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jinx-on-mars-19xx · 1 month

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Fucked Up Soul

🩸 Previous Parts Here🩸

Dom x Colson (Yungblud x Machine Gun Kelly)

Warnings: ABO dynamics (knots, slick, heats), alpha serial killer/hitman Dom, omega mob boss Kells, boys panicking, mentions of biting, blood, cursing, weaponry, allusions to past abuse, allusions to lots of past trauma, omega Tom bff, underwear theft, sneaky texts, Tom being a saint, boys in denial, enemies to lovers, pouty boys, mentions of masterbation, unhelpful blockers, both boys being cum goblins 💣 Rating: mature

All ideas helped by @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker 🖤

Dom was still trembling by the time he reached his flat. Once or twice he thought about finding a stray asshole Alpha and working his urges out but somehow even though he'd been near to breaking before he met the man, his need for release wasn't as strong. If he went too long between kills it started to effect him deeply. His chest would tighten, his vision would tint red, his mood would edge to uncontrollable anger, and he found it almost impossible to control his outburst. Normally having his night interrupted would destroy his so small fuse but after what he'd done he felt his desperation calmed. Even with the confusion and self hatred burning in his veins and through his thoughts. He'd always heard how helpful a sexual release was but he'd never believed it. Not before that damn omega.

He was still wound up, he couldn't help it. Everything he'd fought against for so long was now in question. All the things he prided himself on were tossed out the bloody window and he'd never expected that. He'd popped a fucking knot and tried to scent an omega. He'd licked his face as if it were a claim. He spied on the guy, though he couldn't be completely upset at himself for that. Stalking and voyeurism was part of the job. But this felt… filthy because it felt so fucking good.

His hand shook as he unlocked his front door and the moment he was inside he slammed it closed before resting against the wood to try to calm his racing heart and mind. His wrist throbbed though the wound had already closed but something felt off as he stood there. His home was his safe place- as safe as a sociopathic Alpha could find, and while he was used to spying on others he wasn't accustomed to feeling… watched. Not alone. He couldn't shake it.

“Are those yours? Interesting update to your wardrobe.” A voice sounded from further inside the flat, making Dom jump. He scanned the room and his predator level vision saw through the darkness well enough to find the lump of blankets on the sofa that was his omega roommate and best friend. Bollocks. He'd planned to give the man a verbal lashing but it appeared the photographer wasn't feeling well.

It took his ADHD riddled brain a moment to circle and catch up before he remembered the boxer briefs tucked in his pocket. Oh. “Not mine.” His own voice was still a growl but he couldn't help it. He just sighed and pushed himself off the door to join his friend in their living room. He started to sit before realizing he had far too much energy buzzing through him and instead he paced in front of the prone man.

After a moment Tom pushed the blankets off and sat up, revealing he'd been working on his tablet under the covers. He was rarely without some kind of electronic. Those normally comforting silver eyes went wide before his nose wrinkled and his sharp brow arched high enough Dom wondered if he was in trouble. “What did you do? You smell like-” His voice cut off and he cleared his throat, his gaze searching the Alpha in front of him. He was so close that the scent of him was overpowering but while the killer smelled of blood it wasn't enough to say Dom’s night was normal. Well... His normal.

A small scoff escaped Dom but he tried to control himself. “Wha’? An omega? Do I smell like a bloody omega Tom?”

“Don't take that tone with me. If you yell at me I won't hesitate to kick your arse out. I am not in the mood for your shite.”

Dom glared down at his best friend and his fists clenched at his sides, making the omega drop his gaze. Tom gave him a good once over before his lips parted in surprise, whatever he thought he saw made him sit up straighter. “Tha’ mark you investigated so well? Tha’ Alpha you sent me to take out? Tha’ job you said you did so much research on? A fucking omega.” Dom paused and took a breath before he went off all over again and his feet started moving under him to pace the floor. “A bloody fucking omega on blockers! A mob boss omega! A feral fucking arsehole, gun toting, wet, pretty, drug using, twat! Tha’ weren't in ya bloody files?”

Tom pursed his lips to fight a smile as he shook his head. He wanted to make a joke but he knew better. The hitman would die before hurting him but he never wanted to add to his stress. Dom was his hero and his dumbarse best friend. He just never thought he'd see him like that. “That wasn't in my research. If Colson Baker is an omega then no one knows. He's deep in hiding but I'm not sure how if he's walking around smelling like you do right now. You know I check everything. I would never send you after one knowingly. I take it you got along?”

Dom couldn't stop himself from growling. He knew the signs of their fight was visible all over himself. Blood and sweat and… oh. Oh no. He was covered in cum and a pair of slick wet underwear was tucked in his pocket. Well it was a damn good thing he didn't feel shame. A shock of annoyance rushed through him instead and he pulled the boxers out of his pocket to wave in front of the omega. “Wha's it mean?” His voice went high and the corner of Tom's lips twitched. If he laughed Dom thought he might scream.

Tom covered his nose and leaned back further on the couch. He was going through his own cycle and the stench of omega and spent Alpha so close was just too much. “I think it means you made a friend. Congrats. Did you leave him alive?” He already knew the answer.

All the fight went out of Dom at the query and he dropped his arms, sighing as he stared down at the other man. “Course. Can't kill a ‘mega. Twat bit me and ‘en ‘ad a wank in ‘is shower.”

“Which you know because…?”

Dom's eyes went wide and if Tom didn't know better he'd think he was blushing. “I…”

“You?”

“Well I um-”

“Yes?”

“Fuck. Tom wha’ did I do?” Dom’s voice was almost a whine and his legs felt weak. Everything felt off inside him. For once he felt like the little boy he hadn't really gotten to be. His knotheaded father had raised him to be an Alpha's Alpha and when he wasn't up to standard… Well he took care of that. Dom felt suddenly heavy and he let himself sit next to his friend. What had happened to him?

Tom had never seen the man so shaken and he'd known him for a good few years. Dom was always sure of himself and a little broken but he was never scared. Not the night he rescued Tom in a dark alley, and not one moment since. It hurt his heart to see his friend so lost. He couldn't completely smother his worry for the fellow omega though, or his enjoyment of the situation. “You just found someone. You don't have to have a crisis over it. You're a good man Dom.” How could he tell the scared Alpha what he could tell was happening without sending him into a spiral? The bottom line was he couldn't. He couldn't warn him about the heat scent. He couldn't explain he knew what the mob boss was about to go through. He couldn't give Dom a reassurance that he could handle a mate because he wasn't completely sure he could. He loved Dom but the Alpha wasn't exactly sane.

Tom himself hadn't ever used blockers. He never believed he needed them even though it could get him into trouble. He'd met Dom on a night he was too close to his cycle and an Alpha had tried to follow him home. The killer had saved him from something terrible so he knew the man would treat the mob boss as well as he could. He wasn't scared of that. No. He knew if the world believed Colson was an Alpha the omega had obviously been on the medication for so long. If they stopped working because the pair met? That meant something drastic. Intense. His best friend was intense but he didn't always handle it well. The photographer's stomach turned at the thought of the hell the Machine Gun was about to go through. His own cycles were bad and they were natural. Fuck. Looking over at the boy- because Dom really was that, he knew the Alpha might take it rough. He couldn't tell him. Dom would blame himself without realizing all it meant for himself. They'd have to figure it out as they went. He could at least help though.

Instead of answering any better he pat his lap and drew the younger man to rest on his thighs. He knew his own scent wouldn't bother him, Dom never even seemed to notice though he was always kind. As the Alpha got comfortable and curled up against him he pet through his wild dark hair. “I'll deny the job request. You just rest.” He sighed.

“No. I don't want ‘em sending someone else. Jus’ leave it. By the time ‘ey realize I'll be watching Cols.” Dom didn't even realize he'd given the bastard a nickname. He wasn't exactly thinking clearly.

“Alright.” He whispered back but he still opened his tablet and a special messenger app. He rolled his lip between his teeth as he tried to think of what to say. He couldn't explain to Colson that he knew he was about to be in heat triggered by a serial killing Alpha. He couldn't say he thought they'd found their mates. Instead he just typed something simple. ‘In case of emergency I promise he'll come when you call.’, and under that he added Dom’s phone number before he set it aside and sat back. Even he was apprehensive of the situation. He didn't know what would happen next.

🩸☠️🩸

Colson was pacing his living room when two things happend simultaneously. His elevator opened and his phone alerted him to a new message. He ignored the latter to race for his visitor. With everything happening he could only think of one person to call for help. The only person he trusted since his father figure died. He was desperately hoping she could tell him it would all be okay.

“Col? Baby, what's wrong?” His mother's voice instantly calmed some of his fears as she entered his home and pulled him into a hug. He hadn't even realized he was shaking until her steady form touched him.

She'd had him so young that her pretty face still seemed fresh and soft. He'd gone so long without her as a boy and found her through a series of the most unfortunate events but now she was the one he came to with anything that had to do with his secret. Only she knew. He took a deep breath of her honeydew scent before he pulled from the hug and crossed his arms. Someone might know what he was but that didn't mean he had to act like it. He was still the man of his family and he could be strong. Before he could even say anything he watched her blonde brows furrow and she wandered off to his bedroom. “What the fuck?” She might look like a flower but she certainly wasn't one. He grumbled to himself and followed suit.

She was standing by his bed, already stripping the bloodied sheets. His mother was the kind of woman to get shit done and worry about feelings later. It kept them both strong and task oriented. She was probably why he'd come so far in his life. “Someone sent Yungblud after me.” He huffed and that made her freeze.

“Do you think it was-” Her voice went soft. She couldn't finish the sentence and he wouldn't do it for her.

“I don't know. Fuck if I know how he'd find us or why the hell he'd care, but if it was? Shit. I'll take his out myself.” Anger bubbled in his chest but he was already so hot it felt like lava in his veins. They couldn't worry about that first. “Mom-”

Her gaze softened as she took in his sweat soaked appearance. He hadn't been able to dress more than another pair of boxers and they were already soaked. “Your blockers… Did you run out?” She asked carefully. Conversationally. She couldn't flat out say what was obviously written all over her son in sweat.

Kells swallowed hard before shaking his head. “Took some this morning. I'm fine. Just sick.”

“And Yungblud-”

“Dom.”

“Dom? He was here and he's an Alpha?” Her voice stayed gentle just in case.

Kells shrugged his shoulders and moved to help her with the sheets. A glint caught his eye and he found the knife Dom had left. It was still covered in red as he picked it up and set it inside his bedside table. He probably shouldn't keep it but he didn't like the idea of throwing it out. It made something feel tight in his chest. “Maybe I'll just get stronger ones. I mean, it's not that but... Ya know. If he could tell it's probably time.”

“I don't think they make anything stronger Colson. You've already overwhelmed your system with Alpha hormones-”

“Well I'll have to find fucking something!” He didn't mean to shout but he couldn't help it. It felt like ants were crawling under his skin the moment Dom left and his core was aching more than it ever had.

“Alright! We'll figure something out. Will you see him again?” She asked softly, taking the pile of sheets to his hamper though he was pretty sure they'd have to be thrown out. He didn't know why that thought disappointed him. When she moved to pick up the messy pillow he rushed forward and took it from her hands, his cheeks pink as he cradled it against his chest. Her question shocked him though. What the fuck would he do that for?

His mother blused at the scent and the sight of her son so frazzled and she watched as he hid the pillow under his bed. That more than anything told her all she needed to know and so much of her was worried for her son. “I think you need to find him.” She said simply. “Just to ask who sent him.” It was a lie but at least it would give the boy an excuse. She knew exactly what was happening and why her son felt ill. He would need the other man, no matter who he was.

“I doubt he'll want to talk to me. I bit the fucker. But he's a fucking psycho! I mean!” He gestured to the mess of his room. “Who the fuck tries to kill someone then jacks off on their pillow? It was expensive!” His mom tried not to laugh at his rage. Honestly it reminded her of when she first met her husband. Not Colson's father, but the love of her life. She couldn't exactly tell him so though. “I think he poisoned me. I swallowed some of his bitch blood and now I'm sick. I should get fucking tested. I'm gonna die. That crazy bastard killed me.” If he pouted like the boy he never got to be for just a moment that was between him and his mother. He could almost admit to himself he was scared. Almost.

As she left the room to find a set of clean sheets he finally picked his phone up to check the message. “In case of emergency? What the fuck?” He didn't recognize the number but deep down he knew who would be on the other side if he sent a text. He couldn't bring himself to yet. He was too confused.

“Let's just get you resting.” His mom's voice was soothing as she touched the back of her hand to his forehead. Maybe just for the night he could ignore his life and let her take care of him. He'd missed so much of that bonding as a boy and he felt like one now. A lost boy.

Author's Note/Tags: @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker @hollywoodxwhore @jaxbreaker @fenoy7 @cole-way-iero28 if anyone else wants tagged let me know 🖤

I'm not using Col's actual mom, just wanted to explain that. More of her details will come out as we go. I hope you all liked this chapter. I love getting to see the soft side of such hard boys. Enjoy 🖤

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wiypt-writes · 1 year

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Brothers In Arms

Part 9: Spinning Around

Summary: After hearing about the events in Boston, you come to a decision about your future…

Warnings: Bad language, violence, smut (NSFW) 18+

Pairing: MOB Ransom Drysdale x Reader. Mentions of MOB Steve Rogers x Reader.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any of the characters contained within this series bar the Reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. I do not give permission for this to be translated and/or reposted on any other platforms. Reblogs are fine: Sharing is caring.

By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

A/N: Here we are, the penultimate chapter. Eeeek. thanks to @spectre-posts as always.

Brothers In Arms Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Part 8

W/C: 6k

It wasn't long before you'd made it back to your brother. Natasha drove and you were thankful, as the entire way to the hospital your mind was distracted. Your thoughts remained on Ransom and the situation you were in.

You’d decided to call him yourself and tell him Ari was awake, instead of asking Natasha do it. It felt more real that way. And also, if you were honest, a part of you wanted to hear his voice.

You hadn’t been prepared, however, for the fact that the first thing he’d basically asked when you’d called was if there was something wrong with you or the baby. It was something you’d seen and heard other expectant fathers ask their pregnant partners when they called, and it had made you feel all sorts of emotions.

You still didn’t know what you were going to do about the baby. Your heart and mind were so conflicted, not only over that but Ransom. It all made your head hurt when you thought about it.

Setting foot into your brother's room, you noticed that there was a crowd. Ari in bed; looking more colorful than when you'd left him, Sam, Kebede and Max all stood round. Their words were in a hushed tone as they conversed. Silence began the moment you appeared in the doorway.

“What…what’s going on?” You asked, dropping the bag of Ari’s belongings onto one of the free chairs as Natasha hung back a little. She then excused herself as her phone rang, ducking out to answer.

"There's been a development," Ari spoke with zero emotion, as if he were back on the job.

You felt flushed from the inside out, heat coursing through you in a panic you hadn't yet identified. You felt your stomach knot as you asked, "what do you mean?"

"Walt's dead, Steve's dead and Ransom has been stabbed," Ari looked at you and no one else as he answered. He wanted you to know there was not one iota of mistruth in what he told you.

You blinked, “what…Walt? I…” and then your brain registered what else he had said, and your stomach stopped. “Ran…he’s…is he okay?”

Sammy stepped forward to catch you as you started to wobble, "sit down, love."

"I don't know," Ari admitted.

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” You looked at Ari, “what…what happened?”

"I called and when he answered he was in bad shape," your brother, again, replied stoically. "He asked for help, then the line went dead.

“But you got him help, right?”

"If they got to him in time," he nodded. "I haven't heard either way."

Your eyes filled with tears, and you were about to give your brother a full verbal lashing for his blasé attitude but you stopped yourself. Ari was angry about what Ransom did to you and what had happened to him. And deep down you knew he had every right to be.

But that didn’t stop you worrying about Ransom. Because despite everything, you still loved him.

“Harlan found him.”

You turned to look at Natasha, who waved her phone in explanation as she stepped into the room. “He’s lost a lot of blood but he’s alive.”

Your chest shuddered as the breath you held let go. Your left hand covered your mouth while your right clutched your chest, just over your heart. "I need to go, now. The fastest you can get me there," you looked only at Natasha. If you'd looked at your brother, you knew already the look on his face would be of sad eyes and disappointment. He'd try to delay your exit possibly only to talk you out of leaving in his mind.

Natasha nodded, “Harlan suspected you might say that. His private jet is on the way.”

You stood slowly and began to walk forward, one foot out the threshold when Ari stopped you.

"Y/N," he spoke. When you turned to face him, he spoke again, "Are you sure this is what you want?"

You took a deep breath and shook your head, a tear trickling down your cheek. “I don’t know what I want, but I need to see him, Ari. I still love him. I’m not asking you for permission, or for you to understand because fuck knows I don’t understand it myself. But I need to go.”

"Alright," he nodded. Ari looked to Max, "get her there safe. Then get back here so we can figure out how to clean this shit up. If he survives, that bastard owes me the rest of his life."

"Sure thing, boss," Max spoke with his gravely East Coast accent. He turned toward you and Natasha, with a single nod, and Nat began to follow. You took a final glance at your brother.

"Thank you," you whispered. Ari nodded and you were beyond the threshold.

*****

Less than three hours later you were touching down in Boston. A car was waiting for you and Natasha, and she gently ushered you over the tarmac of the private air field towards it, Max casting a watchful eye from the top of the steps.

A familiar face was waiting for you in the driver’s seat.

“Carter…” it was almost a relief to see his face.

"Doll," he nodded at you.

"How's..." you began but Carter interrupted you as Natasha slid in beside you.

“He’s in a bad way, but being cared for by the best.” Carter swallowed. “I’m under instructions to take you straight to the house.”

“The house, is he not…”

“He’s being cared for by Doctors at Harlan’s mansion. We couldn’t call the authorities…too many questions.”

You had a few questions of your own, especially now you’d had an entire flight to sit and think about them.

“What happened? I know Steve stabbed him, but what…”

“Mr Thrombey has asked that I let him explain. He’s waiting for you, I’m under instructions to send you to see him before you see Ransom.”

"No, I want to see Ransom first, Carter," your voice held a pleading tone.

"Harlan first." Carter said firmly. He wasn't about to negotiate.

“Why does everyone in this damned family get off on pushing me around?” You grumbled.

Natasha caught your under-breath comment and smirked, "it keeps their dicks bigger. Mobsters lose control, they lose their rights."

You glanced at her, and she gave you a small smile as you scoffed.

The drive to Harlan’s was a familiar one, you’d been plenty of times before. Soon, Carter was pulling the car up to the front of the house. You didn’t even wait for it to stop before you opened the door to let yourself out.

"She's eager," Carter joked with Natasha as you left the door open.

Fran, Harlan's housemaid, thew open the door just as you reached for the handle. "He's in his study," she directed you.

You nodded, walking down the hall, ignoring both Ransom’s mother and father as your sneakers squeaked on the well-polished tiles. The mahogany doors were heavy as you pushed both open with your palms flat on their surface. You didn't even bother knocking, and frankly, you didn't give a shit. You wanted the answers you were seeking and you wanted to see Ransom.

Harlan wasn’t surprised to see you, he was stood by the window, clearly having seen you arrive.

“Y/N.” He gave you a soft smile.

“Where’s Ransom?” Your voice was quiet.

"He's upstairs," the oldest Thrombey said with softness. "You can see him in a moment, if you choose to after we talk. Have a seat."

"I'd rather stand," you stood your ground.

"Alright," he nodded.

You took a deep breath, waiting for Harlan to explain.

“The feud between Ransom and Steve, the one which you were regrettably caught in the middle of. It was started by Walt.”

You felt your jaw go slack as your brows furrowed and eyes squinted. "What?"

“Walter ordered the hit that went wrong. He’s the reason Peggy is dead and the reason Steve…well…” he trailed off.

“You know?” You whispered.

Harlan nodded. “Ari came to me, not long after it happened.”

“I know, I just wasn’t sure if he told you everything.”

Harlan took a deep breath as you licked your lips.

"Why am I just hearing this?" You shook your head, "So much could have been...I could..."

"Unfortunately, this is how these things play out. It's pathetic really. Cliché dramas that sometimes translate from screen to life." Harlan’s tone was gentle. A little like you found the man himself to be, despite the fact he was a ruthless mob boss. “That and I didn’t know.” Harlan shook his head. “‘None of us did, not until photos of Walt meeting with Rumlow emerged.”

“Photos?”

Harlan nodded. “Copies were sent to both your brother and Ransom.”

"Who took them?"

“No idea.” Harlan shrugged. “And I don’t think it matters much. Not now. Steve got his revenge, and then Ransom got his.”

Harlan studied you for a moment as you took the entire situation in. He watched as your face screwed up a little and you pinched the bridge of your nose, a desperate attempt to keep yourself from crying. Almost as if you didn’t want to give into the jumble of emotions you were feeling. Like you didn’t want to show weakness, or admit to anyone other than yourself that you cared what had happened to either of them.

But he knew you did, because you were here.

To Harlan, it was no wonder Ransom had fallen for you the way he had. You took crap from no one, but yet underneath it all, you were an incredibly kind hearted and loving person. You rounded off Ransom’s gruff and rough edges perfectly. And, as he stood there now, watching you in his study, it struck the older man exactly how much you reminded him of someone he knew extremely well, and missed every single day.

You looked to him after a moment or two and wondered about the expression on his face. It was like he was somewhere else, but not quite, caught in a memory almost. And as you watched, a soft smile spread across his face.

“Forgive me, but you’re a lot like Ransom’s mother, you know. Fierce, strong, independent. Well, she was until Rogers sucked it out of her. God I hated him. Cruel twist of fate really that the boys looked so much like him. Steve is…was his double, and well, apart from Ransom’s hair colour, he is too.”

At that you frowned, “their hair colour?”

“Steve is…was blonde, Ransom isn’t.”

You frowned. “Steve…had different hair colour?”

Harlan nodded.

Your frown deepened. You’d done everything you could to push that night from your mind. But…how could you have not noticed? You swallowed as you tried and tried to remember. The bathroom had been dimly lit, it wasn’t like you’d really had chance to look at his hair either…but then you shook your head.

“That’s not possible.” You looked at Harlan, “they’re identical twins!”

Harlan gave you a curious glance, “they’re not identical, Honey. They’re fraternal. Or they were. I mean, they did look ridiculously alike, but there are subtle differences, the hair colour being one, and then there’s a slight height difference, not much but…”

You swallowed, again zoning out of the conversation as the impact of Harlan’s revelation hit you.

You had come to terms with the fact that you would never know for sure who was your baby’s father. A paternity test for identical twins would mean shit, as they had identical DNA. But fraternal ones however, did not. And now, you were fast realising that there was a way for you to find out if the baby you were carrying belonged to Ransom.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Harlan’s voice cut through the fog and you looked at him, nodding.

Your face felt void of emotion but your mind and heart were overflowing in competitive thoughts, "is he going to live?"

“Yes,” Harlan nodded. “He's battered and bruised, lost a lot of blood but they've patched him up. Unlike your brother, his spleen remains in act and nothing else was damaged apart from some muscle in his rib cage.”

The shaky breath you inhaled opened up your emotions for your eyes to flood, "I want to see him."

Harlan nodded. “He’s sleeping at the moment, still undergoing the blood transfusion, but he’ll be glad to see you. I haven’t mentioned you were coming in case you changed your mind.”

"Where?"

"Upstairs, the guest room to the left after the landing," he softly spoke. “The one the pair of you usually, well, did usually stay in.”

"Thank you," you whispered. You'd only just stood when Harlan spoke your name. You waited for him to continue.

"Ransom has not made the best choices," he sighed, "but despite the unbearable act he's done to you, I know he loves you. I'm not trying to sway a decision for you, my dear. I only speak my truths with those I care for and you, no matter what, will always be a part of this family."

You swallowed, nodding as you licked your lips. “I…I still love him too, Harlan, but what I don’t know is whether if that’s gonna be enough, not after all this.”

Harlan seemed to have had an understanding for he only nodded once, dismissing you to go. So, with a deep breath, you headed up the grandiose staircase and turned to the left. You stopped at the cracked open door and closed your eyes. Your hands were shaking and your throat felt dry. Your eyes stung with salty tears but you took a steeling breath anyway and slowly cracked the door open enough for you to step in.

Looking small, feeble even, with his complexion pale, Ransom looked anaemic already. There was a canula under his nose along with a half full bag of blood which was being administered via IV into the back of his left hand. His body was covered by blankets and you stopped halfway between the door and the foot of the large bed, listening to the beeps and bleeps of the heart monitor.

His hair was out of place only a little, cuts and bruises, even dried blood was still visible and the sight worried and scared you. You swallowed the lump in your throat and closed the space between he and you. There was already a chair on his left side, presumably from Linda, whom no doubt had sat there to at least show face and play the part of worried mother so those on staff and the goons in and out of the house would buy into it. You didn't, not really.

You took a seat at his right side and glanced down at your shaking hands. They felt cold even by your own touch. Worrying them in your lap, you slowly looked up, your eyes roaming over your former lover and fiancé.

As you sat there you tried to figure out why had Ransom not corrected you when you’d said there could be no way to know which one of the brothers had fathered your unborn child.

Why would he lie? The only plausible reason you could think of was that he didn’t want to know, and he didn’t want you to know either. Was this some cruel attempt to keep control of you?

“If you keep it…I’ll support you. I’ll do whatever, be as involved as a father or as not involved as you want, but you’ll want for nothing. Either of you. Whatever you decide…”

Whatever you decide…

“Oh, Ran…” you sniffed, your hand reached for his right. You gently held it, your thumb skating softly over his bruises and split knuckles as you looked at his face. “This is such a fucking mess.”

*****

The beeping of his alarm was most certainly not welcome. Ransom was too warm, too comfortable.

There was a sleep laden grumble that wanted to force its way out of his throat but instead he grunted and slung his arm out to shut the damn thing off on his phone.

But his phone wasn’t there.

Odd.

Nevertheless, the noise stopped and he turned himself over onto his other side, and felt the tickle of hair on his face.

He cracked an eye open, in surprise more than anything. You were here. Back in his bed. After everything…

His brow twitched downward and his chest tightened a bit. He sat up onto his elbow and took you in fully.

You were led on your side, back to him, the bed covers pulled up to your chin. Your features soft as you slept.

His hand reached out to run a knuckle over your cheek but he stopped. What if he touched you and you melted away? What if he touched you and you just vanished. But he had to know. So, he curled his first and fingers, delicately dragging them over your cheekbone towards your ear and down your jaw. You were real, you were there. He knew so now, his fingers over your soft skin. So kept going, slowly down your neck, pulling back that bedding just a bit.

His hand paused at the crook of your shoulder, before it carried on, slipping underneath the comforter. He traced a line down your ribs, your naked body felt just as he remembered.

His heart filled with so many emotions. And those very emotions tickled his nose and made his eyes pool. His hand now opened wide and splayed over your little swollen belly.

The second his palm came to rest over the life which was growing inside of you, a long breath left his nose. It relaxed his chest and dropped his shoulders.

You stirred a little, your nose twitching in that adorable way it did when you were someplace between sleep and consciousness.

His thumb swept up and down over your skin. His eyes flicked between your face and what he was doing. His mind whirring.

How did he get to this? How was this possible? Did he die and now this is his purgatory?

A soft sigh left you as Ransom shuffled and snuggled into you as closely as he could get. He pressed his lips to your bare shoulder, inhaling deeply.

"Hi...." you whispered as your arm covered his as it wrapped over you.

“Hi, Princess…”

"You been up long?"

“No,” his lips brushed your skin again. “Just woke…”

You hummed a little smile.

“I love you.” He whispered, his lips moving to your neck.

"We love you too."

His lips curved into a smile against your skin before he sniffed. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

You were caught off guard by the comment, "why wouldn't I be?" You turned your body towards him a little more so as not to crane your neck so hard.

“Because I’m a no good, son of a bitch who treat you like shit.”

"What? Did you have a bad dream or something?" You grew concerned. "Ransom, are you okay?"

That was when he noticed it, the sparkle and twinkle on your left hand.

“I…I…I don’t know.” He whispered.

You turned completely over, "hey," you cupped his cheek with your left hand, "whatever it is, it's okay. I'm here, baby. You can tell me."

He sighed, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter…I have a feeling I’m dreaming now and…I just wanna stay here with you for as long as possible.”

You smiled warmly with a slight shake of your head. "Oh Ran...."

“I love you…and I’m so sorry…” he sniffed, as he pressed his lips to yours.

He couldn’t help the moan that escaped him. It had been so long since ha had last kissed you.

You pulled back just a breath's distance, "I don't know," you kissed him, "what you're sorry for," your lips ghosted his. "But I love you too." You kissed him one more time, "soon we won't get mornings like this."

“Let’s make the most of it…” he whispered, his lips back on yours as his hand cupped your cheek.

He felt you shiver a bit as you hummed at his touch.

His lips never left yours as he eased himself over you, a little more, his hand sliding down your body and coming to rest at your hip.

He gave his baby in your belly enough space as he held himself up with his free arm. That hand at your hip gently rubbed along your skin as he moved down your thigh. His strong hand curled under knee and lifted your leg over his hip, opening you up for him.

You sighed, your nails running lightly up his back, coming to rest in the shorter strands of his hair at the back. Your eyes met his, and he saw nothing but love. A stark contrast to the fear and hurt he had seen in them the last time you’d been under him.

"I love you so much," he whispered with tears in his eyes. "Forgive me, baby, please forgive me." He whimpered as he bent to kiss you again, "I'm so sorry." His final apology was spoke against your lips. And whilst he kissed you, he slipped into you.

He choked a little as your body responded to him. Your leg hooked round him, heel digging into his ass. Your head sank further into the pillows, leaving your neck bare for him to lavish affection on with his mouth and tongue.

You were made for him.

How could he have ever hurt you the way he had? Why had he ever doubted you? He was disgusted. Ashamed.

Walt hadn’t made him do that to you. Neither had Steve. He did it himself. Blinded by the hurt and anger, he’d brutally fucked you, despite you asking him not to.

Ransom knew this wasn’t real. Each thrust and roll of his hips was ecstasy but he knew, it was all in his head.

Or he was dead, and this was his new forever.

Either way, he didn’t want it to end.

There was a sharp pain in his side, one which made him hiss and close his eyes in discomfort. And when he opened them, your features were blurring, as if he was seeing them through a dirty window.

“No, please…don’t…don’t go…” he begged.

You opened your mouth, his name a whisper, your voice soft and faraway.

And then there was that damned alarm again. A persistent, annoying fucking beeping.

*****

Your eyes looked to the monitor as Ransom's heart rate had sped up. It worried you, your hand squeezing his.

“Ransom…” you spoke, your voice croaky. “Ran…”

"You came," he said hoarsely. Then he flinched as that searing pain came again.

“Yeah…” you squeezed his hand again, your heart thudding at the fact he was awake. “I did.”

“I didn’t…didn’t know if you would.” His speech was slow, quiet and you took a deep breath.

“Just take a moment, let me go find the doctor. I’m assuming he or she is around somewhere.”

His hand squeezed around yours, a silent plea for you to stay.

"I'll be right back, I promise."

You quickly headed out into the landing and called out for anyone. Fran immediately appeared from one of the other bedrooms and you looked at her.

“He’s awake…and he’s in a lot of pain.”

She nodded, “the doctor is in with Harlan, Linda and Richard, I’ll go get him.”

You nodded and return to Ransom's side. You knew a conversation needed to be had, but you weren't about to have it when doctors, and most likely his parents, were about to barge in.

"It'll be just a minute," you told him.

He nodded and lay back, his eyes closing.

“Can’t believe the cunt stabbed me.” He grumbled.

“Yeah, well, you killed him so…I’d say you came out on top.” You swallowed as you looked at your hand where it still held his.

The doctor and, as you predicted, Linda and Richard came in quickly. His mother gave you a jerk of her head, but Richard barely registered your existence not that you cared. You’d never given much of a shit about either of them to be honest.

You went to move from the chair to give them space. But Ransom's hold on your hand remained. You weren't going anywhere. You looked at him, squeezing right back, "It's okay."

You glanced up at the doctor, he wasn’t someone you recognised but it didn’t surprise you. The Thrombey firm had many a professional on its payroll, all of whom were willing to look the other way for backhanders.

You zoned out as he began to talk, instead your eyes simply focussed on your hand which was wrapped around Ransom’s battered one.

You inspected his knuckles, the bruises and the cuts that were raw and still covered with dried blood. In fact, you'd noticed that most of his still had some remnants of the blood bath he no doubt endured with his brother. You barely registered the doctor working on him and stepping away.

It was all a blur.

But what broke through was the stern tone he had with Linda when he told them to go. Your glance shot up from his hand to his face. That busted lip moved as he spoke again.

"I want to talk to Y/N, alone. I don't need the two of you squabbling and worrying with your bullshit feelings right now."

Linda took a deep breath. “Son, we’re just…it’s a big shock. You, here like this. Steve…Steve dead…”

"Go, Linda." He demanded.

“Ransom…” Harlan spoke from the door, his voice soft but stern.

Ransom groaned, “I’m sorry mom, but please. Go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

"Alright," she relented. Richard waled her out, his hands on her forearms. Harlan gave the two of you a nod and walked away.

Just before the doctor made his last check on Ransom, he spoke, "These won't take long to kick in. So, just so you're aware, you may nod off."

Ransom nodded.

Once the doctor was gone, you took a deep breath and turned back to him. You didn't know how to start, and maybe he didn't either. But the conversation needed to be had. So you started with the obvious. "Why?"

"It had to be done," he simply stated as if there were no other choice. "Walt and Steve both deserved it. This could have all been avoided." He settled himself with a wince. "Walt's wrecklessness caused a war. No matter what happens between you and I, I couldn't let Steve get away with what he'd done to you. I told Ari I’d kill him. And I did.”

“But I don’t understand, why did Walt arrange the hit in the first place?”

“Apparently he wanted the head seat and if he could frame me for Steve’s death it would lead the way. But…I don’t know, the more I think about it, the more I can’t understand it myself. But then Walt never was the sharpest tool in the box.”

"So this was over a seriously bent ego and power struggle?" You were deeply frowning as you registered Ransom’s explanation.

“That’s what Walt explained before Steve put a bullet in his head.”

You sighed. It hurt to think about all the logistics and how much damage was caused. How confusing even the smallest details were because of one man's jealousy. It trickled so far down the line that it had even affected you. Ari had become a target, he'd nearly died. And that assessment didn't even include what had happened to you. How Ransom had treated you, what he'd done to you. It was a lot to take in. But you had to press on, "And Steve? How..."

Ransom sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. “He…he figured it out. That you’re pregnant.” Ransom blinked heavily as he looked back to you. “When he stabbed me, he said he’d find you, and take you and the baby…and if it was the last thing I did, I wasn’t gonna let that happen. So I shot him. Same way be shot Walt, right between the eyes.”

You swallowed as Ransom took a deep breath, wincing a little as he did.

“And I don’t regret it. What I do regret is the fact I hurt you, that I…I forced myself on you the way I did. I should have listened and believed you…and I’ll never forgive myself.”

You bowed your head and sighed. Your words stuck to your tongue like glue on a paper. You weakly nodded and lifted your eyes to meet his.

“I know, we never really talked about kids, I just thought it would be something we figured out together along the way. But…I meant what I said.” Ransom licked his lips, “I’ll support you in anyway that you want or need. I’m not expecting you to forgive me for what I did. I don’t expect you to take me back. But, if you wanna keep the baby, I’ll be there for you both.

“Even if it isn’t yours?” You asked softly.

As his eyes looked at yours, he blinked slowly. “You know, don’t you? About me and Steve, how we’re not…”

You nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?.”

Ransom licked his lips. “I was scared…” He took a deep breath, a grimace on his face. “I should have, but…I was scared that if you knew, you’d want to find out…and then I’d…I don’t know, if I could could…” he shook his head, “So, instead, whilst I still had hope that one day you could forgive me, then…I guess I didn’t want to know. Because whilst I didn’t for sure, then there would be a chance it is mine and for that reason alone I’d be able to love it like it is. But I see…you have a right to. That was wrong of me, and I’m sorry.”

In that split second, as you looked at his battered and bruised face, his eyes filled with remorseful tears, you suddenly realised there and what you wanted.

You didn’t truly understand why, after everything that happened but you did. You loved him, and the simple fact was you’d never love another in the same way. So, if Ransom was willing to go through life bringing up and loving you and your child, a child that may or may not be his, then who were you to stop him? Why would you deny your child a father? And why would you deny yourself the love of a man who you still loved with all your heart.

You didn’t need to know and, moreover, you didn’t want to know. It might be an ultimately selfish decision, but seeing as there hadn’t been a single thing in the shit show that had been your life for the last two months or so that you had been able to control, you were taking this one for yourself.

“I wanna keep it,” you spoke softly. “You’re right, the likelihood is that it is yours. And that’s…that’s good enough for me, if it is for you…”

“Y/N…” Ransom let out a little choked sob, and you sniffed, shushing him gently.

“I want you to be a part of its life.” You took his hand and kissed his knuckles, “and I want you to be a part of my life, too.”

#brothers in arms #mob ransom drysdale x reader #mob Ransom Drysdale x you #mob ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale #ransom Drysdale x you #Ransom Drysdale x reader #mob au #reader insert #chris evans characters

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ronearoundblindly · 2 years

Text

Mr. & Mrs.

A/N: Anon asked for a Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU, specifically the assassins/agents who don’t know the other’s professional identity. [Full disclosure I only ever saw this movie once, and I've adjusted...things.] This was a Steve Rogers request, but not gonna lie, I got heavy Lloyd Hansen vibes. Still using Steve as his name, but I think it works if you squint and say Lloyd has a cover identity. Lots of hand waving there. I have no idea how my brain twisted it into this, but here goes… Warnings: zero editing, action/violence kinda, implied smut. Word count: 1.7k

“We just have to make it to vacation,” you groan. “Please, let’s just try not to kill each other.”

Steve’s in a mood, nitpicking the nutritional value of the meal you absolutely did not slave over because you, too, work. He plunks down his wine glass and peeks through his lashes at you. “I know, honey. I know. Less than a week.” His smile is gooey with a steel edge.

Steve—what can you say?—he’s a specimen of human perfection, a personal trainer who’s so in-demand that you haven’t been on a trip away together in three and a half years, and that was your honeymoon. A workaholic by nature, Steve can’t help himself. He has to get every accolade at his gym, has to help every client, has to take every paid session. All times of day. It’s absurd, but he agreed, after weeks of you being the nagging bitch you never wanted to be, to a getaway, nice and far from here.

You need the break, too. You’ve worked yourself to the bone. Literally. You’re a seamstress by trade, fingers callused and numb to prove it.

“There’s a client event on Saturday,” Steve mutters, knowing full-well what he’s doing.

Now it’s your turn to put down your glass. “And you’re just telling me now? I thought we were going out.”

“Last minute. Very important people. I can’t miss it.”

“Well, let me check your suit. I know there’s a pulled stitch on that button-down—“

“I’m not wearing the pink one,” Steve chuckles. “Why are you always trying to get me in that thing?”

“It’s salmon,” you correct, “and you know that real men wear pink.”

“The blue will be fine. It’s not a fancy gig.” He twiddles his knife on the table, clearly done with the half-eaten food before him.

You met Steve at a self-defense class that he volunteered to teach at the Y half a decade ago. He was cute, and you were pretty distracted by his muscles. To your surprise, he offered you more lessons even though, or maybe because, you were the worst in the class. A different sort of power struggle came out of those sessions, but still there was a lot of sweating, a few bruises, and lots of screams. He’s…uh…good at his job, and it does pay well, just not ‘a week-long international trip’ well.

You’ve been working overtime, if you can call it that, for months to save up. Your—cough—job in fashion is highly specialized. You make protective ready wear for the city’s top mob bosses: bullet-proof three-button vests, blade resistant suits, and whole wardrobes. Of course, Steve doesn’t need to, or want to, know who you design and sew for; he calls it frilling about with the 1%.

Ironic. His job is to make the 1% feel like they can take on the 99% in hand-to-hand combat with lots of rules and a referee and padded gloves on. You respect what he does just as much as he respects what you do, which is to say he brings home money and so do you.

You both just have to make it to Tuesday.

Well, if he’s got to spend your date night schmoozing dudes, then you may as well get some work done. Old Bruno wants cruise wear for himself and his wife. Mr. B may be a portly sod, but at least his trophy wife offers you a fashionable challenge…and something to vaguely speak to your husband about, if he ever actually asks.

“Just the blue then,” you mutter back, pouring yourself more wine while Steve stares at your lips slowly wrapping the edge of the glass.

You two may have issues verbally communicating, but there are zero issues in the bedroom. He knows that. You know that. You’ll still make him wait until you're done sipping a lovely, juicy red.

Or not.

Steve pushes his chair out and stalks over to you, blue eyes fiery beneath those damn long lashes, and he kneels at your feet.

“The blue,” he repeats absently, knotting his fingers around your waistband. Yeah, he’s not in a waiting mood, and come to think of it, neither are you.

***

Steve hums in thought, rolling his thumb over the odd fabric the medical examiner studied from Tinker Boy Joe’s suit. The second-level goon of the city’s Family had only gone down after four agents pursued. Down to his felt—or what looked like felt—hat, Joe was untouchable. Bullets, knives, a random tranque-dart the Torres fired at him: nothing went through. It was only a somewhat lucky sniped shot from Bucky on a rooftop that had brought down the mobster. Clean through the throat.

Not exactly ideal when the whole point was to bring Tink here in alive, but Steve supposes one less criminal, one less crime at least.

“Where would he get something like this?”

“Ah,” Torres pipes in, sorting through a small stack of paperwork in his arms to hand Steve a file, “we have a CI who identified the shop they all frequent, but it’s unlikely the tailor works out of there. Most of the clientele are straight-laced anyway. Society types. It’s a decent cover for—“

“Anytime now,” Steve blurts.

The young agent snaps back to, rummaging and handing Steve a map from the pile. “Here,” he points. “CI says that’s the warehouse where it’s made. Abandoned sweatshop. Which is fitting.”

Steve sighs and tucks the info under his arm. “Let’s get a team together and hit it tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow?” Torres squeaks.

“Yeah.” Steve flings open the door, ready to get out of the morgue-scented white room. “I have vacation coming up. I want this squared away before then.”

Thank god he already gave you an excuse for date night.

***

The warehouse is, indeed, abandoned for the most part. Thick dust everywhere. Hap-hazardously tossed furniture piled in corners.

And then Steve hears music. He tries not to laugh at how random it is to be hearing your favorite song at a moment like this, but then again, you always like quite popular artists. It was bound to happen. They are expecting a team of women working under a master tailor, and their intel was right so far. Steve had a pair of agents watch the facility all day. Several women left in the afternoon. There are no other cars around, so it’s either empty or only one or two remain.

What Steve isn’t expecting when they bust the door open is a single person dressed in a baggy work smock with a hair net and mask on. He can’t even tell if it’s a man or woman. Torres screams freeze, and as the figure turns around, hands raising, his or her arm knocks the lone work lamp out of place and plunges most of the room into darkness.

Nobody fires a shot, not without light to see they aren’t shooting each other. Steve’s team is calling out prompts in the dark to let each other know who is where and if they have the tailor. He hears thuds and stunted cries from each man, not overly swift in the takedowns but efficient.

Steve can hear Torres bang the leg of a table and shout out which corner the person is trying to escape around, and Steve dives.

He knows the move used on him. He’s taught it hundreds of times before, but the strange part is that it’s a defense move generally for women. His body-weight is used against him, flinging him off-balance and into a door to the grass outside.

He falls to the ground, and the tailor tries to run past. Steve’s grip is tight grabs the lady’s ankle, her momentum pulling harshly at his stretched out arm.

She topples, body scraping back towards him in the grass when he doesn’t yield, knocking the mask on her face loose. There’s nothing but moonlight as she scrambles towards him. He can see…you?

What the fuck?

In his tactical gear, you can’t see his face, and he’s too stunned to form any words.

You’re searching, nails—no, scissors—scraping along bits of his kevlar until you find the seam you’re looking for and hit the blades into it with your other palm.

Goddamn, yikes, that hurts.

“Honey, OW!” Steve finally manages, but he can’t lower his arm without pushing the sewing sheers diagonally into his armpit. He can’t rip it out for fear of blood loss. He’s stuck but so is your face...on him.

“Oh,” you whine, sitting back on your heels. It takes you all of one second to process before the sounds of his team coming knock you back into action. You lean down to his face and give it a little pat.

“You should always let your wife dress you--” you stand up "--and don't count on dinner being ready when you get home." Then you rush off into the night.

Well…shit.

***

A few days later, Steve sidles up to his gate at the airport, ball cap pulled taut on his forehead and sunglasses already on. He rolls his bag behind him with the arm not in a soft sling.

You knew he’d come, so you let your smile broaden across your face. He’s wearing the salmon-colored shirt, his way of apologizing for underestimating you for years.

He tilts his head down at you. “Where you headed, miss?”

It’s all you can do not to giggle. “Somewhere without extradition.”

“I’m Steve, by the way—“ he doesn’t present a hand to shake because you stabbed him and it’s in a fucking sling “—I…train people…for a living.”

“Hi.” You introduce yourself and purposefully shove your hand forward, mocking him lightly. “I make clothes with very sharp sheers.”

Steve moans gently and licks his lips. He loves a bit of a game.

"That sounds very important," he drawls. You can tell he's staring even behind the shades.

The passengers are being called to board, and Steve looks around with a cheeky smirk.

“Any chance I could sit beside you?”

You think about it, dramatically. “I’d like that, but it’s a long flight. Hope we don’t try to kill each other on the way.”

For more works, check out my masterlist!

#ro answers #steve rogers drabble #steve rogers #steve x reader #fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #drabble #lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen fanfiction #alternate universe #writing prompt #steve rogers fic #steve x you #fluff and romance #stabbing #stabbing is romantic right?

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broadcastbabe · 4 months

Photo

We’re playing ‘Boarding School Panty Raid’ tonight, with a twist. Our foreplay games are usually re-enactments of missed opportunities from your adolescence. You may not believe you can change the past event, but you can certainly entertain yourself with trying. I must say I enjoy the apocryphal stories of sex denied or amusing mishaps you witnessed and want a re-run to shift the details in your favor. I am always up for the role of the girl that got away, because I am guaranteed a vengeful or long overdue orgasm for you, our sexual hero and leading man. Tonight, I am revisiting my school girl look… tight sweater, short skirt, knee socks, Mary Janes, and surprise… white cotton panties. In real life, I am usually without them to keep my availability at the top of your mind when we venture out in public. You do so enjoy flashing my state to other admiring men, if they haven’t figured it out for themselves. The point of tonight’s scenario is a good old-fashioned panty raid, where a mob of frat boys plunder the lingerie of a defenseless sorority to take possession as trophies. It’s just you and me, so the story is we’re the only students in the dorms, because everyone else went home for the holidays. I’ll spare you the details of far-flung divorced parents we suffer in common. Of course, I am studying, when you come by to borrow my notes from our mutual sex education class. Coincidentally and conveniently, we are studying BDSM this coming quarter, so you pepper me with questions about my own experience with the syllabus’ unfamiliar glossary. After we smoke the joint you brought to thank me, I confess I have always been intrigued by the practice of being subdued by ropes. Half-kidding, you suggest we do our homework, and we eye each other before collapsing into the giggles of being stoned. Excusing yourself to retrieve something from your car, I finish the joint and fantasize about our teasing. Returning, you don’t remove your ski mask, and the skein of clothesline rope speaks volumes, while you have gone silent. My heart races as you grab my wrists and treat me roughly, as I am wrestled to the bed. I protest and struggle for effect, pleading for mercy as you pin me down. Glaring at me, you murmur

“This is what you want… right?” hypnotizing me with your intensity. I feel my panties dampen and realize it is exactly what I want. I nod my consent and struggle less as I am lashed spread eagle to the bed. You remove the mask… and it is not you. You have enlisted the assistance of our more than willing neighbor to add a threat element to this unexpected surprise. He and I have some history, and the familiar bulge reminds me of our good times. There has obviously been a sign off on your part to partake of me… and it’s hard to know who’s more thrilled about it. His breathing is ragged from arousal, my panties are even damper and I see you watching from the balcony above. This is hotter than a panty raid and your clever change-up has shifted the goalposts. I smile at you and shake my head in disbelief as I hear his zipper descending. The ski mask is back for the threatening stranger vibe and I am vulnerable to your agreed upon agenda. I struggle and protest for your benefit and to hide my own arousal from the turn of events. A new threat glints in his hand as he wields a sharp silver blade to slice my panties from me. I quiet myself when I feel the cool surface against my hips, on one side then the other. He looms over me with menace and strokes himself in the furrows of my drenched folds while he locks me in his gaze. I recognize this moment before entry, it always tapped into my neediness for penetration and my whimpers betray me again. He continues, thrilled by having me at such a disadvantage, prolonging the tease until I am verbal and demanding. One swift plunge, and I am moaning with pleasure as he makes up for lost time to satisfy me… and gratify you both. I can’t help but cum in these wicked circumstances and my flailing quivers are subdued by my captivity. There will be rope burns on my wrists and bruises on my ankles… but in this moment, it is all beyond good. He pockets my panties, zips himself up and quenches his thirst between my thighs, for old times sake. You appear at the threshold and he scampers off to avoid the conflict of such an interruption.

You rush to my bedside in character, with the protective concern of a friend who is chastising himself for his absence during the assault. You caress my face, kissing me in consolation… and speaking of how sexy I look in this predicament, how inviting my vulnerability is to you, how the luscious scent of my arousal is irresistible. I realize there is true life component you’re working through, since I am not being freed from my restraints. You inhale deeply and slowly unbutton my cashmere sweater to expose my full breasts for your nursing of the taut tips. My guttural moans are of surrender when your hand travels to my swollen pantiless throbbing as you nibble at my now-heaving breasts.

“So wet… for him? For me?”

“I’m confused by my arousal. I don’t know which way is up…”

“I can still make you cum like clockwork, baby.”

It his voice from upstairs now. Mind reeling, I begin to sort out the subterfuge. Your fingers plunge deep and I am breathless from the secondary intrusion so soon, but nonetheless desiring for more.

“Let’s make this more interesting, throw me your t shirt.”

You remove yours and my desire escalates at the sight of your chiseled chest. Catching his mid air, you cover my face with both, blinding me with the musky fabrics. It’s dark now, but you tell me the trauma of your boarding school discovery of a crush, tied to her bed, blindfolded and blissed out from some hazing from an undisclosed stranger. Brutal to witness and rescue her from a fate she was not disturbed by in those post-orgasmic moments. Your gallantry was rewarded as a life-long friend, but you always wondered about the less than heroic path you could have taken. He has joined you from upstairs and your voices both circle the bed as the sordid tale unfolds.

“If I hadn’t removed her blindfold, she would have never known it wasn’t the stranger… or me.”

“You promised…”

“I told our impatient neighbor… you’re very recent, and might I say, quite decent ex-lover, he could watch too.”

I swallow hard and see where you’re headed.

“But you won’t know, if it’s him again… or me.”

My moan is loud and lusty in anticipation of this win-win twist. I know I’m just a surrogate in your past life… and coincidentally, his and ours all of a sudden. I inhale to take in your pheromones and feel my heartbeat between my legs as I imagine either… or both of you delivering yet another climax of epic profundity to the girl of your scheming dreams.

#bound #spreadeagle #mary janes #kneesocks #ropes #bed #blindfold

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fandomwriterstuff · 2 years

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A Seat at the Round Table (2)

Mob!Stucky x Female Reader

Rated T

~1.6k words

Ever since your mishap with your father a few days ago he had kept an extra watchful eye on you. Or rather, an extra set of eyes that went by the name Lemar. Lemar and John were apparently old buddies. You were used to John’s presence, although it was grating. Lemar was a new variable. He was funnier and more lighthearted than John, but still took his job looking after you very seriously.

That was how you found yourself out at a Starbucks sitting by yourself sipping on a pink drink with raspberry syrup, trying to ignore the two men in all black standing at the corners of the room.

“You look lonely, sugar,” a slightly familiar voice came from behind you and you tilted your head to see Sharon approach right before she slid into the seat across from you, hands curled around a steaming cardboard cup. You sighed. You supposed if you couldn’t interact with normal people you may as well learn to interact with your father’s colleagues.

“You’re very observant,” you muttered sarcastically.

“Hard to make friends with those two knuckleheads following you around, yeah?” Despite your initial hesitance, you were desperate for human contact and girl talk. So you threw your hesitation out the window and leaned your elbows on the table in front of you.

“You wouldn’t believe the last time I had a friend to hang out with. These guys do background checks on every person I interact with and almost nobody makes the cut. I had to stop attending yoga because one of the regulars had a public indecency charge from his college days,” you rolled your eyes at your father’s (and bodyguards’) antics, and the woman in front of you let out a light laugh.

“I’m glad they haven’t tried to come remove me from your presence then,” she huffed and you sighed.

“I assume it’s because my father knows you. Usually it’s just John but now Lemar is also guarding me. So it’s even harder now,” you took a sip from the straw and savored the tangy sweetness of the drink.

“That might be because of me,” Sharon didn’t even look abashed, only slightly apologetic as she looked up at you from under curled lashes.

“Why would you think that?” You wondered aloud, an insistent nagging feeling nudging at your brain. It was saying Sharon might be dangerous and you should avoid her… But you were wild with wanting emotional connection and verbal communication with another person who wasn’t being paid to be around you.

“Well I told my bosses about you, and now they’re intrigued. They want to meet you,” her eyes sparkled and you got an anxious bubble in your stomach at the thought of the mysterious Arthur and Merlin wanting to meet you.

“Why would they want to meet me?” The words tumbled out of your mouth and Sharon turned her shark grin on you.

“When I told them how lovely you were, they couldn’t help but be curious. When I told them you were blissfully unaware of your father’s criminal activity, they were even more interested,” Sharon watched as you paled, taking a shaky sip of your fruity drink.

“Criminal activity?” You asked once you had wet your dry mouth. Sharon took a sip of her drink and nodded, looking down at you with what you imagined was false pity. You were sure she was toying with you.

For once, you wished your guards were a bit closer.

“You see he stole from the bosses. He stole a lot of money from them,” Sharon paused and you had a feeling she was gauging your reactions and watching you very closely.

“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” you whispered meekly. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?” You tried to subtly make eye contact with John or Lemar but they were out of your vision and you ended up locking eyes with Sharon again.

“Of course not, darling. I know you’re innocent. And the bosses wouldn’t want me hurting you to get to him,” you narrowed your eyes at that last sentence. You didn’t know anything about Sharon, her bosses, or their morals. You knew your father was not a great man, and you were now fearing that that was coming back to bite him… and you.

“Don’t get up.” So, Sharon was watching you. She saw you fidgeting. “Not yet.”

“What do you want from me?” You tried to keep your voice from quivering, but you weren’t sure if you succeeded.

“Look, I’m going to be straight with you. Your father stole money from some of the most powerful people in the city, and he has to give it back. If he can’t, or wont…” Sharon trailed off and tilted her head, catlike.

“I understand,” you muttered. “What does that have to do with me?”

“I like you, Y/N. I’m offering you to stay at my place until your father’s business is settled. It might not be safe in your home right now.”

“You frighten me, Sharon,” you had finished your drink, but you wished you had something to fidget with other than the sleeves of your fluffy winter coat. “I feel a lot like your offer is sending me from the frying pan into the fire.”

“And you are brave to admit you’re scared. I admire that about you. But remember that you shouldn’t cower in the face of your fear. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” You scoffed at her words.

“I don’t think Nelson Mandela was talking about moving in with threatening strangers and ditching my armed guards when he said that,” you replied and Sharon rolled her eyes.

“Fine, if you’re going to be scared you can at least be smart about it. Think about your options. Call me at this number tonight if you want a ride over. You’ll want to pack for a few days,” Sharon handed you a piece of paper with a telephone number scratched onto it in clean writing, and went off into the crowds waiting outside the Starbucks.

You spent the day in your thoughts. The entire drive home and throughout your afternoon tasks you couldn’t get Sharon off of your mind. Would there be a hit out on your dad? Was your house even safe? You glanced at the clock. Four and forty minutes. You still had time before your father was back. Lemar was taking an early meal break, which meant only John was waiting outside your bedroom door.

Quiet as a mouse, you grabbed the largest duffel bag you could find and stuffed it with a few outfits, pajamas, and toiletries from your en suite bathroom. Gnawing on your lip, you debated whether or not you were making a rash decision.

“The brave man conquers his fear, the brave man conquers his fear, the brave man, fuck it!” You dialed the number Sharon wrote down and waited while it rang.

“That you, sweetheart?” her voice lilted upwards. She was pleasantly surprised to hear from you.

“It’s me,” you whispered. “John is just outside my room and Lemar is on break. But I think you’re right that I need somewhere to stay and lay low for a little.”

“I’m sending a good friend of mine to get you, I’m a little busy with the bosses at the moment. He goes by Sam Wilson, I trust him with my life. I’ll send you a picture of what he looks like.”

“But how will I get out without John noticing?” You hadn’t sneaked out ever without the assistance of a guard. Without one you weren’t sure if you could do it.

“What does your bedroom window face?” You could hear Sharon typing away, likely messaging Sam Wilson to be on his way.

“It’s south-facing, towards the street.” You eyed the window in question, the drapes looking awfully delicate to make a rope with.

“Open it, when Sam gets there throw your bag down to him first. He’ll get it into the car. Use your fitted sheet and top sheet to make a longer rope and you’ll have to shimmy down. Think you can do it?” You nodded hesitantly before realizing she couldn’t see you and you muttered a nervous affirmation. “He’ll be there in five. Be ready.”

With that, Sharon hung up and you rushed to rip your sheets off and tie the corners into a knot. You went about fastening it to the bottom of your bed frame before opening your window and looking down the two stories to the grassy yard below.

“The brave woman conquers her fears. The brave woman conquers her fears. The brave woman-” You were cut off by your phone vibrating. A quick glance showed an unknown number, but you answered it anyway.

“Hello?” You asked, voice low to avoid alerting John.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” the voice on the other end was smiling, you could tell, and when you looked out of your window to see Sam WIlson standing below with his phone to his ear, you could see that he was grinning.

You made quick work of throwing your duffel down to him before climbing down your precarious makeshift rope.

“You doing okay?” Sam asked as you hurried towards his car, bag in hand.

“Could be better,” you mumbled and he let out a chuckle as he got into the driver’s seat and sped off down the street.

“You’ll feel better once we get to Sharon’s. She got pizza and margs. We’ll keep you safe.”

“Safe,” you muttered. Safe was a luxury you weren’t sure you’d feel again in the near future.

Part 1 Part 3

NGL I don't know how to do a taglist, sorry my dudes

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duskholland · 4 years

Note

Can I get a mob!Tom where he uses a vibrator on the reader and makes her cum again and again, till the reader is screaming stop and her whole body is shaking.

okay so I followed this mostly but omitted the bit about the word stop. they’ve still got a safeword but the lines get blurry when it comes to one party verbally asking to stop, and I wanna avoid any confusion there! hope that’s alright.

18+ !!!! contains nsfw material incl. smut and mob themes. extended warnings beneath the cut.

-- it’s mob monday !! --

extended warnings: dom/sub dynamic, dom!tom, a punishment, blindfold, hand + ankle restraints, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, vibrator (I'm envisioning a hitachi but you do you), dirty talk, and unprotected MxF sex (please practise safe sex!! condoms act as barriers against STIs as well as unplanned pregnancy).

--------

You’re so used to the sound of the vibrator that the buzzing doesn’t bother you anymore.

You stopped caring somewhere after the second orgasm. As you came down from the high and the round curve of the vibrator continued to pulse into you, all coherent thoughts flew from your mind. All you can think about is the vibrator, strapped down against your inner thigh, nuzzling into the flushed bud of your clit, buzzing relentlessly.

“Please, Tom,” you whimper. You’ve got a blindfold wrapped around your eyes and long silky ties securing your wrists and ankles to the bed frame, but you know he’s sitting in the armchair by the door. You can hear him flicking through a pile of documents, and the occasional sigh as he scribbles something down over the pages. “Stop ignoring me.”

You can hear him groan, and it’s full of such a heated irritation that it makes you regret ever opening your mouth.

“If I was ignoring you, I wouldn’t be here listening to your pretty little screams, would I, darling?”

You shift about restlessly, your body shaking as you feel the heat between your legs continuing to build. You’re exhausted - drawn out, and fragile, and shaky, but the vibrations against your clit show no sign of stopping. It doesn’t matter how many times you’re pushed to climax: they keep going, and going, and all you can do is hope Tom eases off before you go over the edge. It burns, but it’s delicious and enticing, and you have a safe-word just in case it goes too far, but you both know you live for this. Being utterly at his mercy, reduced to a writhing, desperate mess as he sits off to the side, fully-clothed, unbothered. It’s a level of control that makes your cunt clench and your eyes roll, and you love every torturous second.

“Touch me,” you ask. You sound wrecked. Your throat burns and your lower lip hurts from all the gnawing you’ve been doing.

“How many orgasms have you had?”

It takes you a moment to respond, your brain sluggish and clouded. “Three,” you reply. You pull at the ties looped around your wrists and moan loudly as you try to shy away from the bulbous head. “Please- pl-please, Tom, touch me.”

“Make it four, and then I’ll come over.” He says it so flippantly - so easily - that it’s like he’s asking for something casual. His words make you whimper, but you grit your teeth.

“Okay,” you mutter.

Your fourth orgasm sweeps over you in a grand wave of pleasure, and as soon as you’re coming down from it, you find your hips jerking off the bed. You curse, nuzzling your face against your forearm as you try to lessen up the vibrations that persist against your clit. The small bud is so hypersensitive that it’s almost painful.

“Good girl,” Tom coos. You hear him stand up and toss the papers aside, and tears of relief pool along your lash line as you feel him play with the straps of the vibrator. There’s a small click, and it turns off. Your entire body sags as you sigh out desperately.

“Thank you,” you mumble, over and over. Tom’s hands run along your inner thighs, teasing your tender skin, but it feels so much warmer and personal than the cool plastic of the wand that you find yourself grinding into his touch.

“How are you feeling?” He asks you, his voice deceivingly gentle. He pushes the vibrator away from you completely and settles between your legs, the mattress shifting as he pushes your thighs further apart.

“Tender,” you whimper. Your hips jump up and you cry out as you feel his finger trace through your puffy outer lips. “S-So sensitive, Tom.”

“You’re absolutely soaked, darling,” he coos. You feel two of his slender fingers slip into your pussy easily, meeting no resistance, and he teases you with a few shallow thrusts. “Do you remember what I told you earlier?”

“Mmm, you said you’d fuck me if I was good?”

You moan when you feel his lips press a soft kiss to your quivering bud. “Exactly. I think you’ve earned it.”

You nod your head, dizzy with want. Cumming on a vibrator is nothing compared to Tom’s cock buried deep inside your cunt, and for the entire time you were brought over the edge, you couldn’t help but fantasise about the sweet burn of his length stretching you out.

“Please.”

You hear his belt release and the sounds of his other clothes falling to the floor.

“Can you take off my blindfold?” You dare to ask, as Tom positions himself over you. He takes his time slotting into place because your arms and legs are spread out by the ties, but eventually, he finds a comfortable position.

“No, darling.” There’s a cool kiss pressed just beneath your jaw. “This is still a punishment.” Tom enters you quickly, and he bottoms out with a grunt. “You’re not cumming on my cock, either, m’love.”

His words make you cry out, and you strain desperately against the ties as Tom begins to fuck you roughly. He doesn’t hold back as he grabs your hip with one hand and presses his other bicep into the bed, and bucks into you furiously.

“W-Why not?” You spit out, squirming. It feels so good to have him rocking into you, his thick cock pressing into your sensitive walls, but you can tell he’s not focused on your pleasure. He disregards your clit completely, his hair falling into the crook of your neck as he curses and ruts his hips, chasing after his own release.

“Because you were bad,” he reminds you. His teeth dig into your shoulder and the bite brings you another level of pleasure. “Hm? You’ve been a needy brat all day, angel. Not listening to me, riling me up.” Tom breaks off to release a low moan, and his fingers tighten around your waist. “You don’t deserve to cum around my cock, do you?”

“I do,” you try, but you know your pleads fall on empty ears. He’s slowing down now, holding you tighter, and as your walls clench around his length, you know Tom’s nearing the verge. “Please?”

“No.” He kisses at the base of your neck, his breathing laboured. “You’ll take my cum, like a good girl, and then maybe I’ll let you cum again. But it’ll be on the vibrator.”

It’s so cruel that it brings a wobble to your chin, and a tightening in the back of your throat. But you can barely focus on that as Tom finally peaks, and he empties his load into you as your walls squeeze him out, his beautiful moans filling the bedroom. You almost cry when he pulls out and his cum starts to drip from your hole, only to feel him grab the vibrator and push it back into your heat.

It remains motionless as Tom reaches up and tugs off your blindfold. His brown eyes meet with yours, and you see them glint mischievously before he leans in to kiss over your forehead.

“Come now, love, don’t cry,” he coos, thumb brushing over your cheek. Tears glisten in your eyes. “I thought you wanted to cum?” He kisses you softly and chuckles into your mouth when his hand flicks on the vibrator and you whimper against his lips,

“You can keep cumming all night.”

#who gave me the right to write this fhdhf im so sorry #the next blurb is aftercare w tom and I NEED IT after writing this #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #mm #mobmonday #myblurbs #tomblurbs #mob!tomfic #Anonymous #mob!tomblurbs #tom.filth #smut

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master-sass-blast · 3 years

Text

Children of the Gods: Part Three, Chapter Two.

I had to input every single italic you see in this fic by hand because Tumblr doesn’t hold text format when I paste it innnnnn. *pained smile*

Please give this chapter some love, because that was fucking painful to do.

Summary: The aftermath of capturing Allison proves messy -both in dealing with the teen's evident trauma, and in all the skeletons in various closets that get unleashed soon after.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, Frank Castle x Karen Page, and Alexandra Rasputin x Nikolai Rasputin.

Rating: M for gun violence, depictions of death and injuries, depictions of emotional trauma, and gratuitous use of the word “fuck.”

Word count: 8.9k.

Set after “Children of the Gods: Part Three, Chapter One.”

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @leo-writer, @emma-frxst, @sadstone-s

“What the hell were you thinking!”

“Ooh, careful there, Doohan,” Wade snarks, head rolling to indicate he’s rolling his eyes. “Get any more agitated and you’ll be saying all the no-no words.”

Scott scowls at Wade. “Stuff it, Wilson.”

“Every damn night, laser pointer.”

A mixture of grimaces, sighs, and groans go up through the crowd.

You’re all gathered in the medical wing of Xavier’s –the X-Force and nearly all of the X-Men. Allison’s off being examined by Dr. McCoy and Alyssa –to make sure she’s stable enough to be taken out of the handcuffs and the suppression band—and Frank and Karen are sequestered in a separate room until it's clear how everything's going to shake out.

Because, naturally, there’s been a wrench thrown in the situation.

Or maybe the whole damn toolbox, you mentally amend as Wade and Scott resume arguing.

“We cannot harbor a mob criminal here—”

“She’s thirteen, Summers!” Wade snaps. The eyes on his mask narrow into slits. “She’s not a criminal –and her parents’ choice don’t automatically make her guilty!”

“Murder, illegal theft and possession of firearms, assault, stalking, kidnapping,” Scott starts listing, ticking off each of Allison’s misdeeds on his fingers.

“She lost her family,” Nathan interjects, voice going to gravel. “Where the fuck were all of you when she needed support? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

The room goes silent. Many of the X-Men members look away or hang their heads slightly.

“We had no way of knowing that Allison was a mutant,” Ororo speaks up. “Without the proper information, we can’t help. It’s unfortunate, yes, but out of our control all the same.”

“But you know now,” Wade argues. “You knew with Russell. You knew with all the kids at Essex house. You turned your back on him and those kids, just like you’re turning your back on Allison now.” He scoffs, disgusted. “Same shit, different day. You’re all a bunch of cowardly cocksuckers.”

“We do have limits,” Professor Xavier speaks up from his chair. “Russell and the other members of Essex house were considered wards of the state. Legally, that meant Essex house had custody of them until they turned eighteen. We wrote petitions. We did as much as we could to bring attention to the issue. Unfortunately, it got swept under the rug or stonewalled by anti-mutant members of the legal system. As for Allison…” He sighs. “Taking in wards with criminal connections put the school at risk. Not just for fear of retaliation –as would certainly be a risk with Miss Ricci’s connections to the mafia—but also our funding and licensing. As an orphaned mutant, she is certainly deserving of our help—” he pauses to glare sternly at Scott and a few of the more stubborn, self-righteous members present “—but we have to consider the needs of our other residents and students, too.”

“I think we’re overlooking that Allison is here right now,” Jean pipes up. “Whether or not she stays with us is one thing, but we need to decide what to do for at least the next forty-eight hours.”

“She stays here,” you say automatically. “As far as we know, she has no other guardians, potentially even nowhere to go. I don’t think it’s gonna kill us to give her a bed and some food to eat.”

“Absolutely not,” Scott fires back –and, behind him, Angel and Iceman nod. “She’s far too aggressive to possibly put the students at risk.”

“She’s agitated and traumatized,” you reason, “but that doesn’t mean she’s going to lash out at people left and right.”

“Doesn’t she have a guardian of sorts?” Neena pipes up. “Artemis? Has anyone gotten ahold of them?”

“We reached out with the number Miss Ricci gave us,” Xavier explains. “The call picked up, but there wasn’t any verbal response for the duration of the call.”

Well, that bodes well. “What about her attorney?” you ask. “If we can’t keep her here, wouldn’t her attorney be able to arrange some sort of safe place for her to stay.”

“Thus far, we haven’t been able to reach her attorney.”

And that bodes even worse. You fight the urge to sigh or roll your eyes, and instead mentally curse monkey wrenches and whoever thought to invent the damn things.

“For the time being, I’ve contacted some of our external resources” –the glance Xavier shoots at both you and Piotr tells you that it’s your uncle and Alexandra—“to help with matters until the dust settles. They should be arriving soon, so—”

There’s a loud crash from down the hall, the sound of glass shattering, and an angry screech that sounds suspiciously like, “Fuck you, Castle!”

You give into the urge to sigh before booking it towards the sound of chaos and rage. Great. Now it’s an entire toolshed.

***

Subduing Allison this time, at least, is easier for several reasons.

First, she’s still wearing the repression cuff on her wrist. Without her powers –without a way to pop in and out of this existence, specifically—she’s much easier to catch.

Second, she’s tired. It’s not just the bags under her eyes or the sweat glistening at her furrowed brow. She’s stumbling unevenly, panting as she tries to exact her revenge.

Third, Illyana happens to show up at the exact same time with your uncle and Alexandra (and Nikolai as well, though he has less involvement in the “subduing process”).

Alex reacts fastest. She hooks one strong arm around Allison’s waist, then scoops her away from Karen and a hangdog-looking Frank. “Alright, that’s enough.”

Allison, however, doesn’t seem to agree. (Though whether it’s due to general teenage contrariness or trauma-induced rage, the jury’s still out.

…Actually, it’s probably both.)

“You don’t even get it, Castle!” Allison snaps with a manic grin, eyes wide and haunted. “You killed a good man. My dad was getting out! He was going to testify against them—”

Alex clamps a hand over the teen’s mouth, making her cut herself off with a garbled grunt. “I said enough.”

Allison thrashes in the older woman’s iron-clad grasp –to no avail, unsurprisingly. Her face scrunches up, then her jaw starts flexing. There’s a moment where her expression goes slack when Alex doesn’t react, then her nose scrunches up again and her jaw starts working harder.

Alex sighs, then starts carrying Allison back down the hall (she’s astonishingly unfazed by been chomped down on). “Come on. Let’s get you calmed down, malen’kiy.”

At the other end of the hall, Neena pokes her head into the fray. “Someone who calls herself Artemis is at the front door.”

Professor Xavier nods, then says, “Please escort her back to Miss Ricci’s room,” before wheeling after Alex and Artemis.

You look between Neena and the Professor –then, in the interest of going where you’re actually allowed to be (and not being bored out of your mind because you’ll be literally shut out of the room), you head towards the foyer.

…

“Do you think Frank was set up to stop the trial?”

Your uncle shrugs; the two of you have taken up a spot at the back of the room, where you can watch things unfold and gossip like the two old ladies you are in spirit. “It’s possible. It’s also possible that it was retribution for Allison being a mutant. The Ricci syndicate is notoriously… intolerant.”

You grimace. You certainly understand just how far people will go against their own flesh and blood for intolerance’s sake. “Blood and water.”

Your uncle nods, expression equally sour. “You fucking said it, punk.”

There’s not much point in hashing it out any further –both from the standpoint of “forbidden knowledge” and digging up old trauma—so you settle back into watching Artemis go through the mandatory security check.

She’s tall, with broad shoulders. Her hair’s dark, just starting to streak with silver at the temples, and her eyes are deep, intense, borderline black color. Her nose is slightly crooked –comes with the territory in this walk of life—and she’s dressed in black motorcycle wear and combat boots.

She honestly looks so fucking familiar.

You frown, brows pinching together as you try and place her face in your memory. Failing your own abilities at recollection, you lean over and whisper, “Is she one of your team members? I swear I’ve seen her before.”

“Uh –no,” your uncle replies (and it’s too fast and shaky, but you’re too caught up in figuring out whom the fuck you’re looking at to notice). “I mean –everyone has a doppelganger, right?”

“I guess.” You squint at Artemis, as though physically narrowing your eyes will help your brain puzzle things out—

And then Alex strides into the foyer –wiping the hand that Allison bit, and if you look close enough you’re pretty sure you can still see a few bloody teeth marks—and the cloud of confusion lifts from your mind.

“Oh!” you gasp quietly. “That’s why she looks familiar! She looks like Alex.” You look from the Rasputin matriarch, to the other black-leather clad woman, then back again. “She looks… a lot like Alex, actually.” You laugh softly –coincidence is a hell of a thing—then keep rambling when your uncle doesn’t say anything. “Two women who love the color black and carry enough weapons on their person to stock an army. You’d think the universe broke the mold with Alex, huh?”

Your uncle shifts from foot to foot next to you, but says nothing.

“You really weren’t kidding about the whole ‘doppelganger’ thing, huh.” You cock your head to one side, then frown as another epiphany starts growing in your mind. “Actually… she kind of looks like you, too.”

Your uncle makes a quiet, pained choking noise. “Punk—”

“Yeah, she’s got more of your build…”

“Punk.”

“And her lower lip has that weird lopsided curve like yours—”

“Punk—”

You peer closer at Artemis’s face. “Actually, her nose looks like you took yours and Alex’s and mashed them together—”

“Punk.”

You finally look up at him and take in the pale, wide-eyed, tight-lipped expression on his face. “What?” When he doesn’t say anything, you look at Artemis, then Alex, and then back at him—

Oh God.

Holy fucking shit.

You stare up at your uncle, agape. “Wait a second –you and—”

“Okay, shut the fuck up!” he hisses, panicked, before dragging you out of the foyer and into the nearest hallway.

“You and Alex had a baby,” you blurt –albeit in a voice no louder than a harsh whisper. “Artemis is your and her lovechild!”

He winces, then holds up his hands. “I can explain—”

“I don’t think you can!” you hiss. “Why didn’t you tell me that I have a cousin who happens to be my husband’s half fucking sister! Oh God, does Piotr know? Do any of the Rasputins know?”

“I…” He trails off, then cringes. He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sure, actually.”

You stare up at him, dumbfounded. “You’re not sure. How are you not sure? Nick knows who you are –what, you think Alex just kept a whole child from his knowledge—”

“I mean, he probably knows that there was a baby at one point—”

“The baby is in this fucking house!” you snap in a quiet growl, arms flailing wildly. “She’s a full grown adult who probably pays taxes and has a 401k going! Why wouldn’t Alex tell her husband—”

“Look,” your uncle interjects, cutting you off. “As far as Alex knows… she thinks she’s… dead?”

You gape. Then, as quietly as you can manage (given the circumstances), you exclaim, “What the fuck!”

“Keep your voice down!” your uncle hisses, gesturing wildly in panic. He looks over his shoulder, then when he’s certain no one overheard you, he sighs and looks back to you. “Look, it’s a long story—”

“I’m sure it fucking is!” You cross your arms over your chest when he winces. “How is it that you know your secret lovechild is alive, but Alex doesn’t? What, did she just abandon her?”

“No, no—”

“Didn’t think so. So what the fuck happened?”

He sighs, shoulder slumping, and runs one hand through his already disheveled hair. “Look –long story short, the people who ‘made’ Alex took the baby—”

“Artemis. Her daughter. Your daughter.”

He purses his lips, but concedes with a nod. “They took her away after she was born and told Alex she was dead –and that’s actually what prompted her to get out, but that’s another story for another day—”

“Okay, hang on a second.” You squeeze your eyes shut and hold up one hand. “Alex thinks her baby is dead –probably one of the most traumatic things in her whole life. You’ve known that she’s alive…” You open your eyes again and fix your uncle with a stern stare. “Okay, how long have you known for?”

He grimaces and shifts uncomfortably. “…well, the US took her, but she didn’t present early, so they turned her loose into the foster system because she didn’t have potential as an ‘asset’—”

“How fucking long?”

He ducks his head, carefully avoiding your gaze. “…tracked her down when she was ten.”

Your eyes widen –and then you slug him in the shoulder. “You fucking colossal asshole!”

He panics again, motioning for you to keep it down while checking over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up!”

“No! Not only have you lied to Alex for decades—”

“She never asked—”

“A lie by omission is still a fucking lie!” you snap in a gravelly whisper. “So, not only did you lie to her, but you also abandoned your daughter to the mercies of the US foster care system!”

“My life wasn’t safe to keep a kid around!” he hisses back at you. “I couldn’t take care of you, and I couldn’t take care of her! If anything, it was safer for her if the government thought I didn’t know she was alive!”

You sigh, pinch the bridge of your nose, and wave dismissively with your other hand. “Okay –fine. That still doesn’t justify the whole lying thing, but whatever. Does Artemis know that you and Alex are her parents?”

“…Yes. She tracked me down when she was in her twenties and I told her the truth.”

“Well, it sounds like determination runs in the family,” you mutter. “But at least you two have kept in touch…” You look up, see your uncle’s grimace, and sigh. “You didn’t keep in touch with her.”

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. “I didn’t know how to handle it.”

“Pretty sure ‘not like that’ is a good answer.” You sigh again, then shrug and put your hands on your hips. “Well, you’ve probably solved your own problem. She’ll probably just tell Alex who she is just to spite you, assuming she got the ‘petty vengeance’ gene too.”

Your uncle’s eyebrows spike to his hairline, and his expression goes through the five stages of grief in a matter of seconds. “She –she can’t—”

“She can and she probably will.”

He hunches over, crouching, and grips the back of his head. “Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuck—”

“Myshka?”

You and your uncle both jump, then whirl in unison and give your husband your best convincing, “we’re totally not talking about long lost, hidden family members and other poor life choices” smiles that you can each manage.

(Consider that you don’t look like you just shit your pants, you win.)

Piotr’s forehead wrinkles with concern. “What… is everything alright?”

“Just fine, baby,” you assure him, subtly kicking your uncle so he relaxes. “Just talking about what happens next.”

Piotr nods after a moment, likely picking up on that whatever’s going on right now isn’t life or death and that you’ll fill him in later. “I actually came to find you,” he says, gesturing to your uncle. “Professor Xavier still cannot reach Allison’s lawyer. He has asked for your assistance.”

“Right. Absolutely. On it,” your uncle says with a none-too-convincing smile. He shoots your husband a pair of finger guns, then books it out of the hall and towards the medical wing of the mansion.

Piotr stares after him, then shoots you a confused frown. “Is he okay?”

You shrug. “He’s doing about his usual.” You decide to further sidestep the issue by ambling over to him and giving him a gentle hug. “How are you?” Are doing okay?”

Piotr wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. “I am fine now. Just a little sore.”

“Me too.” You nuzzle your cheek against his burly chest. “We really should invest in that hot tub we keep talking about getting. It’d be great for post-mission recovery.”

“Hot tubs are expensive, myshka,” he chuckles.

“Yes, but we’re not getting any younger. It’d be a good investment in taking care of our bodies.” You tilt your head back and grin up at him. “I thought you were all about that life.”

He sighs and shakes his head, feigning exasperation, but his amused smile is a dead giveaway. “Whatever shall I do with you, myshka?”

You grin wider. “You could kiss me.”

Piotr grins back, then dips his head and presses his lips against yours—

Mikhail appears next to you out of thin air. “Ah. Gross. Big meeting is happening. All hands on deck.”

Piotr rolls his eyes when his elder brother teleports away once more, then looks back down at you and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, baby.” You unwind your arms from his massive trunk of a torso, then slide your fingers between his as the two of you walk towards the medical wing.

…

“—I am telling you, Charles, not being able to reach this kid’s lawyer is a bad fucking sign.”

You and Piotr walk into a conference room to find your uncle and Professor Xavier locked in a heated argument.

Wade, Nate, and Neena are leaning against the table to watch, occasionally leaning over to whisper bits of commentary to each other (or, in Wade’s case, speak at normal volume).

In the corner of the room, where a couple of armchairs are positioned, Nikolai sits with his two other children; they’re speaking in hushed Russian, but none of them seem too concerned about everything else going on.

“As I previously stated,” Xavier says, words clipped, “we cannot release Miss Ricci without speaking first to her attorney. The X-Men operate as a special law enforcement service, and failure to comply with criminal and civil statutes will have enormous consequences for the Institute—”

“There’s going to be a bunch of fucking ‘enormous consequences’ for the Institute,” your uncle interrupts, growling through clenched teeth, “if you don’t evacuate this building right fucking now! Fuck’s sake, Charles –you hired me as a security advisor; just listen to me.”

Piotr frowns and curls one hand over your shoulder. “What is happening?”

“What’s happening,” a new, strong, feminine voice interjects from the hall, “is that we’re leaving.” Artemis shoulders past your husband –a feat not easily achieved by many—with Allison in tow, then holds up the teen’s arm that has the repression cuff still attached. She glares at Xavier (and God, she really looks like Alex when she does that), then spits out through gritted, bared teeth, “Get this fucking thing off my kid.”

There’s a longsuffering sigh in the hall, and then Alex steps into the doorway. “She has that cuff on for her own safety –as I already told you—”

Artemis whirls, face contorted by a vicious scowl, and snaps, “I didn’t fucking ask for you input!”

(Boy, if that doesn’t just scream ‘repressed trauma and mommy issues.’)

Your uncle looks like he’s about to pass out again, but Alex seems remarkably nonplussed. She merely raises one eyebrow at Artemis, as if to say ‘that’s all you got?’

There’s no way she knows, you think as you watch the two stare each other down. Not with how much she cares about her kids. There’s no fucking way—

“Actually, we’ve got bigger problems,” your uncle pipes up, voice quavering slightly before he clears his throat. “We can’t reach your kid’s shark.”

“They have other clients,” Artemis retorts, upper lip curling in a derisive sneer. Her dark eyes smolder with barely constrained hatred as she tosses a withering glance in his direction (daddy issues, too, this chick won the whole lottery). “Or maybe they got stuck in traffic.”

Your uncle narrows his eyes at that (and now the two of them look so much alike, overcome by ire as they are). “You cannot possibly be that fucking stupid.”

Artemis sucks a breath through her teeth, eyes widening with rage and hurt. “You fucking dick—”

In the corner of the room, Illyana bolts upright before going stock still. Then, she gasps and reaches out towards her mother. “Mama!”

(The way Artemis’s face mars with a pained grimace makes your heart ache.)

Alex tenses, eyes glowing gold as she starts scanning the horizon (presumably checking for heat signatures). “Gde?”

The room goes quiet –and then you hear it.

The sound of engines rumbling –multiple engines—and car wheels crunching against gravel. Doors thumping open and shut, followed by footsteps. Hushed voices.

You scamper over to the nearest window and float up, just enough to see several men clad in black and Kevlar and carrying rifles stalking towards the front door and around the sides of the house in groups. “Guys with guns. Lots of them.”

“Then get down!” Nate hisses before yanking you back from the window.

“Lights out,” Alex orders before hitting the switch herself. “Get everyone to a reinforced room.”

“There’s a safe room at the end of the hall,” Xavier says before wheeling himself towards the door.

Allison clings to Artemis’s sleeve, much like a baby koala. “What’s going on? What’s going to happen?”

“Go with the Professor,” Artemis says. She quickly –but gently—frees her arm, then clasps the teen’s face with both hands. “Look at me. Listen to the Professor, and stay put until I come get you. Okay?”

Allison’s forehead puckers, and her lower lip starts trembling. “But—”

“Is alright,” Nikolai interjects with a kind, reassuring smile. He gently ushers Allison towards the door, then down the hall before she can protest further.

A few doors down, Karen pokes her head out of the room where she and Frank have holed up. She frowns as she takes in the chaos. “What’s going on?”

“Mafia men with guns!” Wade chirps as he half-skips, half-jogs towards the mansion’s entryway. “Tell your boy to suit up!”

“There’s a safe room at the end of the hall,” Neena adds as she runs after Wade.

Frank squeezes around Karen and kisses her temple before falling in line behind the two assassins.

You step to the side so Karen can run past you, then turn and press a hasty kiss against Piotr’s cheek. “Love you.”

He kisses your cheek in return, equally as brief. “Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.”

And then the two of you run towards the danger bearing down on your home.

***

In all the firefights you’ve been in, there’s always this moment of silence. A calm before the storm. A moment where everything goes still, while both sides wait for the other to make a move.

You duck behind a wall as the mafia gunmen continue hammering away at the front door, tucking yourself in a shadow. Your stomach tenses, breathing going quick and hard as your mind starts putting a plan together. Don’t want to risk collapsing part of the house by doing a pressure vacuum. Best option is to probably knock them to the ground so the others can jump them.

The door rattles. The wooden portal splits on one side, sending jagged splinters poking out into the air.

You slow your breathing, forcing yourself into a calm, focused state. Wait for them to get past the entryway so you can hit as many of them as possible.

In the back of the house, near the kitchen, you hear glass shatter.

They’re in. You clench your fists at your sides, watching as the front door slowly gives way. Three… two… one…

The door breaks open, swinging inwards as the first gunmen step into the foyer—

And then the door snaps off its hinges and slams into the men, taking them out like bowling pins.

Strike, a small, inane part of your brain giggles.

Shouts go up through the house. You can hear the sounds of rushed footsteps, shattering glass, and what sounds like people being bodyslammed through tables (and, given the type of people fighting for your side, it just might be that). Gunfire pierces the air –and is accompanied by the telltale, metallic plinks of the bullets ricocheting off your husband’s armor.

Angry screams emanate from the front step. Men barge in, firing down the hall, towards some unseen target (likely Alex or Nate, given the door trick).

You wait until as many men are piled into the foyer as possible, then send down a downdraft that blows out the windows on either side of the door.

The gunmen tumble to the floor, swearing in a mixture of English and Italian.

Nate, Wade, and Neena swoop in. They descend upon the mafia men like a pack of wolves, breaking bones, dislocating joints, and cracking skulls as they disarm –and, in some cases “un-alive”—the gunmen.

“It’s raining men!” Wade sings as he runs one of his katanas through the gut of one assailant. “Hallelujah! It’s raining men!” He ramps off a nearby wall, then t-bags another man before stabbing him through the temple. “Amen!”

You crouch, tracking the movement of the scuffle. You tense when you see a couple of the men jump Nathan, then charge towards the railing and dive over when a few more try to break past to run down the hallway. You flip in the air, land in the hallway ahead of them, and unleash a blast of wind right in their faces.

The mafia men fly out through the front door. They sail over half the front drive, then bounce off the gravel surface and roll several times before coming to a stop.

You let out a harsh breath, then dart down the hall towards the kitchen when you hear glass shattering and the sound of Frank bellowing angrily.

The kitchen and rec room are a mess. Glass shards from shattered windows coat the floor, glittering before being crushed underfoot. Doors are cracked from having people slammed into them. The rec room couch is overturned –and is sagging suspiciously on one side, hinting at a cracked frame. The entertainment system is shattered, with smoking bullet holes littering the TV, speakers, and media systems.

Frank has one of the guys pinned down over the sink. He’s snarling as he uses the lip of the sink to choke the guy out. There’s blood smeared his lips and chins, trailing back up to his chin.

Another gunman stalks in through the dining room, gun trained on Frank’s head.

You whip a blast of air at the second man, sending him sailing into the wall so hard the drywall cracks.

He drops to the ground, unconscious.

There’s some terrified shrieking –and then a gunman is punted up and out of the basement stairwell. He sails through the kitchen window headfirst, crumpling in a heap in the hedges outside.

Your husband storms up the staircase, teeth bared in an angry snarl. The waning daylight glints off his metal exterior, almost making him look like some sort of avenging angel. He stops short when he sees you, though; his irate expression vanishes, replaced by concern. “Ty v poryadke?”

You manage a smile and flash him a thumbs up—

And then a truck with a Gatling gun strapped to the roof rolls up to the back door.

“Get down!” Frank hollers before tackling you to the ground behind the kitchen island.

The room explodes into chaos. Bullets plow into the walls, sending up spurts of drywall dust in their wake. Wooden doorframes and floorboards crack, unleashing cascades of splinters in every direction. Glass shatters, raining down upon everything in its reach.

Frank positions himself over you, shielding you as fragmented bullets rain down upon your both. He cups your head with his hands, doing his best to protect you from the hellfire.

Over the din, you can just make out a loud, angry bellow –and then the sound of bullets hitting metal. Heavy, deliberate stomps make the floor shake.

The gunfire cuts off. A shriek pierces the air just before you hear what sounds like a car being tossed into a tree.

(As you’ll discover later, that’s precisely what you heard.)

Frank lifts his head, then carefully rolls off you. He crouches next to you and holds out a hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your ears are ringing, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got glass shards and splinters in your hair, but you’ve been worse. You take his hand, flinching when you hear the sound of more gunfire outside.

Frank peers over the lip of the island. “Reinforcements. At least five more cars headed our way.”

You suck in a breath. “Piotr—”

“Is holding his own for now,” Frank says.

“I’m gonna help him,” you rasp out. “Make sure everyone in the house that’s not on our side… stays down. And that we’ve still got all our people.”

Frank nods, then runs off towards the foyer.

You catch your breath, then creep towards the back door (better safe than sorry). You flatten yourself against the wall next to the doorway, then peer around the broken frame.

Piotr’s facing off against the new influx of cars. He’s got one hand on the hood of one Range Rover, arm extended out like he’s fending off a five-year-old. With his other hand, he flips another SUV over, causing the thing to land on its roof and putting the vehicle squarely out of commission.

Your stomach sinks when five more Range Rovers tear across the lawn, leaving deep, muddy tracks in their wake –and are followed by three more trucks with Gatling guns attached to the roofs. You sprint out the door, take a flying leap over Piotr, then send out a shockwave of air when you land on the ground.

A few of the cars fly backwards, rolling across the lawn like tumbleweeds. A majority of them, however, manage to stay upright or bump into each other and recover.

Your eyes widen when one of the Gatling gun operators aims directly at you. Shit.

Piotr leaps in front of you, whirling so his back is to the gun. He curls his body over yours, shielding you as gunfire rains down on you both.

You grit your teeth, grunting. You can feel the impact of the gunfire resonating through your husband’s metal body. Worry clutches at your heart when Piotr lets out sharp, ragged groans; he’s largely invulnerable in his armor, not to mention his sense of touch is severely dulled, but you know that with shit like this he’s still feeling some sort of pain –and there’s nothing you can do. You’re both pinned down, and as powerful as your shockwaves are, they’re not enough to stop or even skew the trajectory of a bullet—

Blue light washes over both of you. The sound of the gunfire wanes, replaced by warbling, pinging noises instead.

You peer around Piotr’s side to see Illyana standing between the two of you and the oncoming cars. She has her arms outstretched, palms facing the onslaught of adversaries. A shimmering, sky blue shield with various magical incantations floating through it surrounds all of you, stretching into the sky for at least forty feet.

Illyana grunts. She’s being shoved backwards from the force of impact from the bullets. Her feet are digging into the ground, leaving ruts as she tries to hold her stance. “We need new plan!”

“How about ‘stay alive?’” Piotr shouts back as he digs shrapnel out of the grooves on his arms.

Wade, Neena, Nate, and Frank come barreling out the back door, faces streaked with soot and blood. They dive for the ground, covering the backs of their heads and necks with their hands—

An explosion goes off inside the mansion. The shockwave shatters windows on both the first and second floor, blowing out window frames and trim.

Piotr covers your body with his once more. He cups your head with his hand, shielding you from the falling debris and the worst of the shockwave.

You cough and hack as smoke billows out the broken windows and doors. You do your best to make a vortex to suck the smoke away and send it up into the air. Your lungs burn, and your ears are ringing like a bell from all the gunfire and the explosion—

Four more gunmen emerge from the smoke pouring out the back door.

You snarl, then whip blasts of air at them, slamming them into the exterior walls of the house.

One of them goes down, while the other three are merely stunned.

Mikhail comes barreling out next. He lets out a guttural battle cry, then sucker punches one of the men in the back of the head before aiming a blast of rust colored energy at another’s gut.

The man screams as he sails into the air, arcing over the tree line and disappearing somewhere in the canopies.

The third man aims his gun at Mikhail –then staggers and drops to the ground when a beam of golden energy sears through his chest.

Alex storms out of the smoke with Artemis and your uncle trailing close behind her. She glares down the remaining gunmen and cars, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. Blood is flecked across her face and spattered over her leather jacket. “House is clear!”

“Yeah, except now we’re about to be cleared out!” Wade hollers back. “As in, ‘all sales final, no returns, no exchanges!’”

“If we could make plan,” Illyana screams, voice strained with the effort of holding the shield, “would be very great!”

You look over to Alex –and see her eyes widen. You whirl towards the gunmen just in time to see one of them aim a rocket launcher at all of you. “Oh, for the love of—”

The first hit is technically deflected by Illyana’s shield, insomuch that the projectile and the shield both shatter the moment they meet. The force of the magic breaking sends out a shockwave of blue energy that flies backwards into all of you, knocking those who managed to get up back off their feet and stunning the rest of you.

You groan, head reeling. Your vision clears slowly, casting double images when you move too quickly. Shit.

You can make out Piotr, just next to you. He’s lying face down on the lawn, grunting and moving in slow, clumsy movements. He turns his head, brow furrowing when he sees you, and reaches out towards you.

You extend your hand to grab his –but he’s just out of your reach, no matter how far you strain. Your body feels heavy with fatigue and pain; everything inside you is screaming to get up, to fight, to keep moving because death is knocking right on your door, and you’ll be damned if this is how you go out—

Alex recovers first –no surprise there. She shoves herself to her feet, seething and growling like a feral beast. She hurls a blast of energy at one of the cars –and, from the sounds of the carnage, makes a direct hit. She storms towards the sea of mafia men like an avenging angel, hell bound on vengeance and blood.

Audible gasps go up from the amassed assassins.

You lift your head to see several of the gunmen backing away from the mansion and crossing themselves with shaking hands. You chalk it up to Alex being Alex, and make to drop your head back against the ground once more—

And then you see Allison standing in the ruined doorway.

She’s glaring down the gunmen with a viciousness that doesn’t suit the youthful roundness of her face. Her brows are knit together, and her mouth is twisted into an ugly scowl. Her eyes are glowing a brilliant shade of blue and give off little wisps of azure colored smoke. Her skin and hair are smoking as well, creating an aura around her body. Blood drips down from her nose and onto her shirt –which is stained with ash and soot. There are burn marks and indents on her wrists from where the repression cuff and the handcuffs used to be, respectively, but the restraints themselves are gone.

The ground begins to shake. Two patches of cerulean light appear underneath the grass, growing larger until they form swirling vortexes of magical energy. The ground begins to crumble at the edges of the portals, eroding away and growing wider until they make gaping tunnels that channel so deeply into the earth there’s no telling how far they truly go.

You recoil when the smell of sulfur and smoke blenches forth from the tunnels. Shit, did she hit a gas line? Fucking dammit, like this day can get any worse—

Echoing, blood-chilling howls emanate from the tunnels.

Your eyes widen –and then your heart starts working overtime when you see two, then four massive hellhounds (like the ones Allison summoned at the mall) crawl out of the tunnels.

Shrieks of terror sound from the gunmen. Several take off running, while others try to shoot the beasts.

The hounds snap and snarl at the gunmen, then charge at the group. Two of them go off after the runners, while the other two start lunging after the assassins like they’re rabbits.

You stare at the chaos in disbelief –and then a set of strong hands grab you underneath the arms.

“Get up.” You uncle tugs you to your feet, keeping you steady when you stumble. “You can’t be in the flow of traffic for this.”

Behind you, Allison is panting like she’s run a marathon. The aura of blue smoke is growing around her, trailing into the air and floating over the ground. Veins of light spread across her face and arms, glowing the same shade of vibrant blue as her eyes. Her breathing grows louder and more ragged, until she’s growling and shaking with each exhale— and then she screams.

Much like the first confrontation in the cemetery, all those months ago, the scream unleashes a shockwave of blue energy. This time, though, the shockwave is far from a decoy for escape. It washes over you, the X-Force, your uncle, the other Rasputins, Frank, and Artemis harmlessly enough –then slams into the mafia forces and vehicles like the wall of a hurricane.

Alex charges after the shockwave, carefully trailing behind it. She waits until it clears the first line of gunmen, then slams her fist into the face of the man closest to her. She blocks his attempt to strike her, then twists his arm –dislocating the shoulder, which makes him shriek in pain. Then, she wrenches his rifle away from him. She shoots him once in the center of his forehead, then turns the firearm on his fellow men and keeps firing.

Mikhail and Artemis go after the one surviving Gatling gun. Mikhail teleports onto the truck bed; he sweeps the back of one man’s jacket over his head, effectively blinding him, then kicks the other man present in the balls before shoving him over the side of the truck.

Artemis, on the other hand, stops a few feet away from the truck. She uses her telekinesis to rip the Gatling gun off its mount, then yanks the driver out through the windscreen –headfirst, no less—and dumps him on the lawn.

He doesn’t get back up.

“Come on,” your uncle says, pointing towards the further reaches of the property, where some of the gunmen are still trying to outrun the hellhounds. “Let’s give the dogs a helping hand.”

The two of you reach out, creating a wind current that slices through the air and slams into the stragglers.

The men careen into nearby hedges –and the hellhounds have it from there.

The familiar sonic blast of Nathan’s gun rips through the air. The shot slams into the last remaining SUV, rendering the vehicle to little more than glass shards and mangled metal.

The back lawn and gardens fall silent, save for the sounds of groans of pain and the hellhounds chewing on various gunmen.

Mikhail takes a fall off the back of the truck bed. He flops onto the ruined grass below, limbs splaying like a rag doll’s. “Alright. Is time for nap. Wake me… never.”

Illyana scoffs from where she’s sat next to a smoldering bush. She picks up a nearby stone, then chucks it at her eldest brother’s head (and hits her target, no less). “There is still clean up. Bezdel'nik.”

Mikhail flips her off, then groans as he rubs the bridge of his nose.

“She’s right,” Alex lectures her eldest as she picks her way through the carnage. She nudges one body with the toe of her combat boot, then shoots him through the temple when he groans.

“Mama!” Piotr gapes at her, expression scandalized. He sputters, looking between her and the body at her feet.

“Chto? Vy khotite yego zhivym? Chtoby on mog dolozhit' svoim khozyayevam? Chtoby on mog obrushit' adskiy ogon' na etu shkolu i vsekh, kogo vy lyubite? No –no.” She holds up her index finger and stares sternly at Piotr when he tries to argue. “You do not leave enemies on your six o’clock, medvezhonok. First rule of survival.”

Piotr swallows hard, then says softly, “X-Men do not kill.”

Alex shrugs. “And I am not an X-Man.”

“We’ll handle it,” Nathan says. He holds his hand out for Alex’s rifle, nodding when she hands it to him after a moment’s hesitation.

(Wade and Frank are already working their way through the sea of dead and wounded. Frank’s traversing the chaos methodically, sticking to minimal shots to kill the survivors, while Wade’s alternating between singing “Dancing Queen” and getting post-mortem revenge.

“You shot my dick off inside!” Wade gasps as he peers down at a –slightly chewed on—corpse. “Extra bullets for you!” He then shoots the dead body several times before resuming his pitchy serenade.)

“What now?” Allison asks, staring out at the carnage with a slightly shocked expression.

“‘What now?’” Artemis repeats, laughing incredulously. She stomps towards Allison, pulling a pack of tissues out of her inner jacket pocket. “What the hell are you even doing out here? You were supposed to stay in the safe room—”

“They had cameras in there,” Allison says with a roll of her eyes, as if that justifies her decision to join the fracas. “You guys were getting your asses kicked.”

“We would’ve handled it.”

“Yeah, except you weren’t,” Allison fires back. She scrunches up her face when Artemis starts wiping the blood off her face, but otherwise takes the mothering without any complaint.

“It’s not your responsibility to deal with this shit,” Artemis says, voice and expression softening for a moment. She cleans up Allison’s face –then scowls. “And where the fuck are your cuffs? How did you even get out of them?”

Allison shrugs. “I used my powers to short the repression cuff out and ash it off.”

Illyana’s, Alex’s, and your uncle’s heads all snap around to stare at Allison.

“Are you kidding me?” Artemis hisses through clenched teeth. “You could’ve fucking killed yourself!”

“Or caused magical paradox that ripped hole in space-time continuum,” Illyana snaps.

“Ruptured blood vessels in your brain and caused an aneurysm, made the cuff deliver a lethal electrical shock, turned your magic against your own body and rendered yourself to ash,” your uncle continues, ticking off items on his fingers.

“Well, I didn’t do any of that!” Allison snarls, glaring at the others while Artemis keeps cleaning up her face. “And I made sure you losers won the fight –so fuck off!”

“Get her something to eat and drink,” Alex says. “Her blood sugar is bound to be low after pulling a stunt like that.”

Artemis glares at Alex and opens her mouth to respond—

Across the yard, Wade lets out a pained shriek. “My balls are not fetch toys! Bad Fido! Bad!”

Your eyes widen as you watch one of the hellhounds swing Wade around by his legs. You bite down on your lip, holding in a shock-induced laugh.

“Where’s this mutt’s off-switch –hey, hey! No!” Wade wriggles in the hellhound’s mouth, panicking as another beast bounds towards him. “My spine is not a tug toy! Can someone get rid of Fido and Rufus before they rip me in half!”

Allison snorts –then, before anyone can stop her, holds out her hand and flicks her wrist.

All four hellhounds melt back into the ground, disappearing to the depths of hell from whence they came.

Artemis swears under her breath, then catches the teen when she stumbles. She moves frantically, grabbing more tissues as blood starts pouring out of Allison’s nose once more. “You fucking idiot. Why the fuck did you do that? When are you going to fucking learn that you’re not invincible—”

Allison lets out a sharp, hoarse laugh –then passes out.

…

The wreckage inside the mansion is heartbreaking.

You stare at the ruined furniture, the scorched walls, the splintered doors, the ruined rec room and kitchen, and you have to wonder what was the fucking point?

Part of you understands that the mafia came prepared for war; they were going up against powerful mutants, so –naturally—they would want to be prepared. Having the strongest, most powerful weapons available increased their chances of success. Logically –from a strictly tactical standpoint—it makes sense.

Glass crunches under your shoes. You stare down at a litany of fallen picture frames, heart wrenching as you stare at the ruined pictures of graduates, students, and workers inside. We’re just a school. We work with kids. What was the point of trying to wipe us out?

Piotr ambles up behind you. He puts his arms around your shoulders and kisses the top of your head. “Cleaners and repairmen will be here in less than one hour.”

You feel numb. You place your hand on his arm. “That’s good.”

“We have back ups of pictures,” he murmurs. He kisses your cheek. “Insurance to cover replacing damaged items. We will be fine.”

“I know.” You sigh, leaning back against your husband’s chest. “We’re just a school. What… what was the point? Why try to wipe us out?”

“I do not know.” Piotr kisses your other cheek, hugging you reassuringly. “Perhaps they believed we knew information about ‘family business.’ Or that we were protecting Allison for some reason.”

“She’s just a kid,” you argue, voice breaking as your grief and exhaustion wells up and threatens to overtake you. “She’s only thirteen…”

Piotr says nothing, merely holds you closer.

You sigh—

And then a door slams. Hurried stomps echo down the hall. There’s creaking as a door opens again, followed by more footsteps and exasperated shouts.

Allison storms past you and Piotr, heading towards the kitchen. Her jaw is set, fists clenched at her sides.

You and Piotr look at each other –then follow after her, if only to be sure that nothing else is going to explode today.

She slams her hands down on the island counter –and, on the opposite side, Frank and Karen both flinch and stare at her warily.

Allison glares at Frank, jaw working convulsively. Her shoulders heave with each breath she takes. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, making the bags underneath seem darker and deeper by comparison. She trembles, expression flickering wildly between grief, white hot rage, and the neutral mask she’s trying so desperately to hold. She sucks in a breath that sounds more like a pained sob, then stares Frank down and spits out through gritted teeth, “You leave my people alone, I leave yours alone. Deal?”

Frank sighs. He nods, expression heavy with grief and eyes shining with remorse. “Yeah, kid. You got a deal.”

Allison clenches the edge of the island so hard her hands go white. She lets out a strangled, angry laugh as the tears finally start to fall. She ducks her head briefly, then glares back up at Frank. “I fucking hate you.”

Frank grimaces, but nods and says, “I know kid. It’s okay. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“That ain’t worth shit.”

“I know… believe me, I know.”

Artemis –who’d previously been watching at the kitchen threshold—steps forward and puts her arm around Allison’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

Allison clenches her teeth together, but still lets out a choked sob. She presses her lips together, looking around the room to try and regain her composure, to stop the flow of tears. She manages a deep breath, then takes one last look at Frank and snarls, “If I have to see your fucking face again, I’m ripping out your guts,” before storming out of the room.

Frank, to his credit, doesn’t respond (though you suspect he feels too guilty to even consider arguing). He merely hangs his head, expression that of a kicked dog.

Karen leans against him. She interlocks her fingers with his, murmuring in his ear (likely about how it isn’t his fault, and while it looks like that may technically be the case, you’re glad you don’t have to walk the spider’s silk of a line those facts lie upon).

What a shitshow.

Piotr puts an arm around your shoulders and gently leads you out of the kitchen. “Come on, myshka. Let’s go find spot to rest.”

…

Frank and Karen leave shortly after “making the deal” with Allison.

Allison and Artemis hang back for a bit to talk to Xavier. You don’t get all the gorey details but from what you can tell, it’s essentially an offer to help train Allison’s powers so she doesn’t hurt herself rolled in with a warning to keep her nose clean, stay on the straight and narrow, etcetera etcetera.

The sun’s just starting its descent from the sky before the two of them walk out of the meeting room.

Allison is wearing Artemis’s jacket and looks downright haggard.

Artemis has her arm around the teen and is gently guiding her while she talks to Xavier (though, perhaps the term “talk” is too generous, considering most of her responses are nods or terse, one-to-two word replies).

The rest of the Rasputin family, you, Piotr, and your uncle are all gathered in the foyer to make sure Allison and Artemis leave without too much trouble (or causing more trouble themselves).

Your uncle is sweating bullets and looks like he just shit his pants; he’s glancing between Alex and their daughter so fast it’s a miracle he hasn’t given himself a headache yet.

Now or never, you think, watching him with pursed lips. Tell your secrets before they’re told for you.

Alex kneels down next to Allison. “Are you okay?”

Allison’s gaze doesn’t leave the floor. “The fuck do you think?”

She quirks her mouth to the side. “Not all that good.” Alex ducks her head lower, trying to catch Allison’s gaze. “You remember what we talked about?”

Allison’s eyes narrow. She moves her gaze away from Alex. “Go to hell. I know what I know.”

“Sometimes… it’s better to not,” Alex says. She stares at Allison for a moment longer, then pats her shoulder before standing and walking away.

Artemis stares after Alex, expression morphing rapidly between fury and shock. She sputters for a moment before snapping, “What –that’s all you have to fucking say?”

Alex pauses, turning slightly so she can see Artemis. She raises one eyebrow, otherwise looking unbothered. “Is there something else I should be saying?”

“You don’t have anything to say to me?” Artemis presses, crossing her arms over her chest. “Nothing at all?”

“Is there something you want me to say to you?” Alex fires back, smirking slightly.

Artemis stares at Alex for a long, hard moment. She shakes her head, eyes welling up with tears, then turns her glare onto your uncle. “You really didn’t fucking tell her.”

“What?” Alex’s expression sobers, going wary as she looks between your uncle and Artemis. “What didn’t you—”

“This really isn’t the time or place—” Your uncle tries.

And here it goes.

“I’ve gotta do all the work, then,” Artemis snarls with a vicious smile. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense, considering I’m not your favorite,” she tacks on with an angry glare towards you. She storms towards Alex, one hand outstretched, with a cruel, angry smile stretched across her face. “Hey, mom. How’s it going?”

Alex’s eyes widen. She stares at Artemis, eyes tracking over the younger woman’s face. “What…”

“You fucking heard me.”

Illyana, Piotr, and Mikhail look at each other, then at Alex, then at Nikolai. They explode into confused Russian, gesturing between their parents, Artemis, and your uncle—

Realization dawns in Alex’s dark eyes. Her expression trembles, tears welling up in her eyes as she stares at Artemis’s face.

And then she uses her telekinesis to yank your uncle over and decks him.

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #nathan summers x wade wilson #frank castle x karen page #alexandra rasputin x nikolai rasputin #love me some soap opera style drama #and frankly so does marvel #and honestly if marvel can have whatever tf infinity war and endgame were i can have this #probably shouldn't have built alex's whole backstory and have it be outside the scope of this series bUT OH WELL #deadpool fanfiction #x men fanfiction

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teenage-mutant-ninja-freak · 3 years

Note

Can we get jealous mob!Donnie headcanons too? If it’s cool idk if you’re accepting ask

Jealous mob! Donnie

Jealous Donnie is very different

if someone is hitting on you he’ll watch and listen in for a while

see your reaction

and his actions will be based on that

eventually he’ll drag you away in complete silence

flashing his gun to whoever was dumb enough to hit on you

he’ll get someone else to beat the shit out of that guy later, it’s not his concern right now

he’ll wait til you’re both alone and he’ll be cold and quiet until that point

then it’s a long conversation

“Did you like the attention from him? You said you were “flattered" by his advances”

you’ll stumble over your words about how it’s not always safe to reject a guy so you have to be nice ect ect

then will come a fully length verbal essay about how that’s a stupid reason, how he’s there and anyone who even though about touching you is dead and how you must’ve liked it or you would’ve walked away

now this is when Donnie is most dangerous

he’s not above using manipulation and gas lighting you to make you need him and stay

he’s a sick fuck basically

he’ll tell you that you reached out and touched the guy’s arm and how you batted your eye lashes

when you deny it, he’ll tell you “I was there, I saw the whole thing! You’re gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

he’ll get you questioning your perception of reality and feeling like you betrayed him somehow

because this means you owe him, this means he has power over you...

then he’ll storm off saying he needs to think for a while and have time to himself

leaving you to think you’ve really fucked up

after that he’ll be reading all of your texts and emails, listening in to phone conversations...

Eventually he’ll come back to you and tell you that he’s sorry because you clearly aren’t happy with him and you’re looking for an excuse to leave

which will make you fight even harder for him and his approval

this is when he knows his plan has worked, because he has you under his thumb and willing to do anything to make it up to him

long story short: he a manipulator and will mess with your mind

this comes from his warped relationship with Splinter (not that it makes it any better, he’s awful) and Splinter always making Donnie into the bad guy and trying to undermine him and turn his brothers against him

he always knew he could outsmart anyone and that’s how he makes people stay

because his biggest fear is being left alone in this world

#i've been waiting for this one #and yes I am taking requests again #finally #mob! donnie #mob donnie #the mob! boys #the mob boys

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melancholic-pigeon · 3 years

Text

SIGH

seeing posts going around claiming S4rah Z was ganged up on

What some, but not the majority, of people said was nasty and mean. Lindsay made valid points in her video.

HOWEVER.

Both of them doubled down and flat out refused to acknowledge a single one of the majority of people being respectful in their attempts to clarify why "go outside" is a mean, shitty response to adults telling verbally abusive teenagers to fuck off.

Both of them refuse to acknowledge how many people said at the time "hey, don't harass the youtubers who don't understand this, yes this is frustrating but lashing out won't help"

Both of them ignored everyone who was reasonable about it. Both of them jumped on the "must be misogyny!!" train and plugged their ears and started shouting LALALA I CAN'T HEAR YOU CRINGEY ADULTS THINKING DOXXING IS BAD

this was not a situation where they were the victims of a harassment mob. This was a situation where they trivialized, mocked and ignored victims of harassment mobs and some people became extremely pissed about this and, yes, lashed out inappropriately. Lindsay in particular got more of it, which sucks, because she was initially more reasonable about it.

S4rah blocked people for trying to clarify the situation to her and then made a two hour video basically saying "I don't understand the ant vs prship arguments but you should believe my cherry picking at face value, waaah, proshppers are so MEAN to me!!!!"

The refusal to listen is what got them so harshly criticized. Yes, with some people it got out of hand, but again: she chose to ignore the ample evidence she was given and dismiss the whole thing by saying "go outside" to someone who was 100% civil and respectful.

#that thing that just happened #bullying is bad actually

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eclipsewarrior101 · 3 years

Note

I’m curious to know more about how things went for Sid when his adopted father, psychosistr’s Nega-Steelbeak, fell into a coma: How did he get into a coma? Who did Sid take most of his anger out on, and was it mostly physical or verbal lash outs? What was the worst thing he did? How long was his father in the coma, and was he disappointed in what Sid did while he was in it? Was it still a happy reunion, and was Sid able to make amends with everyone he had wronged? Sorry for all the questions 😅

wow, okay. this is gonna be a long post so buckle up.

Nega-steelbeak fell into a coma after a gruesome fight with a very violent villain. He ended up with a hell of a lot of brain damage. Sid was helpless and had NO idea what to do. His dad was always there and now he felt alone. FOWL tried to wake steelbeak but couldn't and sid HATED and blamed them. His adopted cousins, aunts and uncles tried to help him. BUT a huge amount of anger, guilt and frustration made him lash out. He lashed out Verbally at his uncles @psychosistr the friendly four and my other oc his boyfriend Damien. He got into bad violent fights at school and was just broken. Steelbeak stayed in a coma for like 4-6 months....it was bad. He nearly burned a lot of bridges...even damien had to step back....he didn't break up with him but he did leave for a week. The worst thing he did was make his cousin Lynn cry and he LOVES that kid. He also broke a kids legs really bad at school....though this kid was a bully. FOWL had even mentioned unplugging steels life support which made sid PISSED and he was NOT having it.

on another note Andy had left ST canard cause he felt he needed time to think....he was falling too hard for steelbeak and that scared him. months later he returns to this chaos.

Now Sid full of hatred and anger FINALLY found the man responsible for hurting his dad. So he went to kill the man who he believes killed his dad. The friendly four tried to talk him out of it but knew ONLY his father could. BUT when andy shows up, he agrees to help and heals steelbeak again. Steelbeak wakes and immediately goes to stop sid. Damien follows

NOW...the reunion is bittersweet. Sid is about to kill the mob guy and he hears...his dad's voice. He stops and lets his guard down...then BANG. the mob guy shoots sid.

Sid is rushed to the Hospital at FOWL, and saved but left in his own coma for like 2 weeks.

After all that they talk and Steelbeak i don't believe was disappointed....just sad to see sid in so much pain.

And it took a long time for the damage sid caused to heal with his family and Damien.

If you want to know Nega-Steelbeaks and their ocs like the friendly four and Lynn thoughts on Sid’s actions i will turn this over to @psychosistr to answer and i will reblog when they answer

And thank you for the asks. Please send more if you have anymore questions on Matrix, Sid and both norm and nega Andy

#oc ask #negaverse sid #@psychosistr

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thephantomofthe-internet · 4 years

Text

Read into Me Chapter 5: Romeo and Juliet

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Words: 2,955

Warnings: Swearing, slut shaming, bullying mention

Tag List: @divinity-deos @thecaptainsgingersnap @wolfish-willow @scoopsohboi @herre-gud-nej @clockworkballerina @maddie1504 @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary @banjino-in-the-hole @buckysarge @wildcvltre @stanleyyelnatsiii @unusuallchildd @n3wtscaseofniffler5 @peterparxour @alwaysstressedout @linkispink1995 @asharpkniffe @a-big-ball-of-idk @used-avocado @mochminnie @sledgy14 @the-creative-lie @yall-wildin-like-siriusly @ggclarissa

After that afternoon, you spent practically every day after school with Steve, either in his bedroom or the library. It was weirdly nice. You didn’t always talk; mostly you worked in silence, Steve answering English questions or doing work for other classes and you doodling. You’d finished the sketch of Steve you’d started in his bedroom the same night you’d started it. You were actually quite proud of it; you’d managed to get the shadows on his face to make his face look hollow and strange, not beautiful like it usually appeared. And yes, you were comfortable with calling him beautiful. You found a lot of your subjects beautiful, they all fit into an easy collection of strong, attractive faces that could be found in Hawkins. Hawkins Most Beautiful: the collections of portraits labelled themselves.

Steve called you fairly often as well; usually on the days when you didn’t meet up he’d call so he’d have someone to keep him company as he worked. He seemed lonely to you. From your conversations, you learned little of his supposed friends, but you learned a fair bit about his family. Both his parents were rarely home. His father worked in the city and kept an apartment there, keeping him as far away from home as possible most of the time. His mother was home more often, but kept her hours in certain places, leaving him home alone most of the time. So it seemed, he was ignored past the age of twelve. You sympathized with that, your own parents weren’t exactly present, albeit for different reasons. He asked you a lot about Samantha, which didn’t bother you; you could talk about her far more than you could yourself.

“I can’t honestly say that I even really know her…” Steve laughed. You were sat in his bedroom one evening, the sun setting in creamy red swirls, ominous strawberry pieces in homemade ice cream. Sweet and yet worrying for reasons beyond you for the time being. You were sat at his desk, leaning back in his desk chair, turning left and right. Steve was sprawled out on his mattress, feet kicking beyond him casually, his papers spread out in front of him.

“Yeah, she doesn’t really associate with some of your friends. Tina isn’t really our biggest fan…” you replied, smiling softly. The memory of Samantha dumping a miniature carton of chocolate milk on her head in the seventh grade flashed through your mind, her shrill screech making you chuckle.

“Oh yeah? What’s up her ass?” Steve asked, turning onto his side to look at you fully. He looked incredibly posed and uncomfortable, his head placed in his palm and his ankles stacked neatly one on top of the other.

“They used to be best friends, before I showed up. Once I was on the scene, Tina decided that I was someone to bully and Samantha decided that she wanted to be my friend. They fell out because of it and Tina started bothering both of us. She stopped once we were in middle school.” You explained, pulling one of your knees to your chest.

“Tina’s a bitch…” Steve muttered, shaking his head solemnly.

“She’s got such a thing for you.” You chuckled, watching as his face coloured. You continued “Vicki too…they want you so bad.”

“How’d you know?” Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. His face was still pink, it was almost adorable.

“Oh my god, they spend every class with their heads so far up your ass!” you linked your fingers together and pulled them under your chin. You batted your lashes at him with wide eyes, starting into an imitation of Tina “Oh…Stevie, tell me more about your basketball game…oh Stevie you’re soooo strong!”

Steve pulled the pillow from the head of his bed, throwing it at your head. “Oh shut up!” he groaned. You caught the pillow, chucking it back at him, smacking him square in the face.

Steve was great to hang out with. But that sort of friendship didn’t seem to transition outside the privacy of his bedroom. In school, the rules of social interaction began again. Steve returned to the arms of Tommy H and Carol, whose attentions flip between him and Billy Hargrove, and Samantha kept you busy with her questions, her arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, squeezing you tightly into your side. And every time you passed Steve, she cracked a joke in your ear that turned you beet red.

In truth, it was clear that Samantha did not believe you when you told her that nothing was going on between the two of you. She had already decided that the pair of you were in some sort of torrid affair of Shakespearian depths. She seemed to earnestly believe that it was some secret, clandestine romance was happening behind closed doors. You didn’t really understand what she was imagining; it didn’t make sense to you. Steve was far too obviously interested in other people to be doing anything with you. You tried to point out all the girls who hung off his arm whenever she tried to embarrass you about it, but she didn’t see it.

“What you’re missing,” she said through a massive bite of cafeteria shepherd’s pie “Is that all those girls pay attention to him, but he doesn’t pay attention to them.”

“If we were having an affair, don’t you think that I would tell you about it? I tell you everything anyway.” You retorted, rolling your eyes at her.

“You didn’t tell me about Byers until I weaseled it out of you. That’s what I’m doing right now.” Samantha replied with a shrug, mushing her meal together with her plastic fork until it was a disgusting shade of brown, golden corn accenting the pile.

Talking about Jonathan Byers wasn’t fair and she knew it. In short, there was nothing to talk about. You’d had a small, teeny tiny practically nonexistent crush on the boy a year prior, but it was very clear that he didn’t like you back. Samantha had gone to Tina’s party in October, right as your crush was subsiding, and she’d told you that he was all over Nancy Wheeler. You’d had your suspicions about it, but hearing that he’d gone after someone else’s girlfriend and rejected you along the way hurt. Even though you weren’t interested, it still hurt. Samantha was still annoyed that you hadn’t told her about it until it was over, and since it was the only source of knowledge she had on your comatose love life, she brought it up all the time, much to your chagrin.

“All I do with him is sit in his room and help him study. And when I say help him study, I mean literally help him study, we do the chapter studies together and discuss the stupid book.” You said. That wasn’t the whole story; you talked a lot about life and listened to music. You were confident in saying that you were friends by now. You’d almost met his mother twice, both times in passing, and that seemed pretty important to friendships, when their family knew who you were. Still, it didn’t break into school. Steve stayed with his clique and while you tried to stray from yours, Carol or Tina would always scare you off before you spent too much time with Steve. It didn’t take much to scare you, a mere gaze could send you packing, and those two had been mastering the annoyed sneer since the fifth grade.

“Yeah, well you don’t see what I see…” Samantha muttered, turning her attention away from you and onto the loud clique at the centre of the room. Billy Hargrove was show boating, as usual, with Tina and Macy practically drooling onto their lunch trays. Vicki was trying to get Steve’s attention, her thin, spidery fingers gripping onto his wrists, speaking animatedly into his ear. Steve wasn’t facing her though; his whole body was turned away from her, and directly towards your table. Samantha noticed how he watched where you went, it’s why she thoroughly believed that something was going on beyond the surface, something even you might not realize. She knew what a person looked like when they were love struck. Often times, from the outside, it was easier to see when someone was in love with someone else before she could catch onto who actually liked her. She’d watched the women she yearned for fall in love with boring, lame men enough times to have mastered the signs of how men fall for girls. And Steve showed all the non-verbal signs. She couldn’t get a full read on you yet though.

Tommy had caught onto to Steve’s strange behaviour just as fast as Samantha had, although he wasn’t nearly as impressed. You were simply not worth the effort. Not by a long shot. You were fucking lame-never at the parties, never at dances, never at the lake on the weekends. And he knew you had money, you could afford to do all those things, you were just too much of a pussy to show your face. That was fucking pathetic! He knew his friend better than anyone else and a chick who couldn’t hang was not the girl for him. Steve liked fun girls, girls who could turn up for a last minute thing and not be weird about it. Nancy Wheeler was the farthest Steve needed to go on the preppy nerd scale, and that bitch ended up being a massive slut! Like nobody expected that shit. But Tommy knew that you didn’t have any surprises up your sleeves. Despite the fact that you never talked, he knew that you were plain about who you were. Everything was on the surface, and what he saw was not worth his friend’s time.

“Steve, buddy, I’m gonna go get another milk, walk with me.” Tommy motioned him over. Steve followed blindly, if only to get Vicki’s cold, clammy hand off him. Tommy had seen The Godfather one too many times and seemed to believe that he was some sort of small town mob boss, but Steve didn’t really mind following along with him flights of fancy. Usually they were pretty funny.

Tommy wrapped an arm around his taller friend’s shoulders, lowering his voice from the onlooker’s ears. “Listen, buddy, you gotta tell me what’s going up with that Y/N chick I mean you just keep staring at her it’s freaking weird, dude.”

“Y/N? She’s my writing partner for Lawrence’s class, she’s cool…” Steve replied, turning to catch your eye as they passed. He smiled at you, giving a short wave, which you returned with a small smile.

“She’s cool? That all?” Tommy pressed, stepping into the line and grabbing a carton of strawberry milk and the largest chocolate chip cookie in the basket. He unwrapped his arm from his shoulders, letting him go free for the first time in the conversation.

“Yeah, I mean she’s nice, what else do you want me to say?” Steve knew that was being a little defensive, but he didn’t like being questioned for his choices in friends or girls, he never questioned Tommy’s choices and he made the worst decisions most of the time. Carol was no prize and he didn’t say a word about her.

“You fucking her?” if Steve had had anything in his mouth, he would’ve spit it on the floor. Tommy didn’t even turn to look at him, paying the lunch lady in change.

“Jesus, dude, no.” Steve cried, recoiling from his friend. Tommy needed to get hit and while he didn’t have cause to do so yet, he firmly believed someone was going to do it soon.

“Hey, no need to freak out, it’s just a question.” Tommy pulled his friend back in, slapping his friend on the back. Instead of simply heading back to their lunch table, he pulled him to the side, standing next to the hot grab and go table, next to the cartons of fries.

“Now, the way I see it, you have something great going for you.” Tommy began, cracking open his milk and taking a long swig, leaving a milk film on his upper lip. “Vicki Clarke is a fucking babe and she’s begging for it! She’s all over your ass and she’s hot as hell! But you’re blowing it by spending all your time staring at some freak of nature instead. You could have a smoking hot babe at your beck and call, but you’re wasting your chances here, you see what I mean?”

“Not at all, dude.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest, looking over his friend doubtfully.

“Look man, I’m just trying to set you up for success here. Because that girl,” Tommy pointed at you slyly “Is not interested. If she was, she’d be over here, acting like Vicki is. But she’s keeping herself planted at that table with that goth freakazoid.”

Steve had no idea what to say. He opened his mouth to speak, to deny having any feelings for you, but that wouldn’t mean shit if he kept watching you. And Tommy was right, there was a girl there who wanted to listen to whatever he said, who chased him down. Vicki was there and you weren’t. So he swallowed his words and went back to his table.

“Hey, Steve…” Vicki drawled. There was red lipstick on her teeth. Steve didn’t say anything about it. It didn’t make her ugly. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, letting her rest in the crook of his neck. Vicki seemed over the moon by it and it gave him something to focus on other than catching your attention.

Samantha frowned, turning her attention back to you. “What’s Steve’s opinion on Vicki Clarke?” she asked.

“He didn’t like when I told him that she had a thing for him, why?” you retorted, flipping through the college magazine in front of you. You still hadn’t chosen anywhere to apply and applications for the major schools were due in the winter and community colleges needed their applications in for the fall semester in by the end of June at the earliest.

“Well, he doesn’t seem embarrassed now.” Samantha hooked a thumb towards the couple. You looked once, narrowing your eye to scrutinize the pair.

“Eh, that seems about right…” you murmured. You wouldn’t deny that something about it hurt. But you ignored the pain until returning home from school. As always, you called before making any moves. It was the polite thing to do, even though Steve had made the plans to meet up with you after school the night before.

The phone was picked up after three rings. Steve’s car was in the driveway, not his mother’s, so you knew who would answer. “Hello?” his voice sounded anxious and breathy, maybe even annoyed.

“Steve-o, we still studying? You wanna go grab food at Hula Burger?” Steve had introduced you to the burger place in Carmel, a little mom and pop shop with the best Cajun fries in the county, at least in your opinion.

“Oh shit…” Steve muttered “Y/N I’m sorry I-I kind of made plans, can I take a rain check on the burgers?”

“Oh…yeah, sure I guess…some other time…” you said softly. You wouldn’t try to hide the disappointment in your voice. The pain you felt in the pit of your stomach returned with abundance, not exactly sore and angry pain, but more of a black hole opening up there.

“I gotta go, I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay?” Steve asked. He was already running late. He was supposed to pick up Vicki in twenty minutes and he still needed to shower. He had genuinely forgotten about his plans with you and he felt like an ass for doing so. He did want to hang out with you, but a date was a good step after being decimated by Nancy. He wasn’t super into Vicki, but it was still exciting to go out with someone new.

“Sure…” you hung up after that. You stood from your bed, dropping your book bag at your feet. You were used to spending afternoons alone, that wasn’t strange to you. Just because you’d spent a few days with a boy didn’t mean that he was yours to hold back from his life. You could’ve pulled a fit and tried to make him hold true to his word, the way your mother used to act towards your father. But those memories made you sick, you didn’t like that behaviour. But you also didn’t like being cancelled on. It wasn’t a feeling you were used to, not from friends at least. Samantha never really cancelled on you, she always made sure to tell you when she was busy and not agree to plans. She’d never cancelled on you for a date, even when she was dating Keith the creep she always put your friendship on a different level than him. Of course, she wasn’t really into Keith, she came out like a week after they started dating and broke up with him after kissing Jessica Klein at a house party, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Steve had ditched you and it made your heart hurt.

You couldn’t help but watch him run out of his front door and into his car. You watched it pull out of his driveway and out onto the road. It was clear to you now, Steve was more interested in passing English than he was in being your friend. Vicki Clarke was the girl to pay attention, no matter how he acted around you.

So why pretend like he was your friend at all?

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peridot-tears · 3 years

Text

I love MDZS so, so much

and I love that this is the first Chinese drama I have ever shared with westerners. Unlike a lot of the testimonies I’ve been reading from other diaspora fans, mine is that I grew up very close to my Chinese-ness, and I was known as the person in my very Asian American school for watching all the Chinese media. Yeah, we were all Asian or Latino or Black, but we liked anime and K-pop. While everyone else was into TVXQ, I was watching Donnie Yen in his prime.

This isn’t to play into the “I’m not like other girls” narrative -- just to emphasize just how close I am to my Chinese-ness. I was very much just a shithead teen who cut class like everyone else.

And I’m really glad that the way I came into this fandom was as wonderful as it was: My best friend, who is from China, tried to get me into it, and then a new friend -- who’s mixed, but not Asian -- tried to get me into it too, until the pandemic hit and I turned it into my quarantine watch. And all my fellow Chinese and Chinese Americans -- some new, some with whom I grew up -- flocked together and introduced me to their other non-Asian friends who also watched The Untamed. And we were all openminded and sensible. We didn’t step a toe out of line. We never misgendered each other, and whenever we stepped around topics around our racial background, we always did so with full clarity and that verbalized understanding that we were ignorant of each other’s cultures and did our best not to play into harmful language.

So every time I see a western fan blatantly disregard us, I just...pause. Because I can’t fucking believe someone would like MDZS for so long and consume our world -- and bear witness to what our culture’s parenting methods are like a la the Jiangs, dear God -- and remain deeply mired in their own internalized anti-Asian sentiment. We have heard time and again echoes of the model minority myth in western fans’ expectations -- that expectation that we stay quiet when they lash out, when they appropriate, anger and tone policing when we politely ask, “Please don’t do that to our culture? Question mark?”

I also want to make clear that my own followers and mutuals are very sweet, regardless of Asian or western identity, and have only ever been respectful. It’s just that every once in a while, that one asshole comes in and thinks they can just say the racist shit they do with their whole-ass chest, and other assholes flock around them. And because so many of the sweet, well-meaning western fans don’t want to speak over Chinese fans or make the same mistake of talking out of their ass, they just stand by and let it happen. It’s a common paradox you will find in every situation in life.

And then I just want to take back MDZS and never share my culture with anyone ever again. This is the price we pay for acknowledgement -- having people think they can come in and tell me the blacks and whites of my friends, my family, my home, me. This is the mentality behind gentrification -- you get more visitors who love what you have to offer, but have no manners themselves.

Also unlike in testimonies from other diaspora fans, I did not grow up in a white society. White people were our teachers who tried their best to understand us -- their student body made up of mostly people of color. And they sometimes failed, but still tried. So when I think of the standard of trying to not be racist, I think of those teachers. That’s where the bar starts. Being able to recognize racist behavior and shutting that shit down immediately. But every time, those assholes in the Mo Dao fandom either cannot or will not even recognize that behavior, so how do we even start that process?

When it comes to all intercultural interaction, this holds true, but I am going to focus on those western Mo Dao fans in this particular case who thought they could really dismiss this “mob” of angry Asians: Y’all need to have higher standards for yourselves.

#and yes this is in regards to the robin incident but is also a general point #no wonder so many western fans call yu ziyuan an abusive mother jesus christ #y'all would not survive a DAY with a tiger mom #again much love to my mutuals and people with whom i've interacted #it's just that this happens and just...where do we go from here?#mdzs #mo dao #cql #the untamed #tears falling like peridots #side note: i've already been busting all my limits trying to empathize and speak up for the Black community #when it comes to things like their culture being appropriated in K-pop and C-pop #but this just fuels me even more

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starkeristheendgame · 4 years

Note

hey!! im really sorry to bother but i really love your writing & saw that you were taking prompts!! i was wondering if you could do one where tony has a sort of kink for calling peter ‘kid’ in a way, if your comfortable of course! sorry if my English isn’t the best!

I’m so sorry that this got buried to the bottom of my inbox! I hope you’re still around and that you get to see this, and I’m so sorry again that it drowned! I hope you enjoy it and I can only apologise if you hate it 😂

Also; please, please don’t ever apologise for your verbal or lingual ability. Learning another language is hard, and English is noted as one of (if not the most) hardest languages to learn. Being bi/multi-lingual is something to be insanely proud of!

I hope you don’t mind, but all of my prompts recently have been in canon universe, so this is a neighbours AU with no powers. In which Tony is a rich ex-businessman who just wants to tinker on old cars in his (not) retirement and Peter is the high school kid that won’t leave him alone.

TW: ‘Kid’ kink (the term) | Underage character | Underage (SS&C) sex | Daddy kink

Someone had bought the house next to his over the half-term. Peter knew this because the sale sign went down and the garden was immediately de-turfed and a notice was posted through everyone’s door on Wayforest Road that ‘minor construction’ would begun within the next two weeks, from 8am to 5pm daily, save for Saturdays and Sundays.

Peter wanted to laugh in - and then punch - the face of whoever decided to term it minor. Abruptly on the following Monday, almost a full half-hour before his alarm was due to go off, Peter was awoken by deep, loud voices and the clanging of scaffolding poles as the workmen arrived.

Groaning did nothing. Neither did flopping about pathetically on his bed like a beached fish. Burrowing under his duvet and his pillow was also a lost cause; he’d left his window open to keep his room cool in the night.

Seething, Peter flung himself from bed, turned off his alarm, and hopped in the shower. The workmen were gone when he came back, but the house was now a big, ugly grey thing besides his own, and he paused on the sidewalk to eye it mulishly. “If you’re another crabby old man; I’m not helping you walk your groceries up to your porch” he announced loudly to the empty house, and scuttled away to the safety of his own home after being eyed balefully and judgmentally by Mrs. Witkin’s cat.

At the dinner table, the new house and its new occupants were all Aunt May seemed to want to talk about, despite the way Peter’s face resembled less of his usual ‘ :) ‘ and more of a ‘ -.- ‘ as she went on, guessing the features of their new neighbour animatedly around mouthfuls of mashed potato.

Tuesday morning found him jolting awake to a shout of “Jim! Jim! For fuck’s sake, Jim, get tha’ fuckin’ plank!” In a thick, overly loud Irish accent.

By Friday, Peter was ready to forgo just a punch to the face, and was willing to commit all out, planned murder. At somewhere around seven-am every morning that week, the workmen had woken him up with their clanging and their shouting and their existing. Friday evening he stomped around the corner with a glower, fingers tight around his backpack straps. Not even Mrs. Witkin’s mean old cat could deter him from scowling at the house the entire way to his door.

Town rumours be damned; that cat was just old and judgemental, like half the residents there. It was no trapped old lady or cursed young Prince.

Hopefully.

Peter crossed himself on his porch quickly just in case. It could never hurt to be a little superstitious. Especially not after the day that Mr. Herald proclaimed himself immortal and was then promptly wiped out by the tree in his yard collapsing.

By the following Monday, Peter caved and stayed at Ned’s for the night, for the first time in his entire life thankful to hear the music of his alarm and not a series of clangs or yells. It was even good enough that Ned’s snoring didn’t disturb him as much as it usually did. He felt chipper, refreshed. Right up until he turned the corner and found his street lined with vans, the workmen a little late finishing.

The next two months were cesspit of noise and strange men and sleepless days off. Apparently the person who had bought the house must’ve only liked the area and nothing about the house at all, because by week three, all that remained of it was the bare skeleton, gutted and stripped and ugly. But Peter was willing to concede that his new neighbour had good taste.

By the end of the second month the house had been entirely re-built, and Peter was convinced that his new neighbour was some very famous or important person looking for a secret hideaway, or a mob boss. There was no other logical explanation. What had once been a decent but generic detached property with a neglected garden was now a mini-mansion of sorts, all soft creams and light earth tones, with a stonewall front and staggered steps that led onto a half-gravel and half-grass front yard.

Large paned windows were already lined with thick curtains and plants and a sweeping gravel-scape led to a large garage, that seemed to be the most work of the renovation. It was huge, probably taking up over half of what used to be side garden and dead grass. No fence bordered the property, but the difference between Peter’s space and the new person’s space was immaculate and definitive.

“Huh” he mused aloud, blinking. Suddenly, he was less irritated at all those lost half-hours and more curious about who was going to be living there. They had money, for sure. Inheritance? Insurance claim payout? Illegal happenings? Aunt May’s two joking theories were suddenly looking less of a joke and more genuine possibilities.

As it would happen, Peter wouldn’t actually find out for another three or so months. The man moved in on a Saturday, quietly and with a small fleet of sleek SUV vehicles and fancy moving vans. Peter enjoyed a lazy morning, napping until the start of the afternoon and basking in the summer warmth, stretching in front of his bedroom window and looking down in time to see the last of the delivery and moving people packing down their vehicles.

Peter eyed all the bodies curiously, but it soon became clear none of them were his new neighbour, because they all stood around, flipping through paperwork, and then promptly left. Peter lingered under the pretence of dusting at his window ledge, but the street was quiet and empty.

Aunt May was anything but quiet when he finally dragged himself downstairs in search of food. “Peter! Morning, honey. Did you see the vans outside? Very fancy. Big enough for bodies, too, though” May hummed, flipping through the book she was currently reading.

Thirty Ways To Revive Your Youth.

Peter grimaced, and begun to rummage through the cupboards. “Not to question your intelligence, but. Why would a mob boss carry around his victims? Like a few teeth or knuckles ought to serve as good souvenirs. I don’t think carting around whole bodies is practical” Peter pointed out, settling on fruity oatmeal. Aunt May paused in her reading, nose twitching to adjust her glasses as she considered it.

“Hm. Point. Unless they bought the house because they run out of burial room, and these are fairly recent bodies they need the new soil for” she pointed out, and Peter pointed his spoon at her as he passed.

“Point” he agreed.

And so the weeks passed, but the mystery remained. No matter what time Peter tired to linger, or how early he awoke, his neighbour never seemed to be around. Here and there he would catch a figure roaming past the windows, kinda like a ghost, but never a clear view or a face. It was vastly disappointing, but his interest didn’t wane over the months that spanned between his rueful lack of sleep and now.

Now being a hazy Saturday morning, warm but not overly stuffy. Peter was coming back from a morning at Ned’s wherein they’d been steadily chewing away at the LEGO Galactic Supership. He was halfway down the street when a large trailer vehicle begun to drift down the street steadily, heading straight in Peter’s direction.

He paused on the sidewalk, watching it with interest. It was a transportation vehicle, and as it drew closer Peter could see there was a car on the back of it, heavily clamped down and chained to make sure it wouldn’t roll off. The vehicle passed him by some, and he got a clear view of the other car. It looked old, a little broken, rusted. Huge, though. Bigger than all the cars he’d seen before.

It pulled up right outside his neighbours house. Sensing an opportunity, and genuinely curious, Peter lingered, taking a few steps across the sidewalk to eye the car. It was a glossy red, though it had sun fade and was patchy. The chrome was glossy in places and dull, rusted in others. One headlight was missing.

The door of the cab opened, and Peter turned on his heel to see the driver getting out. The friendly greeting died on his lips as toned, thick thighs slid from the cab, followed by trim hips and a long, solid torso only half-hidden under a tank-shirt and overshirt. Broad shoulders prefaced the hottest man that Peter had ever laid eyes on.

He had a shaped jaw that was cut by stubble in a unique style that Peter had never seen anyone wearing before. He had sharp cheeks and dark, deep eyes with long lashes, tanned but not exactly browned and dark, dark hair with the barest flecks of grey at the roots, at his temples.

The man seemed surprised to find him there, pausing mid-way through pushing the door shut and peering around the street before looking back at him. One shaped brow lifted, and Peter stumbled to remember his manners, thrusting out a hand.

“Hi, Mister. Sorry - I was looking at the car. Is it for the new house?” He asked, forcing himself not to blush under the intense gaze. After a brief pause, the man took his hand, palm large and slightly rough, grip firm. He was even more attractive up close, slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes, dark lips and the strong scent of motor oil and grease.

“Would seem that way”.

And Ho-ly voice. Deep and with the softest of rumbles, soothing like a thunderstorm in the far distance. Peter clutched at his jacket when their hands dropped, coughing politely to hide whatever facial expression he’d pulled. The man strode past him and to the car, beginning to work on the many safety straps and chains.

“Did they…Is this theirs?” Peter asked after watching him quietly for several moments with a gesture towards the house besides them. Peter had discovered the house had a second parking bay on the other side, where a glossy black muscle car from the 60′s never seemed to move.

“Theirs’?” The man echoed, pausing in his movements to look up at Peter with curious amusement. It occurred to him then that it was likely some random car recovery guy had seen his new neighbour(s) before he had.

“Uh…Well. I’ve never actually seen them. So I don’t know if its one person, or a whole family, or…” Peter trailed off meekly, looking over his shoulder at the building. It looked as empty as it always did, no lights on and no figures moving behind the windows.

“Townsfolk say its some celebrity having a breakdown. Others say its some old widow using her husband’s life insurance. Even heard from someone that its a mafia lord, settling down in the middle of some quiet ass nowhere town” the recovery man grunted, hauling on a thick, heavy chain. Peter flushed.

Yeah. He was…Guilty of some pretty crazy guesses. But come on. Someone buys a house, spends upwards of hundreds of thousands doing it over, and then…Nothing. No new faces at the grocery store. Never seen, or even heard. Like a ghost.

“They’re not big fans of being…Seen. I guess? I mean, I know a guy with groceries comes around every Monday. Sometimes multiple times a week, but he always puts them in the garage and leaves. And this town is full of judgemental old people - Half of whom probably have mercury poisoning or something. There’s gonna be some pretty wild speculations going around” he pointed out, moving closer to look at what appeared to be a scratch in the paintwork.

The car gave a faint creak as the man released all of the holds on this side, snorting as he rounded the back of the vehicle and went to the other side with a loud, amused snort. Peter followed, and stifled a gasp at the sight of the other car. The man turned, eyeing him for a moment, before nodding.

“Got T-boned by an estate car. But she’s a tough old thing. Heavy metals and good steel; not like today’s cars. She came out better off” he mumbled as he worked on a thick strap, carefully taking apart the various clasps and buckles. Peter approached the car carefully, stretching up on his toes to brush his fingertips over the warped metal. He felt almost….Sad for the car.

He traced the flaking paint and the twisted, dented metal tenderly, and when he pulled away, the man was watching him again, movements slowed as he pulled the material through the metal. “Is this their car? What good is it now if its all broken up?” He asked curiously.

The man ducked his head, moving onto another thick chain. “Its just the one guy. I guess its a…Hobby. Of his. Bought her yesterday at a scrap lot”. He seemed uncomfortable saying it, but to Peter it was like gold trust. One guy. Huh. A big old house like that? That seemed rather lonely. Maybe it really was some rich old person retiring, enjoying a quiet place and a mechanics hobby.

Peter was going to ask more, but the car was freed with a grinding sound, and the man gestured him carefully back with his hand, holding it out in front of Peter to walk him back like a horse, to a safe distance. The man used two remotes to bring the car to the ground, Peter watching in fascination as rotors and rolling mechanisms moved it backwards and onto the tarmac of the road.

“How do you plan on moving it now?” Peter asked, and immediately regretted it as the man shed his over-shirt. Biceps. Shoulders. Forearms. His throat went dry and he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks.

As it turns out, the plan was simply ‘push’. Peter scoffed, but was soon at a loss to anything but stare as the man leaned heavily against the trunk of the car, muscles bulging in the afternoon sun. Heavy or not, the car soon begun to roll, and after a moment Peter dropped his backpack and came up besides the straining man, leaning all his might against the metal.

It probably did fuck all, but the man gave him a wry grin all the same, chest heaving with deep, controlled breaths as they moved the car across the flat ground and onto the side-drive space. Peter’s shoulder ached and his arms and thighs suddenly felt like jelly, but the man slapped him across the back.

“Good effort, kid” and then moved away, heading towards the front door. Peter gaped as the man simply grasped the doorhandle and pushed the door open, and floundered on the drive. “Wait! You’re just gonna walk into his house?” He called, and the man paused mid-step, looking back at him.

“Well. I ought to just ‘walk in’. Its my house”. And with a lewd, perfect wink he was gone. Peter wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself, flailing on the driveway with error logs flashing behind his eyes. That was his neighbour. His neighbour was some rich, late-thirty something hot-hot-hot guy who fixed broken classic cars.

“Oh my god” Peter muttered, stomping down the driveway to get his bags. Four months. He’d lived next to this Playgirl model for four months.

He decided against telling Aunt May. It felt selfish, but it also felt good to know he was the only person to have seen him. Even though he realised not long after reaching his room that he hadn’t even gotten his name. Peter waited by his window for hours, but saw neither hair nor hide of the man again. By morning, the transport truck was gone and the cherry red car was presumably inside the garage.

The damned guy was magic. There was no other explanation. Fuelled, Peter spent the Sunday morning in the kitchen, furiously baking with narrowed eyes and a plan. The muffins were done by mid-day, and Peter iced them carefully before boxing them, and stomping across the sidewalk to his neighbour’s house.

Peter knocked, and waited. Knocked again. Waited. “If you don’t answer the door then I’m just going to sit here” he announced loudly, knocking again before plopping down onto the porch just to prove a point. Several long minutes passed before his neighbour appeared around the corner, from the garage judging by the grease steaks up his arms, scowling.

“Kid. Here’s a life tip; if someone doesn’t answer the door, its because they don’t want company” the man huffed, but his eyes zeroed in on the box with intense curiosity, and Peter shrugged, smug.

“You came out, though” he pointed out, pushing himself to his feet. The man scoffed, but allowed him to follow, leading the way around the building where a small side-door was open.

“I came out about thirty years ago, kiddo. If that’s a congratulations cake, you’re a little late”. Peter tripped over the gravel, fighting his legs to remain upright and his stomach did a weird knot inside him. Oh. Not only was his neighbour hot, but he was at the least male inclined, too.

Very interesting.

“Actually, these are just welcome muffins. Chocolate and orange” Peter murmured, stepping inside the garage. It was bigger than it seemed, and the cherry red car stood in the centre, sanded down and clearly being worked on already.

“Peter, by the way. Peter Parker” he added after a pause, and almost offered his hand for a second time, but settled instead on thrusting the muffin box at the man. He raised a brow, but delved inside to pull one out, clearly eager at the prospect.

“Tony” he offered simply, and Peter tested it on his tongue, enjoying the shape. For now; he’d let the lack of a last name go. Good things in time, after-all. Choosing to invite himself to stay, Peter perched primly on top of the edge of the workbench, electing another raised brow, but Tony’s mouth was too full of muffin to object.

Tony begun to work as he ate, and Peter sat in content silence, watching as Tony and his bulging arm muscles took each wheel off the car and begun to strip it of all its chrome features. Peter checked his phone after a while and was surprised to find that around four hours had passed. May would be home from her sewing group about now. He ought to head home.

“I’ll be back tomorrow” he announced, and jumped at the same time Tony did, the man smacking his arm off warped metal with a shout. Tony whirled on him, eyes wide, gaze flicking between him and the door, before he looked…Confused.

“You’re still here?” He asked, and Peter snorted as he dusted off his pants, heading for the door with a shake of his head. May came home shortly after he did, and Peter supposed he ought to let her know that he’d be visiting Tony again tomorrow.

“So he’s not a mafia boss? Or a celebrity?” She asked around a mouthful of roasted chicken, looking rather disappointed as Peter shrugged and shook his head.

“He just seems…Aloof? I don’t know. Maybe he’s some business tycoon or something. But he seems nice. I’m just going over to help him with this car he’s got. It’s real nice, too” Peter hummed, and Aunt May narrowed her eyes at him.

“Are you sure? I mean, you don’t know him. He’s a stranger. Albeit a hot one, apparently. And you have school tomorrow, too. You shouldn’t be hanging around strangers. Unless…If he happens to be single…I’d be open to his number” May shrugged after a pause, and Peter blinked.

May was surprisingly easy to placate, and he assured her that if she wanted to, she could march right over to Tony and give him a Mother Hen Talk after dinner, but she decided against that, and in favour of a hot bath. School on Monday rolled around quicker than Peter could say ‘garage’ and he decided against telling Ned about Tony.

He wanted Tony all to himself. At least…For as long as he could. It was strange, but he found his heart thumping as he marched down Tony’s driveway and up to the garage door this time, knocking on it loudly. He’d brought lemonade and sandwiches this time.

The garage door opened, and Tony looked equally as startled to see Peter there as he had the day prior, gaze raking his body before frowning, and stepping aside with a sigh. “You’re like a mosquito, kid. I came here to get away from people” Tony announced pointedly, and Peter founded on him with an unimpressed gaze and an arched brow of his own.

“If you truly wanted to get away from people, you’d have moved out in the mountains or something. Now, get back to work. In an hour you can stop for supper. I brought chicken sandwiches” he ordered, taking his seat from the day before and pulling his calculus homework from his bag.

He kept his gaze down as Toy stared at him, mouth opening and closing several times, before he went for his wrench, muttering to himself as he lay down on a wheeled bench and rolled under the car. Peter smiled quietly into his papers. A little over two hours later - he lost count, sue him - Peter pushed himself to his feet and strode over to the car, kicking Tony lightly in the ankle that stuck out.

“We can eat now” he announced, walking back over to his pack and taking out the tupperware he’d packed this morning. He could hear the sound of the wheels moving, and he turned, holding out the box. Tony looked perplexed, but approached and took it, still looking puzzled even as he bit into his own portion.

“Not that the pattern of snacks isn’t appreciated, kid, but…Why are you here?” he asked after he’d swallowed, and Peter actually had to think about it, flushing as his mind conjured up inappropriate responses like ‘I want to lick your arms’ and ‘You look like the hot mechanics in my pornos’.

He settled on a shrug, chewing slowly for more time. “You’re interesting. You’re my neighbour. You’re not a mafia boss or a broken down celebrity” he pointed out. Tony twitched on the last one, but gave a hum and moved away, scarfing down the last of his sandwich and returning to the car. This time, when Peter informed him he was leaving and would be back tomorrow again, Tony neither jumped nor looked surprised.

It became a pattern. Three out of seven days a week, Peter would sit in the garage with his homework or revision and Tony would work on the red car, which Peter came to learn was a 1958 Plymouth Fury. “Just like in Christine” Tony had huffed proudly, and had then been quickly appalled when Peter had simply stared blankly.

That night, Peter had watched the movie, and his next visit was spent talking animatedly about it with Tony, discussing their favourite parts and what it might be like if it was ever re-made. After a month, Aunt May picked her way across the gravel to finally meet the man her adopted son kept disappearing off to be with, and Peter had the unfortunate experience of watching them flirt together, Tony in a cheeky, smooth, outrageous manner and Aunt May like a school-girl. When he begun to gag in the corner, Tony threw an oil rag at him.

One day, a week before the summer holidays, Peter rounded the corner to find Tony stood on the porch, looking angry and tense and talking to a tall woman with red hair, tied up in a ponytail. Peter stopped and lingered, unsure of what to do. Besides him and May, he’d never seen anyone else talking to Tony. Even the grocery delivery guy simply put the bags in the garage and left.

After a while, the woman turned away, looking sullen and displeased, and slipped into a sleek black SUV, pulling off with a screech of her tires and the rev of her engine. By the time Peter reached the house, Tony was back inside, and he knocked quietly, leaning closer to the door.

Tony didn’t answer.

“Mr. Tony? I’m not sure what happened, but…If you’re not up for hanging out today, its cool. I brought soup, but I’ll leave yours on the porch. It might be hot, so…Be careful”. Peter stooped and left the thermos close to the door, before leaving. He felt uncomfortable for the rest of the day, longed to go see Tony, but everything in his gut told him to let him be for a time.

Whoever that man had been, he was clearly someone Tony didn’t like or want around.

Almost a whole week passed in which Tony didn’t answer the door, and by the Saturday, the first official day of the summer holidays, Peter was moping. Not to anyone that asked, but it was clear to even Ned that he’d been a little down lately, declining a celebratory LEGO fest in exchange for slinking up to his room.

No sooner had he toed off his shoes, the doorbell rung. Peter groaned, turning on his heel and abandoning his sweater on the staircase. It was probably another of Aunt May’s Amazon orders. Since she’d discovered the wonders of online shopping, Peter had learned their regular post-man was named Greg, he had two kids and a poodle, and was allergic to shrimp.

“What has she bought this ti- Tony?” Peter paused mid-sentence, eyes widening at the sight on his doorstep. Tony looked rough, dark circles under his eyes, his face looking more lined than before, but he gave a weak smile up at Peter, still stiff and unsure.

“Hey, kiddo. Figured you might…I made spaghetti. And I still have your thermos. Was gonna work on the car a bit”.

Peter recognised it for the attempted invitation that it was, and didn’t bother to fight off his broad grin. “Lucky for you, I love spaghetti. I just gotta grab a sweater on” he beamed, practically flinging himself up the stairs. Tony’s spaghetti was amazing, with some kind of pink-ish sauce, little chunks of shrimp and prawns, all tangy and sweet.

He even let Peter help with the car. Or…Well. He let Peter hold the torch. And the wrench. But still.

He was still grinning when he skipped home that evening, and when he crawled into bed his dreams were filled with oil-stained arms and a low, rumbling voice. He gasped awake in the early hours, cock hard and leaning against his hip, Tony’s voice echoing in his skull.

He shouldn’t.

He bit his lip and reached down, whimpering as he wrapped a hand around himself. He was too hard to last more than a few minutes, stifling his yell of “Tony!” Into his pillow as he came. When he arrived at Tony’s house later in the day, he could barely look the man in the eyes, flustered and shy.

The holidays continued in a similar fashion. They hung out almost every day in the garage, often for an entire day. Peter felt guilty about abandoning Ned, but looking at Tony’s broad smile, listening to his quips, watching his abs flex under his shirts as he lifted things...It was worth it.

By the fourth week of his holidays, after numerous days of lounging together with takeout and Tony helping him with his homework, Peter piped up.

“Peter”.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Peter” he repeated, nudging Tony gently where they lay together on the floor of the garage, staring up at the underside of the car. It was almost complete. Something to do with the clutch, and then all it needed was new paint. “You keep calling me ‘kid’. So. Y’know. In case you’d forgotten” he hummed.

Besides him Tony stilled, only briefly, before relaxing and swatting at him. “You are a kid, though”.

“I’m sixteen. I’m not a kid” Peter huffed, rolling onto his side and kneeing Tony in the thigh. Tony let his head loll, looking across at him with dark, dark eyes, and Peter’s breath hitched. Tony was close enough to kiss. And god, Peter wanted to kiss him. Had spent the past few weeks staring at his body, his mouth when he talked, waking up at night hard and aching.

Peter let his gaze drop, to plush lips outlined by dark stubble, and then he pushed himself up, momentarily hovering over Tony as he got his legs beneath him. “And you’re an old man” he tried, teasing, tugging at a lock of hair at Tony’s temple.

For the briefest, briefest of moments, Tony’s gaze went even darker. Hungrier. Peter thought about it in the shower that night, two fingers stuffed inside himself with too-little prep, mewling against the shower tiles. Almost as if…

He begun to get bolder. Touched Tony more. Stood closer. Any excuse to be in his space. If Tony noticed he said nothing, only giving lingering, unreadable looks and only ever turning away with a poorly hidden smirk whenever Peter said anything just a little too obvious.

On the last week of his holidays, Peter was kneeling half over Tony, dabbing gingerly at a slice on his bicep while the man clutched an ice-pack to his knee. The cherry red car was out, and an old, 1957 Chrysler Saratoga was in. And apparently, angry.

“Kid, seriously. I’m fine” Tony huffed, swatting at him as he dabbed away another crust of blood, peering at the wound. It wasn’t that deep, but it had bled something fierce. Peter lifted his gaze, scowling at him.

“I’m not a kid!” He snarked, pressed a little too hard on the wound just because he could. Watched Tony flinch under his touch and instantly felt guilty. He pulled away the cloth and ducked down, pressed a kiss to the wound before he could ever think about it. Aunt May had always done it for him, kissing his ouchies better. He froze, lips against jagged skin.

“Kid” Tony rasped, looking down at him with wide, dark eyes. Peter jerked backwards, and huffed.

“Keep calling me kid, I’m gonna start calling you ‘old man’“ he scowled. He was about to say ‘Or worse, Dad’, but…That was a bumpy road and he wasn’t ready to loose whatever he had built with Tony. Not yet. The older man snorted back at him, eyes rolling, and reached out, fingers closing around his jaw gently to shake his head a little.

“Look at you. You are. That little baby face. And you’re so small, like a cat. All slender. Couldn’t even lift up the gearbox. All big eyes and too must trust. I could’ve been an old pervert or sex criminal and you just walked right up to me and wouldn’t leave” Tony murmured, voice half-gone and gaze fixed on where he held Peter’s jaw.

“Wouldn’t - Did not” Peter managed, though he was already getting hard, his breathing was already a little shorter. Sharper. Tony gave a deep breath, fingers flexing against his jaw.

“You’re just a kid. A little baby. All soft-cheeked and gentle. You’re a kid now and you’ll be a kid for a long time. Nothing like me”.

And. Huh.

Peter blinked, jaw still clasped in Tony’s grip, and he relaxed his body, inching a little closer. “What is it about that, then? Why is that such a bad thing?”

“Its not. Its not bad. I’m just…I’m the bad one. Christ. Kid. You’re - You sit here doing homework. You don’t even have facial hair yet. I bet you haven’t even popped a stiffy before”. The words startled Tony as much as Peter, both visibly jolting, and Tony immediately looked like he wanted to die.

“Hey! Not true! Every night this holiday I’ve done more than ‘pop a stiffy’ over y-”. Peter bit down on his tongue, hard, watched the way Tony’s eyes widened. Fuck. They both jerked backwards, equally as taken aback by the revelation. There was no doubt as to what Peter had been about to say. Now way he could laugh it off or change it; though the subject was bad enough.

“I…”

“Kid…”

Peter huffed, leaning back on his haunches and dropping the cloth. “What, you got a kink for the word or something, Mister Tony?” Peter grumbled, but he could see Tony physically tense up opposite him, and he looked up, watched the almost shameful way that Tony turned his gaze away.

It hit him.

“You…Do” he huffed numbly.

“Its not…Christ. Peter. I’m not a…I’m not attracted to kids. I don’t know what it is. I just…Fuck. Maybe you should be calling me an old pervert. Fuck. I…Peter. You have to believe I don’t..I’ve never touched a kid. Never. My youngest partner was twenty when I was thirty. She was a hooker in Dubai and…Wait. You’re a fucking kid. I shouldn’t be talking about hookers and swearing and-”

Peter clamped a hand over Tony’s mouth, shaking his head. Jesus. He knew it was true, though. Tony was a recluse and laughably inept at anything social, but he wasn’t some scorned kiddie-toucher banished to a quaint little town.

“I know, Tony. I know. And I believe you. But if its not that, then…What is it?”. Tony only blinked at him slowly, for several beats, and it was then that Peter realised that his hand was on Tony’s mouth, and the man couldn’t speak. Though he could well have moved it himself. He let it drop, flushing.

“I don’t know” Tony croaked helplessly, and he looked so small, so lost. It was instinct that had Peter leaning forwards, gathering Tony in a tight embrace. The older man stiffened, but then relaxed, hand hesitantly falling to Peter’s side, featherlight like he was scared to touch him.

“Its…You’re so delicate. So…Untouched. Like a painting. Pretty. You shouldn’t be touched. Not yet. Not by me. But I want to”. It made Peter’s spine tingle and arch, letting out a surprised breath against the curve of Tony’s jaw. Tony made him sound like the Mona Lisa or something.

“I’m not a good person, Peter. I’m…All these months, you don’t even know my last name. Half the town thinks I’m a murderer or some kind of lunatic. But I’m worse than that”. Tony practically breathed it into his shoulder, head falling. Peter clutched at him, suddenly scared. Worse than those things?

“Tony Stark”.

Peter paused. Was silent for such a long time that Tony tensed against him again, before he begun to pet gently at Tony’s shoulders. “…Who? I mean, the name is vaguely familiar. But…Who?”

Tony pulled away, leaned back, looking up at him with glossy eyes and a ludicrous expression. “Stark. Tony Stark”.

Peter raised a brow. “Bond, James Bond?”

“What? No. The weapons company? Stark Industries?” Tony asked after a pause, like it was information Peter ought to know. After another pause of his mind being ridiculously blank, Peter sat upright, head tilting.

“Oh! Yeah. Stark Industries. But…What about it?”

Tony blinked at him, slowly, like there was a punchline he’d missed, and then he was reaching out, crushing Peter to his chest to the boy fell half over him with a yelp, squeezing him gently.

“You’re - Unbelievable. Never change, kid. I’m…I did bad things. I killed people. Carried on the family name despite spending my life trying to outrun it. I…I was betrayed. So I fixed it, and I left. And I was supposed to keep my hands off anything good. Anyone good. And here you are”.

“Okay. Firstly? You gotta stop calling me ‘kid’ now I know its a kink and you don’t intend to do anything about it. Secondly…I don’t know what you did. Or what happened. But I know what you’ve been since you got here. Who you’ve become. And I think you’re a good man” he breathed, adjusting so he was no longer straining, half-straddling Tony.

“You shouldn’t…” Tony didn’t finish the sentence, and there were a million things he could’ve said. But Peter chose to ignore them all, squirming his way closer until he really was sat in Tony’s lap. And this was more than they’d ever done.

More than the one-armed hugs and lingering touches, more than leaning shoulder-to-shoulder eating noodles. More than Peter listing against Tony’s side in the early morning hours, maths homework forgotten on the bench and Tony sitting still, so still, so as not to wake him.

“I’m old enough to know ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’, Mr. Stark. Besides. This is just…Hugging. Right? Innocent” he hummed, even as he deliberately shifted on Tony’s lap, a little heavier than he ought to, spread his legs wider around Tony’s hips.

“Ki- Peter” Tony huffed against him, fingers tightening around the hem of his sweater. It wasn’t until Peter shifted again that he realised; Tony was hard. Well. Getting there, but hard enough for Peter to recognise it. To feel it, digging into the round meat of his asscheek.

“I don’t touch kids” Tony repeated, and Peter snorted softly, shaking his head as he gripped at Tony’s broad shoulders, muscle honed by years of hard work. Muscle that led up to rough stubble, a sharp jaw that Peter nosed at.

“Good thing I’m not actually a kid then, Mr. Stark. That means you can touch”.

Tony surged forwards on a growl, lay Peter out like a feast on the garage floor; but still hovered over him. Reluctant. Uncertain. Peter lifted his legs, wrapped them around Tony’s waist, tight and steady. “Kiddo…”

“Mm. Your kiddo. Or I could be. If you kissed me” Peter grinned, breathless and bold with the sweet taste of Tony so close. Mere inches. “Kiss me” Peter repeated, and Tony growled as he surged downwards.

When Tony came, it was with ‘kid’ sharp and electric on his tongue. And…Well. Peter felt a little mollified, so naturally, it led to round two, pressing Tony down against the concrete, milking him for all he was worth as a broken ‘Peter!�� cracked on his tongue like a prayer.

The rounds after that were just…Well.

Purely selfish.

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withthebeatlesgirls · 4 years

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Were any of the Beatles possessive?

kinda long post

John was probably the most possessive. Which he admits to

“I was a very jealous, possessive guy. Toward everything. A very insecure male. A guy who wants to put his woman in a little box, lock her up, and just bring her out when he feels like playing with her. She’s not allowed to communicate with the outside world – outside of me – because it makes me feel insecure.”- John Lennon

he was deeply possessive over Cynthia and could get easily jealous. That’s what caused the infamous and awful story where he slapped her, it was because she was just dancing with another guy and he got jealous and slapped her.

Here’s a story from Pete Best

“The German boys persisted and reached the pawing stage. Paul, who frequently doubled on piano during this second tour, couldn’t really see what was going on, but Lennon and I could. Right from the start in the Casbah, John was always very jealous whenever Cyn was around; if anyone tried to talk to her while he was playing, Lennon would try to wither them with a laser-like glare. Once off-stage they would be abruptly told to ‘fuck off.’ It was obvious that night in the Top Ten that the two girls were now a little scared. At the end of the number, the heavy mob of Lennon and Best sailed in to save them. In his usual blunt manner, John handed out a verbal lashing and for a few moments a nasty scene threatened to develop.

'Why are you butting in?’ one of the Germans asked arrogantly, sparring for trouble, which resulted in some pushing and jostling.

'That’s my girlfriend you’re messing about with,’ John snarled at him.”

He was even Jealous during the time of their divorce and wasn’t ok with the idea of her loving someone else.

He was absolutely frantic with rage at the thought of another man making love to his own wife…he sure as hell was not prepared to put up with her loving someone else.— Alistair Taylor

This possessive behavior certainly did not stop when he left Cyn and got with Yoko.

“When you actually are in love with somebody you tend to be jealous, and want to own them and possess them one hundred percent, which I do… I love Yoko, I want to possess her completely. I don’t want to stifle her, you know? That’s the danger, that you want to possess them to death.” - John

Yoko says “John was a good husband because he didn’t pressure me but sometimes, out of love, he was a bit possessive.”

He didn’t even want her to go to the bathroom by herself, he wanted to be with her all the time. I like to think he got better with this over time.

There are a few songs that have to do with his possessiveness, most notably are Run For Your Life which is a Beatles song, and then Jealous Guy which is a solo song. Run For Your Life seems to be a song where you’re caught up in that possessiveness and jealousy and Jealous Guy is the regret later.

I don’t think Paul was ever overly possessive over Jane, but he did want her to quit or cut down on her career so she’d be there for him more and eventually become your typical housewife (Which is sexist but was the norm sadly) but Jane never gave into this.

Linda’s friend Peter Cox has said that Paul was very controlling over Linda, here are some things he has said.

“Every marriage has its ups and downs, of course. In her low moments, the idea of leaving him did cross her mind, but she immediately rejected it. Her family was the most important thing in her life and there was no way she’d give them up. At the low points, she did feel trapped.”

‘’Mr Cox claimed the star (Paul) had ‘a darker side and could be very controlling. Linda often had to dance attendance upon him. He bossed her around’.”

‘’Mr Cox said he came to the conclusion that Paul kept his wife on a ‘tight leash - like a caged animal’’.

"We were very close. We always had lots of hugs but it was a platonic relationship. I was happily married. I don't know if Paul was jealous but I was conscious that he might have been. There were no hugs when he was around."

It’s important to remember that we don’t know if Peter is that credible. I personally do believe Paul was controlling, but not to the extent that he is claiming he was.

I feel like the song Letting Go shows him getting over this controlling behavior though and letting her do her own thing.

There’s a few examples of George getting possessive over Pattie

These examples are from Tony Bramwell’s book the Magical Mystery Tours

“After the first flush of being seen with everyone, everywhere, as soon as they moved into the country with their women, the Beatles became quite reclusive. They didn’t hang out on the scene, and didn’t really know many musicians, not on a personal, friendship level. Their lives remained concentrated on the four of them and their small circle. Also, their domestic arrangements were very tight. George, normally the most private of people, became wildly jealous and possessive over Pattie. He holed up in Esher when they were married and would come into town only for recording sessions. He became very private and didn’t go boogalooing a lot, unlike Pattie who wanted to have fun - lots of it.”

“Sometimes, when we were in the studio, George didn’t seem to care who heard him anguishing, tearfully begging her to come home. It was embarrassing have to listen to this. And it was even more embarrassing for me to see George, my old Liverpool mate who’d always had all the girls looking at him with big calf eyes since he’d been about twelve, on the end of the telephone, acting like a lovesick calf himself, as he pleaded with Pattie on the bar phone at whatever club she happened to be in. Pattie was so beautiful. She was his first big love and he couldn’t stand the pain. In the end, being excessively worshipped and being the worshipper, were too much for both of them - she wasn’t for him.”

Now Bramwell’s credibility is also questionable. I have a hard time believing that George was crying while begging Pattie to come home, I could see something like this happening where he is more annoyed or passive-aggressive with her if she did this, but I think if anything like this happened then Bramwell certainly exaggerated it to make it more dramatic than it actually was.

Here’s a story from Pete Shotton that was at a party that was held for the private screening of Magical mystery tour.

“Another unpleasant scene developed toward the end of the party when a band took to the stage and most of the guests paired off to dance. Totally ignoring Cyn (who was decked out for the occasion as a fairy princess), John instead lavished all his attentions on Pattie Harrison - with whom he actually went as far as to “dance”, probably for the first time in five years. Though Pattie had undeniably made herself especially desirable as a scantily clad belly dancer, neither Cyn nor George were the least bit amused with John’s open flirtation with her.”

I think in this scenario it’s impossible not to be a little jealous, who wants their friend flirting with their wife?

He also like Paul with Jane wanted Pattie to cut down on her career/ stop it all together. I think part of this reason was because he didn’t like other men looking at his wife, but I think there are a few reasons why he disliked her modeling, that’s just one of them.

And of course, there’s the whole Pattie/Clapton affair, but I don’t know if he was ever possessive over Pattie during that. I think he was more just sad and hurt, there may have been some jealousy in there but I think that developed a little later when it became more serious. At first, I doubt he saw Eric as a threat, but as things continued I think he found it annoying that this dude was pursing his wife and eventually I think he was deeply upset when he knew Pattie reciprocated Eric’s feelings, but I think he tried to bury those feelings.

I don’t think Ringo ever got overly possessive over Mo or Barbara, least I haven’t heard many stories of this. Mo for most of the marriage (Until near the end) was utterly devoted to Ringo and I think he knew that he was comfortable with her. And he and Barbara have gone through so much together that I’m sure they’re passed all that.

Although I do think he was hurt by the George/Maureen affair, I think it was more like “damn this is the final straw, our marriage was already on its last leg” which is pretty sad.

But that’s pretty much my knowledge on the Beatles being possessive over their women.

#John Lennon #Cynthia Lennon #john x cyn #theres probably a million stories of john being possessive over cyn #yoko ono #john x yoko #paul mccartney #jane asher #paul x jane #George Harrison #Pattie Boyd #george x pattie #ringo starr #Maureen Cox #ringo x maureen

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lost-in-zembla · 4 years

Text

On Metamodernism

It’s tough to grasp metamodernism as an artistic movement but most of us live lives strongly affected by the concepts of metamodernism every day. You’re having a serious conversation with your friend about her mental health; simultaneously, you and your friend are part of a groupchat where you are currently making fun of the very friend you are supporting. This isn’t necessarily disingenuous; you are witnessing two different instances of a person and those two instantiations of you happen to be different depending on context and medium. In part, metamodernism is a kind of acceptance of our multiple selves, our tendency to oscillate between states or even inhabit both in a sort of human superposition.

I taught my friends about metamodernism in our groupchat as my friend Jarett consoled me via one-on-one text after the sudden implosion of my five-year long relationship and the fact that my life is generally unbearable—a fact that is more embarrassing when one considers how easy I have it. It’s sort of a shame feedback loop.

As I was explaining metamodernism for my own satisfaction, I thought that I might actually make an okay professor. I could teach American literature. Maybe.

So I get a job teaching at the local community college and my life slowly comes back together like a cut that heals. I am relatively respected by my students and I have some abstract sense purpose, the cracks in the surface of which are only visible if one spends a long, existential period of time contemplating the practical or, god-forbid, spiritual uses of an education in American literature what with the reality of a global climate catastrophe and the approaching drumbeats of right-wing strongmen leaders reaching positions of power all around the world.

But things are pretty good.

I get a parking space. I get an apartment that looks bad, then looks better. I start to open the curtains. I don’t want to hide so much. A year or two down the line I lease a practical car and people treat me with a bit more respect when they see me step out of it. I smile at people in the grocery store. At this point I can see peoples’ mouths when I go outside. When I see their mouths, they’re smiling. They can see my mouth. I’m smiling.

I get to know people and people think I’m lovely. The faculty all look up to me. How young and handsome and intelligent he is! He’ll sure go places, they say. And I do. I quickly earn a raise and then I’m head of the department. And so young! When I’m not inspiring awe I inspire smoldering jealousy. Women? Naturally. And I treat each of them with utmost respect. I value these women for more than the thousands of hours of hot naked ecstasy they provide me. I buy more fresh produce. I throw none of it out.

I single-handedly save the English department at the community college. Funding comes pouring in. Eventually, it becomes one of the premier colleges for literary studies in the Midwest. They rename a building after me. I just turned thirty. Before long, I’m offered a job at the prestigious private university in town, with nods toward a proverbial shoe in the door when it comes to tenure. Unheard of! But he’s just that good. My wrists and forearms become perceptibly thicker. People cross the street in front of traffic to shake my hand. I learn what the fuck “ketosis” is.

Then there I am one day in my cushy office. Rows of leather-bound books fill the shelves around the ample perimeter of the room. I’ve read them all, naturally. My hair has started to grey in places but damn if it’s not as thick and lush as the heart of the Amazon. A knock on the door. My office hours ended at one. I answer and it’s, oh, Claire from this semester’s modern American literature course. Of course I’ve noticed her in class. How could I not? But I’d always maintained a professional and appropriately avuncular demeanor in front of her. She’s twenty-eight, French, gorgeous. Naturally.

We discuss her essay on Light in August and I say to her, you know, Claire, it was the French who were among the first to notice Faulkner’s genius. She puts her hand on my thigh. In her accent that itself somehow resembles a beautiful naked body she says, The French notice lots of things. I slide my attractively thick forearm over the crowded desk space and knock the books and pens and everything onto the floor and—well, let’s just say that my life of success and talent has enhanced me in other ways. And it’s hot and insane and weird and papers fly everywhere. And it sort of just goes on like that for weeks and then months—the relationship, not that particular sexual event. At my age, after all the sex and drugs and joy and tragedy, sometimes I think that it’s the clandestine nature of the thing that really gets me off. Like I need more and more secret or shameful shit to fire off those tired old neurons. I start to become cavalier in front of the students. I begin to, perhaps, show my hand.

I get another knock on my office, sometime in the Spring. Bill, I say. Come in. He sits down and we engage in a tense discussion where every syllable is laced with a double entendre because he can’t just say it out loud, for Christ’s sake. That’s just not how these things are done. He’s old school, but firm, Bill. She’s graduating anyway, and something tells me when we can finally be together publicly then the thrill will already be gone.

The students already know. I’ve seen the screenshots. I’ve been memed. Things are tense in class and they can tell that I’ve given up. The fire in my eye that led to my meteoric rise has dimmed to a pathetic ember. Sometimes I take my Audi out on a dark highway outside of town and I press on the accelerator until I can’t go any faster. I have to stop myself from shutting my eyes.

One day in class, I look up from my papers and all the students are out of their desks, standing over me. They’re holding pencils and yardsticks that have been modified into edged weapons. What’s the meaning of this? They use my Tom Ford tie to tie my arms behind me and to my chair. They put me in the center of the room. I knew they would betray me. I’d always known. For years this notion has haunted the deepest recesses of my mind: these people, these kids, are going to be the ones to put this old dog down. Is this because of Claire, I ask. They laugh. They laugh because they think I’m an old fool. I am an old fool.

No, professor, Shellie says. She seems to be the leader. It’s much more serious than that, she says. O life! Everything I’ve ever done. I’ve stomped on people all the way to the top and now it’s all coming back to me, some sort of holdup in the karmic clerical system that led to forty years of consequences all delivered at once. Things were so easy for so long, so fun, that I forgot what it was like to live a life with consequences.

Shut up, she says. You’re here for a reason. What could she know? How did she mobilize all of these students? When did they make the weapons? How many questions could I possibly pose in sequence?

Professor, she says, we have one question for you. Anything, I say. And answer truthfully, she says. And I say of course, of course I’ll be completely honest. Okay, professor, she says, do you consider yourself… a historicist? At this very moment I know it’s over for me. Well, I say, it’s not so simple, Shellie. The mob is in an uproar. A fair bit of verbal sparring ensues. Shellie and the other students in favor of the transcendent nature of literature—whatever that means—and me in favor of a more context-based approach. Sure, if I thought that novels were a good way to learn about history then I’d deserve this. I’d deserve all of this.

How can you read these works outside of their historical context? What about Light in August for God’s sake? The mob lashes out again—not Faulkner fans, go figure—but Shellie shushes them until the classroom is as silent as the dusty hills of Jerusalem. Literature, she says, is timeless. And this essentially breaks me. I begin weeping openly. You might as well kill me, then, I say. They set upon me like a pack of hyenas.

A moment or an eternity after my head is pulled off my body like the Bacchae in that Euripides tragedy, I hear waves lap against the rocks. I feel in my face the salty breeze of the ocean. I open my eyes to find a beautiful Mediterranean island. It feels neither hot nor cold. The breeze from the ocean feels perfect, as though there were no storms to be found in any corner of the Earth.

Behind me, inland, I hear the sound of approaching footsteps. I turn around to find Vladimir goddamn Nabokov of all people. It’s perfect. So I tell him the story, how I was murdered by my students over two reductive and non-mutually exclusive schools of thought in literature—two schools of thought that are both perfect lenses through which to view Nabokov’s work. When I tell him he laughs his big Russian laugh and slaps me on the shoulder, and I laugh. Then he hands me a butterfly net and we skip through pleasant hills in that vast and timeless place forever and ever.

No. What’s happening? It’s all slipping away from me now. All the memories, the moments, the time, leaking out of my mind to become something ghostly, an image half-developed, a thought unspoken. I lift my head and look at my hands and there I am, lying on a couch in a high school faculty lounge. My hands are unwrinkled. My body is young. There is no Humanities Wing in my name, no tenure, no Audi. No Claire. Was it all just a dream? Could it all have been just a dream? Is it within the realm of possibility that such an absurdly bad trope could have manifested into my life naturally? Or am I the subject of a cruel and untalented god who simply bats me about and writes hack narratives for me to tumble through like some Sisyphean Rube Goldberg machine? Coffee. Need Coffee.

It’s all silly, anyway. Nabokov and myself cavorting through some weird Elysium? Ridiculous. If that was what the afterlife had in store for me, then Nabokov would probably be hanging out with Pushkin and Tolstoy while maybe Dostoevsky and I build a sandcastle. Maybe. But then, in all likelihood, Nabokov, Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and the other cool kids would kick sand in my face and walk off with whatever beautiful ladies happen to inhabit this weird Russian-literary Elysium that I’ve somehow ended up in. I haven’t thought this out very well.

What was this all about, again? Metamodernism. Easy. Let’s think.

Okay.

As I write this now, behind my computer, watching Youtube videos about sushi, wondering how the sushi will make its way into my writing through mental osmosis (not subtly, it turns out), I look at these instances of me, with the meteoric success or the banal day-to-day life, and I wonder who exactly I am. I am a thousand selves. I am nothing. I am trying to remember into the future who I am. I am a metamodernist—no, I’m not.

#metamodernism #literary criticism #my writing #vladimir nabokov #william faulkner #teacher #professor #teaching #teach #writing #writers on tumblr #writer #creative nonfiction #nonfiction #fiction #i don't know what i'm doing

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