be sayin' that to you." He strokes himself once and you lick your lips. "You got a condom? Should be one in my pocket if you don't." Does he always carry one? Or did he hope to get lucky with you, just like you've been thinking about him?

"Bedside table drawer." He goes for it and you remember too late that the drawer has...other things in it, too. His eyebrows raise and he eyes your small collection of toys but says nothing, though his cock twitches again. If you asked, would he use them on you? He seems like the type to be into that. But right now you need him inside you so badly you might combust.

"Can I?" He pauses before handing the foil square to you. You take him in hand and stroke him from root to tip. He makes a noise low in his throat and you lean in to trace the vein along the bottom of his shaft with your tongue. His hips twitch forward just a bit like he's trying to keep control and failing. You know the feeling. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the slightest bit salty. You kind of lose the plot for a second, thoughts of him fucking you fading with the desire to make him feel good like this, to blow him until he's moaning your name like you were moaning his.

Joel slides his fingers into your hair and you manage to take him about halfway before he tugs gently. "I'm not complainin'," he says, voice tight. "'Specially when you look so damn pretty like this. But I've been hard as a fuckin' rock for an hour and I ain't as young as I used to be, so..." He trails off.

You place a dainty kiss on his tip and pat his hip. "Another time," you say, realizing too late what you've implied, but Joel just smirks. You tear open the foil and slide the condom on as gingerly as you can but he still hisses your name like he's scolding you, that hand in your hair pulling once again just a little. You feel the arousal pooling in your gut, sticky between your thighs.

He tugs on the collar of your shirt. "Off," he says. You're quick to obey, whipping it to a corner of your apartment along with your bra. Joel just looks for a second before reaching a calloused hand to palm one breast, thumb sliding over your nipple. "Look at you," he says, breathy, with a squeeze. "Christ."

"You gonna fuck me, Joel Miller?" You blink up at him. He swallows visibly, throat bobbing before that smirk is back.

"Only ‘cause you asked so nicely."

You scramble back up the bed on your hands and knees, leaning down on your elbows and presenting him with your bare cunt. "Cause I'm such a lady."

"That so?" he murmurs. He drags his fingers through your folds slowly, brows furrowed. You fist your hands in the sheets. "You want it like this?" he asks. He palms your hip, traces the curve of your ass and presses his fingertips into your skin. You wiggle at him a little. Most guys you hook up with want it like this. You don't mind being fucked from behind, don't mind being able to close your eyes with your face shoved in the sheets and just feel. God knows with a dick his size you'll be feeling it regardless of the position you're in. But part of you does want to look at Joel, to watch him, his expression, his handsome, rugged face. Feel his arms around you, feel the warmth of his breath on your lips as he fucks you. See what his eyes look like when he comes. But this is enough.

"Do I need to say please?"

The head of his cock presses against your entrance in reply. You crane your neck to see as much of him as you can. He's focused on your ass with a light frown, hands resting on your hips.

"Gonna go slow," he grumbles. His gaze meets yours. "For my benefit as much as yours."

Words don't come. You're breathless and dripping, desperate for him to just get on with it.

"Joel, are you gonna just stand there --"

He slowly, torturously slowly, starts to slide into you. The stretch is immediate, has you face down in the sheets, eyes fluttering. Each inch of painful stretch fades quickly to throbbing pleasure, a fullness that has you keening.

You press your hips back into him but his fingers grip tighter, holding you in place. "What did I say?" he grits out.

"Feels so good, so big," you babble. There's nothing left in your brain, your body, but this. But Joel. You have to have all of him. "I can take it, I can take your cock, I --"

"Got quite the mouth on you, huh?" he says. He keeps pressing into you, filling you up inch by inch. "Okay?" he pants. "Look at me, tell me it feels good --"

You crane your neck again, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes and look at him. His own are lidded, mouth open in an "o" like he can hardly believe it himself. A flush runs down his chest and if you didn't know better you'd say he's trembling.

"Yes, I -- god, Joel, keep going, please --"

"Doin' good, sweetheart," he coos. His hand strokes up and down your spine. "Almost there. Almost takin' all of me."

He bottoms out and you see stars. You feel lips on your back, the warm puffs of his breath on your skin as he waits for you. It's a fine line between pain and pleasure and you're walking the tightrope but the stretch is delicious. You can feel every inch of him. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears and you shift your hips a little, loving it when Joel moans.

"Alright," you manage. "Move, please." His fingertips are back on your hips and give you a squeeze before he starts to drag his cock out of you. The tip of him catches the spot inside of you that makes your back arch as he pulls out and then again when he thrusts in.

"All that work, my fingers and my tongue and you're still so fuckin' tight. Christ."

The only thing you manage to say is a litany of his name.

"Lemme hear it, baby," he grinds out. Baby. "Be so loud those fuckers downstairs hear you--"

You meet his thrusts as best you can and even though it feels so good, even though you're so full, it's not bringing you to the edge like you need. Your neck is starting to hurt from the way you're twisting to see him, your fingers gripping the sheets as hard as you can because you want to be touching him instead. But this is good, this works, maybe if you touch your clit, you'll --

You reach between your legs and Joel pulls out. You get off your elbows and turn around, almost gasping at the loss of him. "Is something wrong?"

He's frowning at you. "Should be askin' you that."

You don't know what to say. Your cunt throbs a little from being empty, the ache settling in now that he's not there to literally fuck it away. "What?"

"You stopped makin' those noises," he says softly. “The ones you were makin’ before.” You turn around and sit facing him, suddenly a little self-conscious. "Ain't gonna fuck you in a position you don't like."

"I --" You try to fight through the haze of your brain for words. "I liked it fine."

Joel waits. He just stands there at the edge of the bed and waits.

"Maybe..." you try again. "Would on my back be okay for you?"

His eyebrows raise like he can't believe you'd think otherwise. "That'll work for me," he says slowly. "Grab a pillow." You shift back on the bed as he kneels on it, positioning himself between your legs. You hand him one of your pillows and he taps your hip. "Up." You obey and he slides it under you so your lower half is lifted a bit before he presses one leg to the side, spreading you open. He slowly bends the other so that your thigh is pressed against your torso in a deep stretch without being painful. You feel bare, exposed in a way he somehow hasn't yet achieved.

Joel fixes his gaze on your face. "Let's try that." He strokes himself once and then leans over you, bracing himself on one hand near your head. He lines up to press his cock into you again. Faster than last time, you wince a little but you dig your fingertips into his back to tell him to keep going. He bottoms out and you immediately feel the difference, eyes fluttering shut. Before it was like he was plowing into you, like you were so full you could hardly handle it. But like this it's like he's melting into you, like there is no space between you anymore. You're full but it's not so harsh. You don’t know where you end and he begins.

"That better?" he croaks. You force yourself to look at him and find his face closer, closer than you thought he'd get, breath warm on your face. His forehead is beaded with sweat and his eyes search your face. This close you can see they’re grey, the lines at the corners deep with strain. Even like this, stuffed full of his cock, you could look at him all day.

"Move, Joel," you tell him. He takes that for a yes and starts at a punishing pace. You have no idea how he's kept it together this long, considering you've felt on the edge of another orgasm this entire time. You anchor your arms on his shoulders as his thrusts make you see stars.

"Ask for what you want, you hear me?" His balls smack loudly against you and he presses his lips to your ear. "You ask and I'll do my damn best."

You don't know what it is -- the overwhelming sensation of his cock dragging in and out at this angle, how close he is, his words -- but you feel tears at the corners of your eyes again. You nod frantically, hands grasping for purchase on his back.

"C'mon," Joel says. "Gotta use that mouth, sweetheart."

"Yes," you pant. "Yes, yes, Joel, yes --"

"Fuckin' perfect for me," he moans. His lips trail up your cheek, tongue catching your tears before he presses them to yours in a messy kiss that's more teeth and breath than anything else.

"Joel, Joel, Joel --"

"Gonna come for me? Gonna soak my cock like you did my face?"

Your orgasm comes like the snap of a rubber band. You hold him as tight as you can as it washes through you, the waves almost painful as he keeps fucking you fast and hard, your name a series of broken sounds from his mouth until his hips stutter and he groans deep in his chest. You try to keep your eyes on him as you come down from your high and are rewarded with the scrunch of his brow and the slight part of his lips as he comes. Beautiful, you think.

The room is all of sudden much quieter without the sounds of your fucking. It's just the dull sounds of Frank's through the floor and your combined panting as he pulls out of you and flops on the bed beside you. You wince this time, the soreness really settling in. Joel finds your hand and kisses the back of it in a move so unexpectedly tender you can't look at him, raw as you are already. The bed shifts and you figure he's throwing out the condom.

"You okay?" he says. You open your eyes and find him standing at the edge, looking at you. He's holding your robe from the bathroom. You stretch and let him look.

"Yeah," you reply. You give him a smile as you scoot to the edge and wrap yourself in it when he holds it out. "Thank you." Joel grunts.

You go to the bathroom yourself to pee and see the damage. Hair a mess, your mascara gathered around your eyes like you've been working hard. You've got hickies forming on your neck and chest, the skin rubbed a bit raw from his beard around your mouth. You love how you look right now.

You look like you got fucked well. And you did.

But now you want a shower and a snack and to go to bed.

You half expect Joel to be gone when you go back into the bedroom. You remember belatedly that you don't let hookups stay the night. Will he leave if you ask him to? If he's already left then you don't need to worry about it. A small part of you worries you won’t ask him to go.

Instead, he's sitting on the edge of your bed putting his boots on. His shirt is unbuttoned but other than that he's dressed. He looks up briefly. His own hair is going in a thousand different directions and if this wasn't a one-night stand you'd fix it for him, a hand pushing it back like you did when he was between your thighs. But things are different outside the heat of the moment.

"You want some water or anything?" you ask instead.

He shakes his head and finishes his boot, stands and buttons his shirt. "Nah," he says. "Should just head out."

You wonder belatedly if there's anyone at home missing him. Maybe he's got a wife. Maybe he's got a life that he's running away from and into your arms.

"Bar'll be closed by now, or as good as," you say. You spy his jacket by the door and bend to pick it up. "No one'll see you."

Joel's face does something funny that you don't quite know how to read. He takes his jacket from you and shrugs it on. "Alright," he says.

He looks awkward in a way you didn't know he could so you throw him a line. "Thanks," you say. For fucking me. For listening to me. For making me feel good. "It was fun. See you around?"

His expression softens. He steps close and gently holds your chin with his thumb and forefinger before kissing you once, firmly but chastely compared to what you were doing before.

"See you around," he says. And then he opens the door and disappears down the stairs.

You hear the outer door close and only then do you let out a breath. Your entire body feels like you just spent hours at the gym. But your mind? It's going a thousand miles an hour. You don't know what to think about first -- how Joel looked, how he spoke to you, how his hands felt. How he implored you to ask for what you wanted, how he made you feel good because it made him feel good. How you desperately, desperately want to see him again, to know him in every possible way. How you want him to walk back up the stairs and hold you until you fall asleep.

And that's not how you expected to feel. It's not how you should feel after a one-night stand with a guy you serve a few times a week at your place of employment. Like he saw right to the core of you, like he gave you something you didn't know you needed.

You need to get a hold of yourself. This is how it starts -- this is how you get hurt. You care. Well, you always care, but no one has to know that. You let someone care about you. Not that Joel does, but he could.

But isn't that the one thing you want most of all?

You sleep in the next day. There's not much that needs to be done at Frank's besides bookkeeping and inventory which doesn't take you long. When you finally make it downstairs, three Advil popped to ease the soreness of your entire body, you're surprised to find Bill himself sitting at the bar.

He looks just as you remember, hair a little longer and a little grayer. Shit kickers and jeans, a hunting jacket and trucker hat. You'll bet his actual truck is parked around back where no one from the road can see it.

"Uh, hi?" Bill hasn't come around for at least a year, which is making your stomach sink a little. The last time was when there was a fire because some dumbass tried to smoke inside and he wanted to make sure you weren't going to quit on him for having to throw water on the nasty curtains.

"Heard about Seth," he says. Always right to the point, this guy. He's drinking what looks to be Coke with a lemon. "Sit." You do as he says. So much for bookkeeping.

"Yep," you say. You have no idea where he heard it and know better than to ask. "No big deal."

"I want to retire."

What? "Do you...work here?" Bill appreciates honesty and he's the kind of asshole that respects you if you're an asshole back.

"No," he says. "But I own the fuckin' dump. And me and Frank want to retire."

"There's a Frank?"

"My partner, dumbass. Keep up."

You were already groggy and still muddled from last night but this is forcing you to bring everything into sharp focus. Bill wants to retire. Which means he wants to...

"So my options are to sell this dump or find someone to take it."

If he sells the bar you're shit out of luck. No way another owner would let you live upstairs the way you do for next to nothing and let you work here and run the show. This is...a lot to take in.

"Are you listening to me?" Bill says. You blink a few times.

"No," you admit. "Can you say that again?"

He sighs. "Do you want it?"

"The bar?" you ask incredulously.

"No, idiot, the dumpster out back. Yes, the bar." He raps his knuckles on the bar top. "You could keep everything the same. It's just paperwork, really. I'll just give it to you. God knows a young person like you could make it nicer, turn a better profit." He says it like it's an insult.

"Are you fucking serious?" This goes against most every rule you've had for yourself for the last who knows how long. Don't get attached, keep moving. No one really needs you so you can disappear whenever. You haven't gotten bored yet, haven't gotten restless, but you know it'll happen. There's no way you can do this forever. But owning a bar? That would make you stay. You'd have no out. You’d have to let yourself be seen, let yourself be needed. You’d have to commit. You’d have to not fuck it up.

"Why not?" he shrugs. "I know you said it was temporary back when you moved in, but you practically run it."

He's right. Everything is temporary for you. But would sticking around be so bad? Would trying to actually make a life for yourself, have a home base, a thing you care about be the end of the world? And then there's Joel...No. Not going there.

"I..."

"Either you take it or I shut it down." Bill gets off his stool and looks around. "No one cares enough about it to try to sell it."

"Then why me?"

"Do you care about it?" he asks. His piercing stare pins you to your stool, compels you to be honest with him where you're rarely honest with yourself.

"Yeah," you say. "I do."

"Then there's you're fuckin' answer. I know you do. You clean the shit out of this place and train the seasonal dipshits and learn the names of the fuckin’ drunks and live upstairs and make this a good place for good people to come. You think no one notices, but I notice. We all notice." It's possibly the most words Bill has ever said to you in a row.

"Can I...think about it?"

He shrugs. "Sure," he says. "Not too long, though. Gotta decide by the end of the year. Maybe earlier."

That gives you three months, give or take. To figure out what the fuck you're going to do.

With one conversation Bill has shattered your entire life here. Now there’s actually a timer on it, this little piece you’ve carved out and started to enjoy. Could you make it a real thing? Could you finally admit to yourself that this is what you want – to be wanted? To be needed? To have something that’s yours?

The bar door shuts and you realize Bill has left you alone with your thoughts. You shift in your stool and a wave of soreness rolls through you from your core.

You thunk your forehead on the bar. “Fuck me,” you say to the empty room.

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction

985 notes · View notes

ja3hwa · 7 months

Text

♡ 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟓 : 𝐄𝐱𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐦 - 𝐉.𝐖𝐘 ♡

Dimly Lit Bathroom

【sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs】 : Wooyoung couldn't keep his hands off you on a regular basis. But when he sees you in such a sexy outfit, he has no choice but to drag you to the nearest bathroom.

『ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ』 : 801

-> ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Idol Au. Suggestive.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Idol!Wooyoung x F.Reader

[ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs] : Fingering. Marking. Pet names. Dirty bar bathroom sex (eeww hehe). Clit play. Making out.

Thank you, @whatudowhennooneseesyou , for requesting Wooyoung and the plot for this day ♡♡♡

Masterlist | Navigation | Kinktober List

You never thought Wooyoung would be up for something as risky as this. Cause let's face it, even though he loved attention, you never expected him to be rushing you towards the women's bathroom in the back of a loud crowded bar away from your group of friends that would surely be looking for you both at any moment now. His grip on your wrist was tight, while his eyes scanned for a spot perfect for what he wanted to do. When he saw you show up in your outfit tonight, he couldn't keep his eyes anywhere but on your body and the way you swung your hips to the beat or laughed at one of his friend's jokes, he knew in the bluntest way possible, needed to fuck the living shit out of you.

The bathrooms were covered in graffiti, and the smell of overly-scented perfumes and weed tickled your nose enough to make you cough lightly. And the mess was severely unhygienic. But none of that mattered at that moment. All that did was getting your lips on his. And that is exactly what happened. Teeth clashing, and tongues were dancing. Desperation was the only thing present, and Wooyoung was in the mood to feed it.

”You look so fucking hot in this fit baby, I can’t keep my hands to myself.” His breath tickled your flesh as his words danced down your jaw to your neck. He bit down harshly on your jugular, suckling a purple love mark on you. You just leaned against the countertop, taking his assault on your neck obediently. If someone were to walk through the main door and swing the corner they would be greeted straight away with a sight of the century. The Jung Wooyoung, fucking his pretty girlfriend. The idea sparked excitement, the crudeness, the rawness. Everything was so dirty. Something you’ve never done. And Now Wooyoung was the one tainting you into enjoying something as messy as this situation.

His right hand was kept tightly on your hips, but his left hand explored your body. Squeezing your breast lightly, tugging on your clothes, and slipping into the top of your pants. His fingertips glided along your panties, pulling on the fabric before letting it go so it would snap back against your skin. You hissed at the feeling. Bucking your hips, you non-verbally gave him approval to slip further into your undergarments, letting him cup your pussy. His long fingers slip along your folds, stroking until he finds your clit, pressing down harshly. “Like that doll face?”

You nodded like a ridiculous bobblehead, moaning as your hips didn’t falter against his hand. His free hand, which sat on your hip, slowly made its way to your neck, wrapping around it tight enough to cause your brain to short-circuit. Your whimpers were music to his ears, and no matter how loud the yelling and noise people call singing outside grew, all he could focus on was your pretty voice. His slim appendages slipped into your dripping cunt thrusting in and out at the pain-staking pace. He watched your face scrunch up with your brows knotting on the top of your cute head. Your eyes opened vaguely, staring at him with his favourite expression. Fucked out and begging.

“Please, Woo. F-faster pleaseee.” Your words made his ego grow, and the way you sounded was so hypnotic, how could he possibly say no? but he wanted you to work for it.

“Come on baby, you can be louder. Let everyone hear how good I’m making you feel..”It was only when you heard his growling voice that you remembered you were in a very public place and that anyone could see you in such a vulnerable position. But yet a tingle in your gut made you realize you didn’t care. All you cared about was being a good girl for Wooyoung and getting what you wanted. So you moaned, heck almost screamed his name as he got faster, maybe not as loud as the music but definitely loud enough that if anyone were to come to the door they would hear you.

And as you got closer to your release, Wooyoung held onto you tighter, clashing his lips on yours. You came all over his hand with a high-pitched moan feeling your brain fill with fuzz. It was euphoric and messy all at once. “You think the boys would be looking for you by now?” you choked out panting against your lover's neck.

Wooyoung had to chuckle catching his gaze in the mirror behind you. Kissing your cheek he noticed a pair of eyes in the mirror, hiding behind the corner. “Don’t worry, I have a feeling they know what we're doing.”

-♥︎

454 notes · View notes

1800jjbarnes · 7 months

Text

◇ 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟓: 𝐄𝐱𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐦 - 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 ◇

Dimly Lit Bathroom

【Synopsis】 : Bucky couldn't keep his hands off you on a regular basis. But when he sees you in such a sexy outfit, he has no choice but to drag you to the nearest bathroom.

『W.C』 : 801

-> Genre: Modern Avenger Au. Suggestive.

Pairing: Avenger!WhiteWolf!Bucky x ShieldAgent!Reader

[Warnings] : Fingering. Marking. Pet names. Dirty bar bathroom sex. Clit play. Making out.

Masterlist | Kinktober List

You never thought Bucky would be up for something as risky as this. Cause let's face it, even though he loved attention, you never expected him to be rushing you towards the women's bathroom in the back of a loud crowded bar away from your group of friends that would surely be looking for you both at any moment now. His grip on your wrist was tight, while his eyes scanned for a spot perfect for what he wanted to do. When he saw you show up in your outfit tonight, he couldn't keep his eyes anywhere but on your body and the way you swung your hips to the beat or laughed at one of his friend's jokes, he knew in the bluntest way possible, needed to fuck the living shit out of you.

The bathrooms were covered in graffiti, and the smell of overly-scented perfumes and weed tickled your nose enough to make you cough lightly. And the mess was severely unhygienic. But none of that mattered at that moment. All that did was getting your lips on his. And that is exactly what happened. Teeth clashing and tongues were dancing. Desperation was the only thing present, and Bucky was in the mood to feed it.

”You look so fucking hot in this outfit baby, I can’t keep my hands to myself.” His breath tickled your flesh as his words danced down your jaw to your neck. He bit down harshly on your jugular, suckling a purple love mark on you. You just leaned against the countertop, taking his assault on your neck obediently. If someone were to walk through the main door and swing the corner they would be greeted straight away with a sight of the century. The white wolf, the infamous winter soldie, fucking his pretty girlfriend. The idea sparked excitement, the crudeness, the rawness. Everything was so dirty. Something you’ve never done. And Now Bucky was the one tainting you into enjoying something as messy as this situation.

His right hand was kept tightly on your hips, but his metal left hand explored your body. Squeezing your breast lightly, tugging on your clothes, and slipping into the top of your pants. His cold fingertips glided along your panties, pulling on the fabric before letting it go so it would snap back against your skin. You hissed at the feeling. Bucking your hips, you non-verbally gave him approval to slip further into your undergarments, letting him cup your pussy. His long fingers slip along your folds, stroking until he finds your clit, pressing down harshly. “Like that doll face?”

“Please, Buck. F-faster pleaseee.” Your words made his ego grow, and the way you sounded was so hypnotic, how could he possibly say no? but he wanted you to work for it.

“Come on baby, you can be louder. Let everyone hear how good I’m making you feel..”It was only when you heard his growling voice that you remembered you were in a very public place and that anyone could see you in such a vulnerable position. But yet a tingle in your gut made you realize you didn’t care. All you cared about was being a good girl for Bucky and getting what you wanted. So you moaned, heck almost screamed his name as he got faster, maybe not as loud as the music but definitely loud enough that if anyone were to come to the door they would hear you.

And as you got closer to your release, Bucky held onto you tighter, clashing his lips on yours. You came all over his hand with a high-pitched moan feeling your brain fill with fuzz. It was euphoric and messy all at once. “You think the others would be looking for you by now?” you choked out panting against your lover's neck.

Bucky had to chuckle, catching his gaze in the mirror behind you. Kissing your cheek, he noticed a pair of eyes in the mirror, hiding behind the corner. “Don’t worry, I have a feeling they know what we're doing.”

573 notes · View notes

wheelerpilled · 3 months

Text

'forced conformity is killing the kids'

Mike Wheeler ST5 Theory/analysis

So we've all seen the new BTS of Finn Wolfhard on the set of Stranger Things dropped and OH MY GOD. THE DUALITY FROM LAST SEASON.

I have to TRY write about it ATLEAST...because wow I have a lot of potential thoughts, sorry it's once again unstructured, messy, and repetitive but stay with me please!!!!!!!!!!

I've seen ALOT of people happy we're getting s1-2 Mike hair back but guys .....it's not a good thing!!!!!!!!!! Mike is going THROUGH IT.

______________________________________________

In Season 4 it's acknowledged that Mike is finally coming into his own a bit, Eddie says he was wearing 'whatever his mom bought him' when he first came to highschool, but in episode 1 when we see him for the first time in S4, he's clearly been influenced by Eddie and has figured out what style he likes and what he's interested in, he's in a DND club, he's comfortable being known as an uncool nerd, he's growing his hair out (yes I DO believe it's because he idolised Eddie, I have more to say about that in a second)

basically: his hair and his outfits, aswell as pretty much the way he acts in Hawkins (NOT California- he goes back to pretending to be something else) in S4 represents the ideology non-conformity and his sense freedom in this new persona

he doesn't feel lost in highschool anymore, he's doing what he likes with his friends (DnD) and he's proudly wearing his hellfire shirt around school/Hawkins, basically, he's accepting that it's okay to enjoy 'different' things that aren't considered the norm, and it makes him happy, he feels comfortable!

_____________________________________________

But now in Season 5, from the pictures we've seen, it looks like he's fully reverted back into his shell, I guess I understand why tbh I don't blame him:

he comes back to Hawkins after everything and everyone believes he's in a satanic cult- townspeople probably treat him badly and Jason's team mates probably blame Eddie and the rest of hellfire for Jason's 'disappearance' (death). They directly connect him with all the horrible things that have happened to Hawkins as of late

...which is probably what the BTS of them walking towards Mike are about, they probably keep harassing him no matter how he acts and Mike just wants them to leave him alone, let's face it:

High school has probably gone full circle back to middle school for Mike and he's getting bullied/mistreated again. So he feels his only option is to remove himself from Hellfire and become 'normal'.

Hellfire might maybe even be blamed for the gates being opened. Last we heard, the townspeople were hunting down Eddie and the rest of hellfire, and the graffiti on Eddie's grave in the S5 pics shows that he's still very much hated.

Mike probably got harassed by multiple people who don't believe Eddie's dead, or believe Mike was in on it and are out looking for him, or think Hellfire contributed to some satanic ritual causing the 'earthquake' and thus Mike is also a target and it's dangerous for him.

So I think part of the style change and haircut is due to THAT, he doesn't wear his hellfire shirt anymore because he doesn't want any affiliation with the club.

As Finn Wolfhard has said in previous interviews 'mikes just trying to act as normal as possible' so by seperating himself from Eddie/Hellfire and becoming more conventionally 'normal' he won't be treated like an outcast.

He won't be assaulted, bullied, blamed, or worse if he conforms. He has a greater chance of everything becoming better/easier while living in Hawkins if he does this, he might have even given up DnD aswell- so yeah he's gonna be pretty MISERABLE in season 5

___________________________________________

Alot of people wanted to see his reaction to Eddie's death, I think we'll definitely be seeing the lingering after effects of it, and alot of Mike's arc will kick off because of the aftermath of the vilification of Hellfire.

Only few people know that Eddie died to try protect Hawkins, Eddie was a role model for Dustin and Mike, but they're grieving him in COMPLETELY different ways

Dustin decides to honour him by taking up a similar style and proudly wearing his hellfire shirt, and is also probably trying to sway the town's opinion on Eddie and prove him innocent.

....But Mike seemingly decides that he DOESNT want to end up like Eddie anymore: dead and hated, known as a satanic freak.

Someone he idolised is now deceased, he doesn't know how to properly handle that fact, it's intimidating that someone he looked up to do much could be so hated, and in turn has caused the reaction from Mike that is basically 'if my idol is treated as such a horrible outcast, and I wanted to follow in his footsteps, where would that leave me?' he's feeling lost and hopeless, especially with the state Hawkins is in, so he probably decides the best thing to do is just blend in. Be normal.

It probably scares him that even merely his interest in DnD and all these other factors immediately make him a target, as far as townspeople believe- Mike is one of the kids who was close with a brutal serial killer, they probably think he's just as 'messed up as Eddie the freak was' for staying friends with someone who'd do such horrible things

I think Mike just wants to hide as much as he can right now, he has ALOT on his plate and doesn't need the rest of the town out to get him.

so if anyone asks: he'll probably say things like 'I didn't really know Eddie! I would never join a cult like that, I didn't know!' or something to try seperate his name from the hellfire club.

Mike will end up picking protecting himself and hiding his true identity and values/traits rather then living exposed and vulnerable; yet true to what he actually believes is right....And that is the opposite of what Dustin is doing,

Dustin is a proud hellfire member and friend of Eddie, he's picking what he thinks is right over self-preservation from the town, he's still wearing his battered shirt, now HE'S the one growing his hair out, he still adores Eddie and misses him (so does Mike probably, but he feels he CANT outwardly publicly show support or stand up for him)

I do wonder if this will cause some sort of tension between Dustin and Mike, because Dustin is doing the opposite and becoming more like Eddie instead of distancing himself from the hellfire name, he might feel betrayed that Mike 'gave up' on Hellfire, and maybe accuse him of not even caring about Eddie or his death?? Idk!!!!!!!!!! I feel like Dustin will also be going through it this season 😭😭😭

_____________________________________________

I do also think Mike will try to be clinging alot to El this season (I mean, before they inevitably break up which I believe will probably happen kinda early on if it actually happens at all)

this is also because just the idea of having a girlfriend corresponds to his idea of conformity and being 'normal'. He just wants to be a normal guy, his life is nothing out for the ordinary, he's not interested in satanic things like dnd and hellfire, he's just a normal person. A normal person who is PROBABLY a target of Vecna in season 5 😓

I believe his arc for this season will be trying to breakout of these notions of conformity in exchange for things he actually likes and is interested in, we saw him sort of branching out in season 4, but I think THIS time it's happening for real, and he'll end up fully embracing his own views and interests after some sort of emotional arc-which will also probably be part of the M*lev*n break up (not censored because I'm against them/hate them I just don't wanna clog the tag for others 😭😭) OR set off by the breakup

Throughout season 1 he was told he liked El, or others assumed it, so I think he assumed it aswell, they just never broke up because El ALSO thinks having a boyfriend is normal and expected, and because Mike was the boy she was closest to she assumed it was romantic feelings (and he kissed her in S1 which probably contributed to her assuming they were romantic feelings)

Alot of the people around her are also in relationships, and she watched alot of TV with happy romantic couples so she thinks it's more normal to HAVE a boyfriend then to NOT have one, I think Mike and El kinda stayed together because they think they're SUPPOSED to by these social standards,

They obviously care about each other alot, and mistook it as reasons to just stay together, she wants to be a normal girl because only being a superhero isnt good for her, she needs to be 'Jane Hopper' and not '011'. I do think she definitely needs to be single for awhile and find herself, even if her and Mike are to be endgame, she NEEDS at least some time to gain some experiences outside of living her life as a superhero, (Mike also needs character development outside of being 'Els Boyfriend's)

Which is why it was vital that her time with max in S3 existed, so El could realise her value and that there is a life outside having a boyfriend- I think Mike needs a similar moment aswell, a wake-up call of sorts where he can take a step back and consider maybe rather than letting society dictate his actions, he makes decisions for what he wants for himself ('we make our own rules')

_____________________________________________

If m*lev*n is endgame then sure that's great for them, but I genuinely don't know what big character arc could be in store for Mike that doesn't involve a breakup and themes of non-conforming, it doesn't even have to involve Byler endgame at all (although I AM a byler truther)

I think Mike learning that it's okay to let go of that romantic relationship if he doesn't feel that way anymore is a big step for his character, or atleast taking a break so he can work on himself, anything along those lines of actual development on himself rather then on his relationship- El and Mike have been romantically paired from the start, he needs to learn that it's OKAY to breakup with someone if thats what he feels is right, (side note: I DO believe El would/will be the one to breakup with him 😭)

I don't think he realises that he'll be able to stay friends with El, it's not 'shes my girlfriend or else she'll hate me for breaking up with her. No other options'

he doesn't want to lose her because he cares about her but he can't find a way to balance that romantic relationship alongside his other friendships. So I think for his character to develop they have to breakup, even temporarily, but obviously that's only my opinion if M*lev*n is endgame then oh well, it's endgame, but I think they would be a really awesome platonic duo and I'd like their relationship alot more if it was that way

______________________________________________

I think later in the season he'll realise that living this way not actually what he wants, and he doesn't want to give up who he is, or pretend to be something he's not- because he IS a nerd who likes DnD, and he does support Eddie, he cared alot about him because he idolised him, and i think season 5 is about him learning that that's okay and he doesn't have to feel so much pressure to conform by societal standards, bro needs a better grief process, forced conformity GOT HIS ASS 😭😭😭

What I'm trying to say is: all of this, and his new look is a safety net of sorts, he's still pretending to be something he's not because he feels he HAS to, otherwise it's dangerous for him in Hawkins because of hellfires reputation, but he's also acting this way because of other factors that I haven't really thought through yet LMAO

I believe season 5 will probably be him accepting those things about himself and embracing it, maybe also undoing his emotional repression along the way, I guess I would describe it as coming of age and I think if it's handled well it could be really beautiful in a way

OH MY GOD I RAMBLED SO MUCH AND IT ISNT EVEN A SOLID THEORY JUST A COLLECTION OF THOUGHTS😭

Sorry that was long and repetitive but uhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah..........anyways Mike Wheeler ily keep ur head up king please don't die in S5‼️‼️ stay safe‼️‼️

#PLEASE READ AND STAY WITH ME IK ITS LONG 😭😭😭#stranger things #mike wheeler #stranger things 5 #st5 #jane hopper #eleven hopper #el hopper #byler #st analysis #finn wolfhard #will byers #eddie munson

261 notes · View notes

vixensbrainrotts · 5 months

Text

Tokyo revengers headcanons

Content: Tr headcanons

Content warnings: None I hope, please let me know if there are any!

Vixen's two cents: I’ve been wanting to dump all my headcanons somewhere for a while now so here! I don’t think that these are all, but I’m gonna make a second post about any further headcanons I have. Also, i apologize for not including everyone here, ill make sure to include them next time. I hope you enjoy, and if you do, please tell me about it! Don’t be afraid to send me requests either, I’d love to write most anything (I’m uncreative sometimes)! Oh also, what are some of your headcanons? Do you agree with any of mine? I’ll link the part two once i figure out how to do that lol

(VOLUME II)

Kokonoi who is genuinely so bothered by bugs you won’t believe it. He has to leave the room as soon as he sees the „threat“, and fast.

Izana who curses loudly on Filipino whenever he accidentally hurts himself. You can hear him shout from across the whole house when he bumps himself on a corner.

Chifiyu who has a passion for graffiti. He loves tagging and wild styling and spraying elaborate throwup-styles on walls on Toman turf.

Inui who is colorblind, which is really unfortunate because he has an interest in fashion and styles. He relies on Koko for the greater part, but has recently discovered apps that identify color, which has vastly improved his personal style and allowed him to take on more challenging shades.

The Katawa twins who have an honestly really impressive Pokémon card collection and often play against each other to pass time. The amount they have spent on it is sorta concerning and more often than not stop by the little magazine store to buy another pack to "improve their decks" before gang meetings.

Hakkai who has a distinct dislike for the color orange but keeps finding himself surrounded it. He hates it but the walls in his room are orange. He could puke because his favorite faux-fur-coat is a darker orange. There’s no reasoner doesn’t like the color but something about it makes his skin crawl.

Hanma who is German/Russian and makes sure everyone knows it. He is proud of his heritage and will often use German and Russian idioms when conversating. It’s all fun and games till he starts swearing in his mother tongues during fights, bashing in his opponent’s skulls whilst cursing in a foreign, very aggressive manner.

Nahoya and Souya who work like devils in the kitchen. It’s a perfect tandem in between them, they somehow always know what the other wants and needs. If Nahoya needs a hand in opening the oven, Souya’s doing a 360 no look opening. If Souya’s hands are messy from kneading the dough, Nahoya automatically turns on the tap for hand washing. Twin telepathy is real and they’re the number one proof.

Mucho who can’t do shit in terms of math. You need him busy? Ask him for 7x9 and he’ll be unresponsive for the next 3-5 minutes. It’s really frustrating to him because he genuinely puts in so much effort to understand the formulas, but the numbers simply don’t click in his brain.

Smiley who got the smiley piercing the moment he found out about it. It’s really impressively healed and works so well on his face. Some even say that his smile has gotten wider ever since he got it. He also has a poorly healed nose stud on the left side that he only keeps in for sentimental value. He got it in the seventh grade during school and he got his ass whooped when he came back home with it.

Kisaki who unintentionally practices calligraphy because he writes exclusively in cursive. All of his notebooks look fake because all the letters look identical and everything is evenly spaced. The highlighter girlies in his classes wish death upon him on a daily.

Rindou who’s cracked at Chemistry for no reason. He doesn’t even have to try, it’s like the formulas unfold in front of him and the laws and rules just make sense. He can’t even explain it but ask him anything, and I mean anything he can give you the right answer. Just don’t ask him to be your lab partner. He has a nasty history of breaking test tubes.

Kakucho who knows how to dress. Like really know how to dress. Anywhere, anytime he’s looking like a Pinterest board. He doesn’t really try or occupy himself with things fashion, but he just looks so good and coordinated all the time. He thought it was natural to know what looks good or not, so he’s sometimes a bit perplexed by the things that his peers wear. He tries to be nice when he tells them it doesn’t work, but comes across a little brash because it frustrates him.

Kazutora who has unnaturally sharp canines. Like, it’s kinda scary sometimes because they poke out of his mouth even when it’s closed. He’ll commonly run his tongue over them when he’s bored, poking and prodding at them to check if they’re still sharp. It’s one of the features of his face he really does like.

Mitsuya who gossips like a Girl. He lives for drama and tea (silently) and due to his club being occupied by mostly girls, he’s surrounded by it constantly. The girls talk and talk and talk and he eats it up. The scary part is that he remembers nearly every part of it, so he knows so much. He’ll never share it with anyone but likes to know what’s happening. Sometimes he even correctly predicts scandals due to background knowledge.

Leading from the last one, Mitsuya who has a deep voice. One that rumbles softly when he speaks and sounds like the ocean when he laughs. It’s a killer during after-noon classes when he has to present or read something cause it has such a calming effect. He’s put multiple of his classmates asleep accidentally.

Draken who know just the tiniest bit about sowing from helping out in Mistuya’s workshop. He knows how to close a seam, he knows how to sew a button and he knows how to patch a hole and that’s it. He’s lowkey proud of it though.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev x you #Tokyo revengers headcanons #headcanon #headcanons #tr headcanons

160 notes · View notes

rarestdoge · 1 month

Text

New OC!!

Ace Jayson Stone | He/They | 27 | 5'8 | Gay demiboy

Also nicknamed AJ Stone, he's a well known drug dealer and graffiti artist. He's a chill, creative, honest, patient, and friendly guy, and doesn't mean any harm.

Unfortunately, though, Ace doesn't have his life together one bit. He struggles with anxiety and an eating disorder, lives in a messy house, has a horrendous sleep schedule, dropped out of school, and god knows when the last time he drank water was bc he lives off energy drinks. Making beautiful art and seeing his friends always brightens up his day a bit, however.

He is also a good friend of Cameron's! (Gov!Cam specifically) He secretly sold weed to Cam all the time back in high school and they bonded over that LOL. Deadass that was my first idea for this guy. I randomly woke up at like 5AM and went aha Cam's weed dealer. The two always hang out every now and then to this day though. They're even vent buddies (usually while completely fucking zoinked out of their minds)

#I love him already........#also he has a boyfriend but that's a secret for later teehee #/#ace jayson stone #thsc oc #oc #henry stickmin #thsc #the henry stickmin collection #tw smoking #tw drugs

66 notes · View notes

bipanicoverthegravessiblings · 19 days

Note

How about Ashley x Emo Fem Reader? Like gothic with uhh emotic? Or something like that. Like they meet when they been in high school. And they live in Y/N's house that she get from her parents when they passed

If you had any questions, ask me

Oooohhhh- okay okay!

Ashley Graves x Emo Fem!Reader

Social outcast, you generally considered yourself

Not just you, your peers as well had called you that- or…crude variations of it

Point is, no one in school really liked you

You’ve overheard their gossip- all the same shit really

“I bet she lights cats on fire!” “Look at her sleeves, I bet she cuts herself.” “She’s gonna blow up the school I swear”

They couldn’t even bother to be creative with their assumptions about you- a lot of the same depressed demon stuff

….and you are depressed- but that’s besides the point!

You never really connected with any of your peers..

…well- except one..

Lunchtime was quite possibly the worst part of your day. It was a war zone. In the classrooms you had teachers to lessen the blows your classmates would throw at you, both metaphorically and physically, here the only solace of a savior were the underpaid lunch ladies who were occupied handing out food to students.

You hugged the wall as you carefully watched your peers, they all seemed fairly occupied in their own conversations- not even noticing you. You liked it when they forgot your existence. Loneliness beat cruelty.

There was a table you always sat at, tucked into the corner of the lunchroom- and for good reasons. The surface was littered with graffiti of swears, slurs, those cool S’s, and various crude doodles left by your peers. Not only that, but the table was very wobbly, so badly you usually have to use two textbooks to prop it up. The bottom was covered in dried out, chewed gum- the entire thing was just a sitting “DO NOT COME HERE” sign.

And it was perfect!

No one ever sat there due to how shitty it was, you think the students and faculty didn’t even bother to go near it. They either think it’s cursed, or forgot about it. Or both. Maybe both. But today someone had actually got there before you did.

A disgruntled girl with messy black hair poked at the mystery meat on her lunch tray. Poked isn’t the right word- more like viciously stabbed it repeatedly. Her nose scrunched in frustration, likely not directed towards the so-called food, but it was the only thing she had to vent her frustrations on to. She hadn’t noticed you.

You stood there a little awkwardly, not wanting to startle her on accident, so instead you spoke up meekly.

“Uhm…hi.” You smiled a little, trying to harmless. She didn’t look like your average bullies, but you can never be too careful.

She looked up at you with her pink eyes- her gaze was sharp, and you instinctively tensed in preparation for some insult to be thrown. She gave you a once over before returning to her tray, “…hey.”

“Can I…sit here?” It was a dumb question. Technically this table had been your seat, and this girl just showed up out of nowhere- but, oh well.

She gave a frustrated sigh, “God- did Andy put you up to this?” She asked rather accusatory, pointing her fork at you.

You opened your mouth to reply before she interrupted you, “Look how many times do I have to tell you hussies, you’re just wasting your time! He’s not going to fuck you if you’re nice to me so just—“

“Who’s Andy?”

The question you asked sounded genuine….cause it was. Really, you had no idea who this ‘Andy’ guy was. The girl lowered her fork, eyeing you wearily before she decided that you weren’t lying. She turned her head and muttered,

“….you can sit.”

And so you did. The two of you ate in relative silence. Well- you ate. Your new lunch friend more-so stabbed at her food then ate it. You swallowed down the lump of unidentifiable cafeteria meat and gave her a friendly smile. The silence was deafening and you’d never had anyone to eat with so maybe…maybe this could be nice for a change..

“I’m Y/N.” You introduced yourself.

The girl glanced up at you before returning to her tray, “…Ashley..”

“I’ve never seen you at this table much.” your hands patted the surface nervously.

“Normally I sit with my brother and so-called friend,” her words dripped with malice, “But my stupid brother had to go study for some history test! And my ‘friend’ conveniently didn’t save me a seat…” she stuck her fork into the biggest chunk of her food and muttered, “Fucking bitch…”

“That’s a bit harsh..” you mumbled, causing Ashley to perk up and glare at you.

She practically climbed over the table and held her fork out towards you, making your hands instinctively raise in surrender, “She is a bitch! A doe-eyed hussie who thinks she’s soooooo innocent when she sucks just as much as everyone else!”

“I meant it was harsh that she wouldn’t let you sit with her,” your eyes were fixated on the fork, kind of worried Ashley would drive it into your neck, “I…should’ve been more specific. Sorry.”

Ashley’s pink eyes widened a little, she almost seemed- shocked someone took her side. Slowly, she clambered back to her seat and went quiet. You lowered your hands back into your lap and stared at her. Ashley pushed her tray and folded her arms overtop the table.

“….thanks.” She mumbled.

After that, you saw Ashley a lot more

It wasn’t every day, maybe once a week or two she would show up at your hidden table to eat

Slowly, she came out of that shell and actually initiated conversations

Well- conversations were a stretch. It was more like her venting about her frustrating day while you nodded along and ate.

Eventually, she liked you enough to stop you in the halls and walk with you

Usually her brother, Andrew you had come to learn his actual name, walked with her and she made a show to cling on to your arm

It never failed to make the heat rush to your face

Ashley was cute. Very cute. And had a general unhinged vibe that just made her all the more alluring

So it didn’t surprise you that you’d catch feelings for your new friend

No- what surprised you was when Ashley actually liked you back

You paused, silence hanging in the air as Ashley stared at you expectingly. Her foot tapped with impatience as she awaited what you were going to say.

“Well?”

You didn’t know what to say, the only time anyone has asked you out was as a prank. This was different. The question wasn’t coming from some bully barely able to keep their giggles in, this was coming from your friend. Someone you trusted. Someone who wouldn’t hurt you…..at least you think. She did threaten you with a fork.

Ashley’s growing impatience let you know just how slack jawed you were, “Look- if you’re going to be weird about this then just…forget I said anything.” She crossed her arms, turning away from you in a huff.

That was when you came out of your stupor, trying to salvage this, “No! No! It’s okay- really! I’m just….shocked that you asked me out.” You stammered with your explanation, “I didn’t even think you liked girls..”

“Me neither.” She mumbled, the faintest starts of a blush painting her cheeks. It was cute. She was cute.

Your face softened as you placed a hand on her shoulder, “….I’d love to.”

From there you two were dating

Had it only put more unwanted attention on you? Yes, but you wouldn’t have it any other way

You were happy, so fuck what those jerks had to say

Things were good, and after high school the both of you fucked off to another town

With Andrew in college, it’s not like Ashley wanted to stick around her shitty homelife

And you- honestly had no connections aside from your parents, and moving out was expected

So, it was you and Ashley. Outcast for outcast

#the coffin of andy and leyley #ashley graves #tcoaal #x reader #ashley graves x reader #OKAY-#I am so sorry this took so long #and to anyone who’s sent requests I haven’t forgotten those either #I’ve just been….so goddamn tired lately #motivation to write has been low and I’m trying to find some to make these fics for y’all #cause I love doing this #I love making these things for you folks #and I want to keep doing that #so if progress slows I am very sorry #take care of y’allselves <3

55 notes · View notes

bullet-prooflove · 12 days

Text

Distraction: David Hale x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hatersaremymotivators @bennykk @kelpies-shed

Companion piece to Graffiti and Crime Wave

David is a distraction.

A big one.

You can feel his gaze on you as you transition into warrior pose, arms stretched up above your head as you shift your weight to your left leg, the one that’s positioned in front of you.

Currently he’s sitting in your bed, the sheets pooling around his bare hips as his back comes to rest against the headboard. The newspaper he was reading rests in his lap, forgotten.

“You’re hard again aren’t you?” You murmur, the edges of your lips twitching up into a smile as you hold the pose for ten seconds.

“Maybe you should come over here and find out.” He suggests with mischievous look in his eyes.

“After I finish this routine.” You promise and he exhales audibly as you move into the dancer.

This is his favourite pose, the one that really gets him going and he shows you how much by wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking it slowly. Already you can feel the heat building between your legs, the seam of your leggings rubbing in just the right place.

“You aren’t playing fair.” You say as you hold your pose, counting down the seconds.

“Neither are you.” He comments, his voice a little rough as he thrusts up into his palm.

There’s a flush creeping up his neck already and fuck, it gets you off seeing him like this. He knows it too, it’s in the way his chin juts up as he meets your gaze, his teeth biting down on his lower lip.

It’s a test of wills, who breaks first.

His jaw clenches, his head tipping back against the wall as he watches you.

“Fuck, you see what you do to me?” He mutters as his cheeks turn pink. “Don’t even have to be touching you and I’m about to come all over myself.”

It’s those words that make you crack, the knowledge that you can do this to him, that he lets you. He smiles as you approach him, that shit eating grin that says he’s won and it isn’t until now that you realise just how much you’ve come to love it, how much you love him.

He has you on your back, his lips on yours before you’ve barely climbed on to the bed. Every one of his kisses feels like sunshine on your skin as his calloused palms chase over your body, undressing you until your naked underneath him. He grabs the base of his cock, guiding it to your moist core, the tip positioned in just the right place.

“Are you ready for me?” He whispers, his lips brushing over yours.

It always comes down to this, that moment where he asks because for David this is always about you, your comfort, your pleasure.

“Always.” You murmur and he sinks in slowly, filling you until he’s buried all the way to the hilt. His mouth covers yours, stifling the moan that leaves your throat. Your fingers entwine as he begins to move in long, slow strokes, every single one raking over that deviant little sweet spot.

The ecstasy, it crashes through you in waves, each one washing over you, drowning you until the only thing you can focus on is the sensation of David inside you, loving you.

When the fall comes it’s all consuming, it steals away your breath, your sanity and everything else in between as your thighs tighten around David’s hips, drawing him deeper. He moans into your mouth, his release spilling inside of you as you grip him so fucking tightly it feels like he’s losing his mind.

His kisses are messy, languid, his hands caressing you every inch of you because he knows it’s intense when you’re with him, that you need to feel grounded in the aftermath.

The men before him, they never cared for you, they never loved you, not the way that he does. He tells you that as he lays there tangled up in you because he can’t hold back any longer. He can’t imagine a future without you in it.

“I love you.” He whispers, his thumb ghosting over your cheek as he looks into your eyes. “I have since the moment we met.”

Love David? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#david hale #david hale x reader #deputy chief hale #deputy chief david hale #soa

60 notes · View notes

azsazz · 11 months

Text

Ace of Hearts

Modern!Cassian x Reader

Summary: Cassian has always been there for you, best friend until the end. Harboring deep feelings for you without realizing it, he watches you navigate your love-life from the sidelines.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence (memories)

Word Count: 2,082

Notes: Fluffy modern Cassian for the win! Shoutout @writingsbychlo for the title <3

_________________________________________

“A royal flush,” Azriel smirks, placing his cards on the table for them all to see.

Rhysands mouth drops in shock and Cassian groans, tossing his head back on his shoulders. His hair pulls and he winces. It’s getting longer and he should get it cut soon but he’s too lazy, and besides, he kind of likes the way it looks when he pulls it into a messy knot at the back of his head.

“Are you shitting me, Az?” he exclaims, all but throwing his cards onto the velvet of the poker table before him. He’s lost the last five hands and Azriel’s on a hot streak, but then again, the quiet man always is. He has better luck than anyone Cassian’s ever known, and he himself is just biding his time until the smirking man across from him wins the lottery. “You have to be cheating!”

Rhys grumbles, letting his measly pair sit face up, mocking him. He reaches for a handful of salty chips, the only thing that will make him feel better about his quickly dwindling wallet, and stuffs them into his mouth. His stomach growls in thanks, but it’s not enough. He clicks on his phone, biting back a smile as he responds to his girlfriend's cheeky text, before hitting the app for Velaris’ local pizza shop – Moon Pie – and adding his saved order to the cart.

Azriel smirks, leaning forward to drag his winnings back to his side of the table. The chips clack in a taunting manner, and Cassian can only glare at the betraying tokens. His friend is quick about it, the marred flash of his skin a beacon for all attention under the dim light of the table. Rhys nor him would ever stare. They’ve known Azriel long enough, had been the ones he’d run to when he was young and his step brothers made a game out of torturing their little brother, burning his hands with their father’s cigar lighter and a bottle of gasoline they’d snuck into the garage to get.

If he thinks about it, Azriel’s terrified scream still rings in his ears, even after all these years. Rhys and him had come running to the next yard over at the screeching but they were both too young to know what to do, and Azriel’s step brothers had turned to them with such wicked grins there was no doubt in hell that Cassian knew he was next to suffer the same fate.

It was Rhysand’s mother who had come to the rescue, dropping the plate into the sud-filled sink at the commotion and sprinting to where her son and his best friends’ screams were coming from. Cassian remembers her looking like a true superhero that day, calm as she helped Azriel stifle the flames. Nychta was on the phone quicker than he’d ever seen someone move, calling for both the police and an ambulance, screaming something about third-degree burns on a child and to get there as soon as they could.

She had always been a light in their lives, and became a mother to all three of them. Azriel’s own was away too often to be a stable parental figure in his life, and after what had happened with his step-brothers he was bound to be put into the system if Rhysand’s mother hadn’t stepped in.

Cassian was just another malnourished child from the trailer park, running around the neighborhood barefoot and holes in his shirts with a father that had run at the first sign of trouble and a mother he couldn’t remember. Nychta had gladly taken him into her home without complaint.

But she had died when they were teens, when all they wanted to do was graffiti walls down by the highway and didn’t give a shit about what any figure of authority had to say. She’d been driving Rhys’ younger sister to her dance recital and Rhys had reluctantly talked them into attending, saying he’d let them drive the brand new car his father had gotten him for his seventeenth birthday, when he’d gotten the call. There was an accident, Cassian heard through the phone…mother and sister are gone…my condolences.

None of them had driven that car for an entire year after that.

“Pizza will be here in thirty,” Rhys says, snapping Cassian from his harrowing memories. He’s grimacing, jaw clenched so tightly it aches when he opens it to choke down a swig of his beer. Azriel normally doesn’t miss a thing, but he’s focused on organizing his poker chips into neat stacks by color, five per pile.

He drags his gaze back to his own tokens, lips pulling downward when he sees how many he has left. They’ve only been playing for an hour but the hundred dollars he’d managed to scrounge up this week didn’t last him long, and he’ll be forced into watching if he doesn’t start winning soon.

“Veggie?” Az asks without looking up from his task.

Rhys rolls his eyes, answering, “Yes, Az.” He’s suddenly gone vegetarian for a girl he’d met in his earlier-than-even-satan-rises hot yoga class. The two haven’t even talked yet but Cassian has heard about it more times than he can count. He and Rhys have multiple bets going on: if Azriel will make a move, how long it takes him to start eating meat again, and he’ll be damned if he loses.

He’s tired of losing.

“Meat extreme?” Cassian asks, mimicking Azriel. His friend cuts him a sharp glare from beneath the dark fringe hanging over his eyes, gleaming gold like nocturnal animals, but Cassian only grins. He’s also made a pact that for every meatless meal Azriel eats, he’ll have double, and the way it annoys his friend is just the icing on his cake.

Rhysand puffs a laugh, dealing out another round of cards. “Yes, Cass, meat-heart-attack-extreme for you. Extra large.”

“Aces,” he sighs, grabbing a handful of pretzels to stuff in his mouth. He feels like the cat that’s got the cream but the emotion drains from his body when he sees the hand he’s been dealt.

“You fuckers can’t tell me that you’re not cheating,” he explodes, crumbles of pretzels spewing into the new pile of bets.

Rhys and Azriel share a look before they burst into a fit of laughter, wiping fake tears from their eyes and slapping their knees like this is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.

Cassian can assure them that it’s not.

“I knew you could count cards, you fucking prick,” he grumbles to Azriel, shoving his chair back from the table as a knock on the door sounds. They’re at his and Az’s place tonight, not Rhysand’s mega-mansion because his long-term girlfriend is hosting a wine and painting party that Cassian knows is secretly a vodka spritzer and gossipping party.

He can hear his friends snickering all the way to the door and he nearly rips it off of its hinges, ready to take his budding annoyance out on the poor delivery driver.

But it’s not the kid in his teens delivering pizzas in his moms minivan standing before him. It’s you, glassy-eyed and streaks of tears cutting down your cheeks, even though you’d tried so hard to keep your composure after rubbing the droplets away.

Your smile wobbles but breaks into a desperate sob that has Cassian’s heart plummeting to the floor. “Hey, Cassian.”

His brows slant angrily and his grip on the doorknob tightens for a moment as he scowls over your shoulder. He’s quick to pull you into his chest and his warmth is as comforting as ever, even if his body is rigid with temper.

“Who did this to you? What happened?” he demands, hands finding your hair, twisting his fingers through your locks to scratch soothingly at your scalp as he drags you inside. His heart flutters at your proximity, the way you’re clinging to his shirt, but he mistakes the feeling as one of nervousness for you, furious on your behalf because his best friend shouldn’t be showing up at his house, crying.

“It’s nothing,” you snivel. “I’m just overreacting.”

“There’s no such thing,” he murmurs, squeezing your tighter. He can hear how his friends have gone quiet in the dining room. The sounds of your muffled sobs have caught their attention and he bristles because they shouldn’t be snooping. “Rhys and Az are here,” Cassian adds quietly, “Just so you know.”

You pull from his arms with a horrified look that would normally make him laugh. It’s not so funny when it’s paired with your puffy eyes and red nose.

“Oh my Gods,” you exclaim, trying to shove yourself from his arms. “I didn’t–I mean I really should have known, but please, Cass, don’t let me ruin your night. I’ll just go home and put on–”

His large hand caresses your chin, halting your words as he tilts your face to meet his gaze. The look in his eyes is stern, as is his voice when he says, “You’re never intruding. Rhys and Az can fuck off for all I care,” he adds, loud enough that conversation in the other room picks back up again. You roll your eyes fondly at his two friends that have also turned into yours.

Cassian’s voice drops again, thumb stroking across your tear stained cheek. “What happened?”

Tears brim your eyes again and your lip wobbles. Damn. He’d done a good job at distracting you and now you’re about to cry again. There’s a tug in his chest.

“It turns out Eris Vanserra isn’t all he cracks up to be,” you laugh wetly, and Cassian frowns.

He’d known it from the moment he’d seen Eris that the cocky asshole would break your heart. He’d spent days online looking into the man’s life when you had announced you were seeing him, and he didn’t like a thing he’d found.

But you’d been so happy that he told himself he wouldn’t ruin it for you. He was just being a jealous man, wanted what Eris had and had always been too cowardly to make a move. You hadn’t waited around for him either, didn’t know to.

You and Cassian had always skirted the line as something more, but that was just who you were, easygoing and ready to give anyone the shit they gave you.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says softly, but you scoff.

“Whatever, Cass. I know you didn’t like him.”

“No,” he agrees, “But I won’t do the whole ‘I told you so’ thing, don’t worry.”

You huff, shoving at his shoulder. “You just did.”

Cassian laughs and it warms your heart, stitching the pieces together in the only way a best friend can. You knew you’d come to the right person with your heartbreak. You’d rather be laughing through the pain than wallowing in it, and Cassian was just the person to pull you from your funk.

“Well, only the one time then,” he winks, giving you a squeeze as another knock on the door sounds. It’s the pizza this time and he thanks the driver before turning back to you, arms stacked with pies. “Why don’t you get settled in my room and I’ll meet you there for dinner? I’ll even make Az trade me half of his because I got meat extreme.”

“I don’t know how you eat that,” you crinkle your nose. “The cheese and bread are drowned out by the pound of meat on that thing!”

Cassian rolls his eyes fondly. “Spoken like a true carb fiend.”

Your soft smile turns serious, gaze flickering towards the wall that separates you from Rhys and Az. “It’s okay, Cass, have your boys night. I’ll be fine.”

“No,” he disagrees, balancing the pizzas in one hand while the other takes hold of your arm. He’ll drag you to his room if he has to. “You’re staying. I can see those assholes whenever.”

“Hey,” Rhys calls from the dining room and you laugh. He knew they were eavesdropping. “This asshole bought you dinner!”

Ignoring his friend, Cassian responds loudly. “They’re cheating!”

You scowl through the wall at them, as if they can see the way you’re mentally scolding them. “Well, in that case, we should take their pizzas and let them starve.”

Chairs scrape across the floor with protests and you squeal as they round the corner, zeroing in on you. Cassian gives you a gentle shove towards his room and puffs his chest, “Go! I’ll distract them!”

#acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #cassian #cassian x reader #cassian/reader #modern!cassian #mechanic!cassian #cassian has a vintage bronco #he's so hot for that

395 notes · View notes