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2hightocare · 5 months

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TUTUS AND TIARAS!

Synopsis— What Iseul says Jungkook does, besides tutus and tiaras are not that bad…

“Did Iseul lose a tooth? Why is Kook dressed as the tooth fairy?”

pairings: dilf!jungkook x fem!oc

genre: found family! married au!

warnings: just super cute fluff, Jungkook literally doing anything Iseul tells him to do, cuss words, mentions of sex.

a/n: I missed writing their lil family :( welcome Jia to the family!! I love them so much… I hope you guys do too🥹

“Let’s be honest, I look sexy as fuck.” Your husband runs his hand over his body; a snort escapes past your lips, which gets glared at in return from Jungkook who’s in a pink tutu and pink tiara he stole from Iseul.

“Not only is he full of himself, but he’s delusional as fuck as well… great.” Ari shakes her head, as you take a picture secretly beside her with Iseul and Ye Joon clapping their hands happily on your lap.

Jungkook’s Calvin Klein boxers are visible to everyone in the room; the only thing barely covering him is the very small pink tutu that his daughter put on him, and she didn’t have to ask twice; everyone knew anything Iseul wanted she got. The small charm necklace lays tightly on his neck like a choker, shirtless, his tattoos in full display, the tiny tiara sits prettily on his messy hair.

“I can a hundred percent see your balls.” Hoseok sighs, as he rubs a hand through his hair. Giving his girlfriend a small tight-lip smile, which might translate as an apology for dragging her into this little family dynamic.

Jia still remembers meeting all of you on Christmas Eve dinner; to say she felt immediately welcomed was somewhat calming to her. She usually took super long to trust someone and open up, but meeting all of you sent her a sense of comfort whenever she was in everyone’s presence.

“Okay, I feel like I need to warn you before opening the door…” Hoseok softly chuckles, which causes steam to come out of his mouth from how cold it was.

Jia raises an eyebrow, “are they that bad?” She asks.

“Nothing to be scared of; they just love really hard…” He smiles at his girlfriend, who only nods in return, slightly feeling nervous since she knew that whoever was behind that door meant so much to the boy she had fallen in love with. “And besides, they are a little crazy too…” he shrugs before clicking on the doorbell to your and Jungkook’s house.

Hoseok moves the container full of chocolate chip cookies cut into cute Christmas decorations to his other hand, then takes Jia’s hand right after squeezing softly.

The door opens as you stand happily behind it; eyes lighting up when you see the couple in the entrance. “Hi! Happy Christmas Eve!” You quickly hug Hoseok, which he returns, wrapping his arms around your frame giving your back a small pat before separating.

“And you must be Jia, you’re prettier in person.” You open your arms before throwing yourself into a hug without thinking. Without a second thought, Jia hugs back.

“Come in; everyone is already here, we’re just waiting for Seokjin and Lora.” You part away from Jia, who’s smiling back at you before following behind you inside.

“Y/n said you had to share!” A boy throws himself onto the raven boy who’s hovering over the last cookie pack; he has been hiding from everyone. “Okay and? This is the last pack!” He shouts back as they both tackle on the couch, the cookie pack flying onto the floor.

“I’ve got a hundred on Kookie; who’s in?” The blonde girl says as she chews on the cookies from the packet that they’re fighting for.

“Done betting on Jungkook after No Nut November, thousand-dollar mistake. Motherfucker couldn’t last twenty-four hours.” Another guy comes in from the back and sighs loudly as the blonde girl nods before passing the pretty girl beside her a cookie.

Jia couldn’t explain how her body and mind instantly relaxed after witnessing the whole situation unfolding in front of her; she saw how you quickly intervened, separating the two boys before giving the raven boy with a tattoo sleeve a swat before snatching the cookie pack from the two girls’ reach and walking back to her.

She watched as the blonde girl passed a hundred bucks to a boy on her right. Before turning their attention to her.

“Hi, I’m Eunbi!” The blonde girl smiled warmly, “Happy Christmas Eve! I’m Ari.” The other girl beside her says, standing up and coming Jia’s way for a hug. “We’re huggers here!” Ari giggles.

“Taehyung,” He goes in for a hug as well, “I’m Jimin!” The boy who was just hovering over Jungkook smiles softly at Jia, going in for a hug as well.

“Jeon Jungkook, extrovert, DILF extraordinaire.” He says standing next to you, wrapping his arm around your waist. “This motherfu…” You groan alongside everyone. “Here he goes again,” “He’s not allowed to introduce himself anymore.” “Can we throw him away?” All of them mutter under their breaths.

“Please ignore him; I’m y/n and I’m stuck with him for the rest of my life.” You roll your eyes as you motion to the guy beside you.

“You sure as hell are.” He puffs,

“Stop looking at my balls!” Jungkook covers his lower part with his hand before shouting, “Tae come out now!”

That’s when everyone gasps loudly, his wife’s jaw dropping to the floor sending Jimin into a fit of laughter. “And I thought Jungkook’s outfit was bad; I can’t! Someone record this shit right now.” Jimin laughs, throwing his head back as he clutches his stomach.

“Sending this to the family group chat ASAP; I need to see what Lora got to say about this.” You laugh as you take a picture of your husband and Taehyung side by side, Jungkook smiling with two thumbs up while Taehyung holds his balls tightly.

Taehyung stands beside your husband in a pair of pink leotards and sheer stockings a little too small for his large figure and has his two hands in front of his private parts. “It’s up my ass I’m afraid…” Taehyung states which sends the group into a large fit of laughter, the kids who suggested the fashion show are currently giggling and clapping their hands non-stop for their daddies.

“Take it off! I can’t breathe..” Ari clutches her stomach as she presses her legs together, as she’s about to pee herself. A loud ding is heard from everyone’s phones, “Lora said, ‘I didn’t know Tae took ballet classes?’ ‘Did Iseul lose a tooth? Why is Kook dressed as the tooth fairy?” You read out loud laughing between words.

“Oh, she’s so real,” Jia says between laughs as she watches Taehyung waddle away with Jungkook running behind him.

“I can’t believe I’m tied to this family for the rest of my life.” Eunbi fake wipes her tears as she sniffles, before snatching Jimin’s last cookie.

“Dada!!” Iseul says loudly when Jungkook comes back running down the stairs with a new cookie packet, “hi my baby” Jungkook’s eyes widened as he picks Iseul up from your lap and showering her cheeks with wet kisses. Iseul giggles in his arms trying to push him away.

“The day when Iseul grows up and doesn’t want Jungkook’s kisses—“ Yoongi tries saying, “I’m not listening, I’m not listening.” Jungkook starts screaming, sending Ye Joon and Iseul into a giggling mess as they both put their hands over their ears, copying him.

You watch with a big smile on your face. You truly had no idea how you ended up sitting on this couch surrounded by the people that you loved more than anything else in the world. You watch your husband with your daughter in his arms as he passes Iseul half of a cookie before going back to arguing with Yoongi about how Iseul will one day grow up, and she’ll be her own person that one day won’t ever listen to her dad ever again.

“In fact, Iseul might grow up before you do,” Taehyung says, patting Jungkook’s back as he walks beside him. The tights and leotard long discarded and replaced with jeans and a shirt before dropping in the middle of you and his wife on the couch, putting his arm around Ari.

“I’m done with all of you! Everyone out!” Jungkook pouts, pointing to the door. “You for real ain’t kicking us out?” Hoseok questions, laughing only to be met with a serious look on Jungkook’s face.

“Out. I’m trying to fuck my wife.” Jungkook says casually, not before covering Iseul’s ears.

And without a second thought, everyone stood up, collected their things, and made their way to the door. “Oh, we’re actually leaving?” Jia asks, confused about why everyone is suddenly in a rush to leave.

“You weren’t here at the time, but Halloween night… let’s just say party, bathroom, Y/N, and Jungkook.” Eunbi shivers from the memory.

And with that, everyone leaves, leaving you on the couch chuckling, and Jungkook locking the door behind them with Iseul in his arms. “Did you just say that so they could leave?” You stand up, making your way to him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he puts Iseul down, and she waddles away with Bam, your guy’s Doberman puppy.

“No, I’m actually trying to fuck,” Jungkook shrugs, leaving a wet kiss on your neck. “Iseul?” You ask, trying to push him away.

“Princess! Nap time!” He untangles himself from you before rushing to get Iseul.

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thesuperiorrobin · 8 months

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𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Florists!Fem!Reader

Word count: 570

Warning: Damian and reader are in their twenties, mentions of flowers and their opposite meanings(hatred,Stupidly, etc) this post was on Pinterest that was taken from tumblr but lost it and now I can’t find OG creator. If you know the OG creator of if this looks familiar please let me know so I can tag them. Mentions of the word skank.

A/n: i never realize how horrible 2000s magazines were until I read some my mom kept😭 Also this is all Bs. I’m sure all of these are not right bc I looked them up.

the flower shop was quiet today, it was nice but boring. When the shop was running slow time I’m the place slows down too. And you hated it. You were stuck making sure the flowers were perfect even if they were and you were just trying to make your shift go faster. But none of that seemed to work.

You somehow find yourself reading old magazines from the two-thousands you found in the back of the shop. Your elbows are rested up against the top of the displaced case, flipping through the reach page as you read every box and bubble carefully.

“What makes a girl a skank? Huh?” Your eyebrows are furrowed as you flip the page “Two thousands magazines are something else”

(and trust me they are).

The sound of the bell ringing makes you perk up, indicating someone entered the store. You close the magazine before you walk around the display case to face the customer who entered. You stand there surprised, eyes coming in context with green ones that you recognize from pictures and the news—also ones you see everyday when you go to sleep and when you wake up in the morning.

Damian Wayne stands in front of you and he doesn’t look happy. You smiled at him, welcoming him in. You bring him in a small short hug before pulling apart. Your lips lock for a short second before pulling away again.

“Hey. It’s a surprise seeing you here today. Do you need something?”

He gives you a nod “Do you have anything—flowers, that are symbolic of hatred? Maybe stupidity?” You were taken aback by the question.

Not that many people come in asking for flowers with bad meaning towards them—normally they come in asking for flowers that mean love.

You cleared your throat. “I believe I do, follow me”

You take him further down the shop. In the back laid different kinds of flowers, separated by name and by color.

“There’s a couple I know by heart that have both good and bad meanings to them” You start off eyeing every flower carefully as you try and remember the bad. You point up at the orange butterfly weeds, and Damian follows your finger “Those are very beautiful ones but no one gets them because they literally mean ‘be warned’. Which is shameful because they always die out here”

“Is that why you have so many back at home?” Damian asked softly, placing a firm hand behind your back.

You hum “or orange lilies maybe? They mean hatred and other rough emotions. There are also carnations, which mean disappointment. You can also get black roses. Those work too. What do you think?” You look up at your lover waiting for a response as he looks over the flowers.

He pulls out his wallet “How about all that you just named?” You give him a grin. Collecting the flowers and putting them together to make a beautiful bouquet.

You ring him up. “Are these for your wife Mr.Wayne?” You tease playfully.

“Nonsense, my wife deserves better flowers that do not mean hatred” he scuffs as he plays along.

“She’s a lucky girl”

“Yes, she is” he smiles down at you lovingly. He hands you a fifty dollar bill for a bouquet that cost thirty-five and seventeen in change. He refuses the extra amount left over.

“Keep it. Use it to bye more butterfly weeds” you sigh.

When Damian made up his mind he’s too stubborn to change it.

“Who are they for anyway?” You asked. Tilting you head as you put the rest of the money away.

“Tim was being idiotic during patrol and landed himself in the hospital”

“Oh”

#damian al ghul #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #damian x reader #robin x reader #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne one shot #damian wayne fanfiction

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literaryavenger · 1 month

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Careless

Summary: Part 2 of Thoughtful.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avengers!Reader

Warnings: My poor attempts at being funny. No use of Y/N. Fluff. Angst. Tony being kind of an asshole. Bucky's self-deprecating thoughts. Reader being dumb.

Word Count: 1K

A/N: I keep having no idea what this is, I have no endgame but I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist | Part 1

Stark parties are a hassle. Tony always insists on the team dressing up, cocktail dresses, tuxedos and all that.

So that’s why you’re all dolled up right now, a black sparkly floor-length gown that highlights your curves perfectly with a slit that goes up your left thigh with black stilettos, your hair curled perfectly and your make-up on point thanks to Natasha and Wanda, gold hoop earrings finishing the ensemble.

The only thing that looks like it doesn’t belong on your right now are Bucky’s dog tags hanging from your neck.

Things with Bucky have been going relatively good, you’re not really dating but neither of you let a moment pass without trying to flirt with each other. You enjoy the attention he only gives you and he enjoys making you flustered.

You’ve even managed to make him blush himself a few times.

You haven’t taken his dog tags off since that morning Bucky put them on you, and that’s not gone unnoticed by the team who have had a field day teasing you about it. Just never enough to bother you and make you want to take them off.

Until now.

“Come on, they look so out of place!” Tony says while chuckling as you roll your eyes, drink in hand while you stand in the middle of the party while talking with Tony, Scott and Maria.

“Leave her alone, Stark.” Maria comes to your defense and you give her a grateful smile. All the girls think it’s adorable that you wear Bucky’s tags.

“He’s not wrong, though.” Scott chimes in. “That’s a beautiful get up, but the tags stand out, and not in a good way.”

Anyone else, you’d be creeped out, but you know Scott is in a happy relationship with Hope and he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s more of a girlfriend at this point.

“I don’t care.” You say simply, sipping your drink. “I like them, and I’m not taking them off.”

“You haven’t taken them off in weeks.” Tony points out, a dangerous smirk starting to grow on his face. “Could it have anything to do with the particular soldier that gave them to you?”

You roll your eyes, knowing where Tony’s going with this because he’s gone there countless times now.

“It has nothing to do with Bucky, I just like them.” You say causally.

“You like him.” Tony says childishly while the other two snicker at your groan. “Maybe you even love him.”

You scoff and almost glare at Tony. “I don’t love him.”

“Then prove it.” Tony says without missing a beat. Obviously he has you exactly where he wants you. “Take them off.”

“What would that even prove?” You roll your eyes again.

“Prove to me that they don’t mean as much to you as I think they do. Take them off.” He keeps grinning at you, challenging you.

“You’re a child.” You say simply, having no intention to accept this silly challenge.

“Yes, I am.” He says and all four of you chuckle, before Tony takes it one step further. “Take them off for a week and I’ll give you ten thousand dollars.”

You give him an unimpressed look. It’s not a surprise, Tony’s known to do this kind of thing all the time. He once bet Sam twenty thousand dollars if he went streaking for at least 4 blocks around the tower.

His ‘falcon’ was on the paper the next day.

“Come on, if you’re so sure I’m wrong, why not make some money off my arrogance.” Tony says with a smirk when you narrow your eyes at him, he knows you’re considering it.

“Fine.” You say after a pause. You hesitantly take the tags off and put them on Tony’s outstretched hand. It’s only a week and it doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky saw the whole thing from a distance. And it meant plenty to him.

He couldn’t hear what you were saying even with his enhanced hearing because you were far away and the party noise was almost deafening, but Bucky saw you clearly as you took off his tags and gave them to Tony.

To Tony.

Did they not mean as much to you as they did to him? Was this whole thing just a joke to you? Was he making a fool out of himself thinking you liked him as much as he liked you? Maybe you just liked the attention. Maybe you were fucking with him, having fun at his expense because he convinced himself you like him, because how could he even think someone like you actually likes him? Maybe you’ve been laughing behind his back while he’s been falling for yo-

“Hey, Sergeant Grumpy.” His thoughts are interrupted by your playful voice that just a minute ago was the single greatest sound that he wanted as the soundtrack of his existence for the rest of his life.

But right now, it’s making his nostrils flare with barely contained anger while he almost glares at you.

You think nothing of it, convincing yourself that maybe the party is making him anxious like it usually does. After all, Bucky doesn’t do good with strangers.

Or maybe Sam has been getting on his nerves more than usual tonight. Whatever it is, you want to make him feel better.

So you wrap your hand around the tie of his suit and pull him towards you a little, copying the move he’s now done countless times with his dog tags around your neck.

“You wanna hear something funny?” You ask playfully, wanting to tell him about the bet you just made with Tony and thinking Bucky will get a kick out of it and it’ll take his mind off of whatever has him in a bad mood.

But you get no chance to say anything more since he takes your hand away from his tie.

“Leave me alone.” He says with a harsh tone you’ve never heard him use towards anyone, let alone you. “Forever.”

That said, he walks off and out of the room in the direction of his quarters without giving you a second glance, leaving you to look after him, too dumbfounded as your mind tries to play catch-up.

What the hell just happened?

Requested Taglist: @marvelcasey05 @ordelixx @alltoounwellread @capswife @sapphirebarnes @rio-reid-whoreee @theunknownmarveluser @alltoowellread @a-very-fictional-girl @geeky-politics-46 @winters1917 @yujyujj @blackhawkfanatic @hot-cheeto5739 @shortnloud @disneychic8

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wcters · 2 months

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𝗣𝗢𝗟𝗔𝗥𝗢𝗜𝗗𝗦

pairing: matt sturniolo x fem!reader

word count: 1.4k

summary: after your breakup with matt, you go through polaroids and memories

warnings/notes: angsttt, established relationship, don’t know what came outta me with this one, never even been in a relationship, almost cried writing this

You dreaded this moment from the time you two broke up. You didn't want to solidify that choice by packing his things away, but it had been long enough and you finally realized that you two were actually over. You never thought that this would happen, at least this early. You thought if you were to break up, it would be in your mid-thirties . . . Not your early twenties.

You didn't know what happened either - when it started to change. You didn't even notice, but Matt did. He always noticed everything, every little thing. Maybe you were too blinded by your love to see it, too blinded by the denial that things were getting bad. But you didn't think they were.

Matt made you a new person, a happier person. You fell head over heels for him the moment you started to get to know him, and he did too. He got you out of your comfort zone, you made new friends including his brothers, and had a second family. His brothers always said that you could still visit them and their parents, but it felt weird. You weren't . . . Part of it anymore. Nick and Chris were still your friends, but his parents and Justin were their family. Even though Marylou, Jimmy, and Justin said the same things Nick and Chris did, it still felt weird to you. Eventually when Matt would get another girlfriend and move on, you would be pushed out either by Matt . . . Or yourself.

You sniffled as you put the last of his sweaters you had stolen in the cardboard box that you were going to drop off while he wasn't home, you turned to the last memory of him you were avoiding taking down . . . Your Polaroids.

It was no secret that you loved cameras ━━ having a Polaroid all your life, your first one being a vintage one gifted to you from your parents, and when you grew up you probably spent hundreds ━━ if not thousands ━━ of dollars on film and film cameras. Your bedroom in your hometown was littered with photos of everything - friends, family, places, and your bedroom at your apartment now was the same . . . But half of them were either you and Matt, or just Matt.

To you, he was made for being on camera. He was made for art. You always told him that resulting in a blush on his cheeks. Whether it was paintings, photos, videos, there was something about him. You were drawn to taking pictures of him. There were probably hundreds on your phone only. But your favourite camera to take pictures of him on was your Polaroid.

You stared at the wall for awhile before taking a deep breath and moving towards it. Each picture was a memory of your relationship, each picture was a reminder of a smile sir a laugh, a joke or a kiss, something you didn't want to forget . . . But wanted to at the same time. Taking each one of these down was going to force you to relive each and every one. You didn't know if that was good or bad.

The first one hanging up was one of the first Polaroids you had ever taken of Matt. It was the night he had asked you to be his girlfriend. You could remember the shake of his hands and the smile on his face as he asked you. You don't know why he was nervous ━━ you would've said yes if he asked you to marry him. He was sat in the drivers seat, one hand on the wheel and other leaning against the center console. It was when he was stopped at a red light as to not cause the two of you to crash. You remember him facing you and chuckling, asking what you were doing. You had shrugged, small smirk on your face.

The second one was a picture of you and Matt from behind. Nick had taken it secretly knowing you would want it, and because he thought it was cute. You, Matt, Nick, and Chris had went to the beach that night. You were visiting Boston and their parents with them for the summer. You had taken your camera, planning to take some pictures for the boys and for yourself, but decided to watch the sunset with Matt because he asked you to. You were standing in the middle of the beach, hands interlinked with Matt's who were wrapped around you waist. You were leaning against him as you watched the sun, but unknown to you he was looking at you and not the sun. This was one of your favourite pictures you had.

The next one was arguably one of your favourites too. You had a hard time falling asleep sometimes, and ever since you were a kid you would go on walks. Whether it be around the block or around town, you would just walk. It was safer to do this back in your hometown, but when you started to do it in LA, Matt always asked to come with you to make sure you were safe. No matter how tired he was or if he had a long day, he would go. He would even convince you to go when he knew you wanted to even though you were saying you didn't to make sure he got his sleep. He didn't care, just wanted to make sure you were okay.

This one was of Matt under a streetlight. The light was shining on him, showing his Levi's as he body was midway through dancing. He decided to play music that night to cheer you up because that day was especially stressful for you and the lack of sleep wasn't helping. You don't even know if he knows you took a picture of him. You think this photo shows how Matt truly is. How he's still a teenager deep down inside and how he did anything to cheer you up.

You teared up when you saw the next one. You didn't want to add this to the pile of photos, so you decided to put it in your nightstand instead of hiding it. Why? Because it was a picture of you, and all three brothers. You and Matt were in the middle with Nick and Chris on either side of you both. You were all wearing matching pyjamas, curtesy of Marylou. This was the first year you spent Christmas with them back in Boston. You remember being so nervous, but being welcomed by their parents and Justin immediately. You couldn't make it to see your parents back in Canada, so they offered for you to come down there.

The smiles on each of your faces are a perfect representation of how happy you were. Even with all the best friends and a couple other relationships you had had, you never felt truly excepted into someone else's family. You didn't have your hope for Matt's either, but right when the front door was opened and you were pulled into a tight hug from their mother, you had no doubts that this one would be different. You really felt like you were apart of them, like they were a second family to you. Justin felt like an older brother and their parents felt like your parents. This is why the breakup was so hard, harder than it would normally be.

You weren't just losing Matt. You were losing Marylou, Jimmy, Justin, and even Trevor in relation, even if they said you were still part of their family. You probably wouldn't ever see their house in Boston again, or their house in the Cape. You wouldn't see Trevor prancing around the house and Jimmy and Marylou watching movies together.

As you took the photo down and opened your nightstand, you started sobbing as you placed it inside and closed the drawer. You collapsed into the floor in a fit of heaving breaths and tears, curled up in-front of the wall that held some of the best memories of your life you had to take down. You don't know how long you sat there crying for. All you know if that eventually, you couldn't cry anymore and just sat staring at the wall as the sun went down and your room went dark. You sat there, all the feelings you were trying to suppress flow like water through a freshly broken dam.

The realization that things were actually over, and that you were losing so many people and connections, and memories. You didn't know that Matt was sitting in the same position in his room, staring at the same copy of the photo you had put in your nightstand. Neither of you knew that you two, even though you were done, your souls were still connected. You were going through the same feelings of pain. Both your hearts were broken in the same places.

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hannie-dul-set · 6 months

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the psychology of strawberries — [preview].

SYNOPSIS. besides being your friend, kim gyuvin also holds the existence of being the worst matchmaker in history. the last guy he set you up with ended with a permanent ban from the arcade. the one before that caused you to file a restraining order. which is why when he tries to set you up one last time with his best friend, you understandably shut him down.

the problem is— why the fuck didn’t gyuvin tell you that his best friend is actually the prettiest man in the world? the most charming idiot to have graced your mortal existence? maybe if he did, you wouldn’t have to resort to pavlovian tactics and strawberries just to bag him. if he did, then you wouldn’t have to hide the fact that you’re kind of balls-deep in love with his friend.

PAIRING. shen quanrui x female! reader. GENRE. college! au, (anti) matchmaking! au, strangers to friends to lovers, eventual secret relationship. romance, humor, fluff, older! reader, black haired ricky jumpscare later in the fic, this is just lovelicky propaganda. sue me. WARNINGS. swearing, explicit language, mentions of sex, an almost car crash, stalking (not from any of the mcs), erratic and embarrasing behavior (mostly from our mc), may add more as i continue. WORD COUNT. preview: 1.6k | full fic: 15-17k.

RELEASE DATE. within december. TAGLIST. send me an ask/dm/reply to be added.

NOTE. this is an amalgamation of a number ricky drabble ideas, stitched together into one cohesive mess. yes, i know i've been releasing too many fic previews. yes, you have doubts about me finishing them all. but will release all three fics within this month even if it kills me. enjoy this preview of mc losing her mind over ricky shen (that's how the rest of this fic will also go).

preview under the cut.

“Morning.”

Gyuvin greets you with a yawn and a heavy ruffle on the top of your head, to which you respond with a side kick to his ass when he walks past you. “You’re late,” you scold him, and though you want to continue berating your dear friend, two more familiar-looking people emerge from his building’s entrance.

“Oh, this is Taerae and Matthew,” Gyuvin informs you offhandedly. The two give you a mix of polite nods and smiles. You sort of know Taerae because you shared a class with him last semester. Matthew is just the guy you see at the campus coffee shop at least once a week. “They’re going to be my survey assistants. More people means more ground to cover at once.”

“How’d he scam you two into agreeing?” you ask.

“He’s buying me lunch for a week,” Taerae replies.

“I just wanted to go on a road trip,” Mathew says in a tone too bright for five in the morning.

You let out a huff of air. Your backpack is getting a little heavy on your shoulders, and all you want is to finally reclaim your lost weekend. Meaning, getting on the road as soon as possibly is priority number one. “So, are we commuting?” you ask. “We should get going then.”

“Oh, no,” Gyuvin replies. He’s already noticed your impatience, and has found himself standing behind you, taking your bag off of your bag so that you don’t snap at him for the next statement he’s about to say. “Actually, we’re waiting for one more per—”

A car horn cuts him off.

“Well, nevermind. He’s here.”

At that moment, a way too expensive looking car drives up to the porch of Gyuvin’s college-level priced apartment building. This is looking way too out of place. Matthew lets out a whistle when the car stops in front of you. “This kid just got his license exchange and the first thing he does is show off,” Taerae snorts. What...what does he mean? Is this your ride? Is this the (at least seventy-thousand-dollar) vehicle that’ll be driving you all the way to the outskirts of Hadong County?

The variables don’t click, but your surprise doesn’t end there. Because the person that emerges from the expensive looking ass car’s driver’s seat is— by far— the prettiest person you’ve ever seen in your twenty-one years of life.

Whoa.

Not even those thick, dark shades can obscure that god-sculpted looking face. They only make his nose bridge look even sharper, and you’re trying your damn best not to stare at those full and cherry-painted lips. Holy shit. Platinum blonde has always looked tacky to you, but now you have to re-evaluate. Oh my god. Kim Gyuvin has a friend that looks like this, and all he’s done is set you up with guys that can’t even fucking compare.

Walking statue of a man closes the car door behind him with a click. “Get in,” he says. Holy mother of god, you’re light-headed. Your brain is fuzzy. You’re about to pass out.

“Ricky! You’re late! How dare you keep the madam waiting?!”

Things start happening a little too quickly.

Wait a second—

“Shotgun!”

That name.

“Fuck off! Let’s play for the seat!”

Sounds Very.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot! Rock, paper, scissors—”

Very—

“Paper, scissors— shoot!”

—familiar.

“Dammit,” Matthew grumbles in defeat, joining Taerae in the backseat. You stare at the fist you have held out since earlier. Rock. Rick. Ricky. This guy’s name is Ricky. Isn’t that also the name of Gyuvin’s best friend? The best friend he was trying to set you up with? This is Ricky? This absolute god of a fucking man who’s looking at you with an ounce of confusion, still holding your fist up after somehow winning all rounds of rock, paper, scissors with nothing but a rock, is the Ricky you turned down a date with?

You were correct to assume that his name gives off fuckboy vibes. The problem is, he looks like a really, really hot fuckboy who you don’t mind ruining your life in exchange for three months of fun. Shit. You think you just made eye contact with him through his thick-ass sunglasses. He nods a little with a small, awkward smile before disappearing back into the driver’s seat.

Fuck. He knows. He definitely knows you wrongfully rejected his ass without even meeting him. Gyuvin, that snitching son of a bitch.

“Hey.”

With a heavy grip on his shoulder, you stop the said snitching son of a bitch before he can escape into the backseat. “What?” Gyuvin raises a brow. The audacity of this guy.

“What was your best friend’s name again?”

“Ricky Shen. Shen Quanrui. Shim Cheonye. Pick one.”

“Is that...the same…?”

“Yes, that guy is Ricky.” There’s an impatient honk from the car. You pay no mind, more concerned about the absolute fucking catch you totally drove away, and that regret is seeping through you expression, failing to wiggle out from Gyuvin’s notice. “Why do you ask?” Are you regretting turning down my offer last week? his face seems to say. You want to hit him. Yes, you are fucking regretting it, but there’s no way in hell you’re giving him the satisfaction of knowing.

“It’s just a little awkward,” you say. “Can you switch with me?”

“Matt hyung’s gonna throw a fit if I take your seat,” he simply hums, opening the door to the front seat on your behalf with a courteous bow that drives you further into annoyance. “Now hop in. We’re already behind schedule.”

You’re the bigger person here so you decide against throwing a tantrum. Begrudgingly, you enter the passenger’s seat, trying to ignore aphrodite’s reincarnation sitting right next to you, and prepare yourself for the three-hour drive or torture because you totally screwed over your chance of having him.

“Woohoo! Road trip!”

“We’re here for my project, idiot.”

“Please tone it down, I’m trying to sleep.”

It’s fine, you cross your arms, wiggling uncomfortably on the soft seat. It’s totally fine. None of Gyuvin’s friends have been decent so far. Yes. You shouldn’t judge positively too quickly. Maybe the only thing this one has going for him is his face. Maybe his personality is just as shitty as the last ones and you’ve completely dodged a bullet.

A very pretty bullet. The pretty bullet is looking at you through the rearview mirror. Oh god, why is he looking at you? He’s got his sunglasses down and those eyes are practically staring into your soul.

“Um,” Ricky clears his throat. “You should put on your seatbelt.”

That rasp shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. Fuck. This man is a walking heart hazard. “O—oh, sorry!” You’re stupid. Your brain is fried. You fumble with the dumb seatbelt, forgetting how it works, and mentally swearing at yourself in the process.

“Do you need any help…?”

Fight or flight instincts kick in. You smack away Ricky’s attempt at a helping hand. His eyes are wide in shock. Your eyes are wide in shock. You want to throw yourself out of this vehicle right now. “It’s—it’s fine!” Finally, you manage to put on the seatbelt. Ricky is a mix of confusion and offense when he starts the car, more on confusion, but that’s alright. The aftermath of him pulling a k-drama move and helping you with the seatbelt would have been worse. You would have disintegrated right then and there.

Your only source of comfort is the backpack that you’re hugging for your dear life. The entire ride is excruciatingly awkward because the three boys at the back have fallen asleep— a state you also wish to be in right now, but that’s quite frankly impossible because you’re a million times more conscious about your physical appearance right now with a literal angel next to you.

He’s not asking why you’re pressed so far up against the door. For safety reasons, you tell yourself. The air around him just subconsciously feels a lot hotter despite the air conditioning literally blowing cold air to your face.

“Would...would you like some?”

But that doesn’t mean you could stomach this awkwardness, either. Two hours have passed and neither of you have said a word to each other. You’re a fistful into your candy stash and it feels rude not to offer anything to him when he’s been driving for so long.

You have a cautious arm outstretched, a pink wrapper dangling between your thumb and index finger. Ricky peers down for a split second, a rumble from his throat before saying, “N—no, it’s okay.” The candy disappears into the crevices of his car. You dip your head down, trying to feel around for it, and Ricky continues talking. “Um. I mean. You don’t really have to force yourself to get along with me, seonbae. I already know that you don’t really like me.”

At that moment, you snap your head up. “What?”

Maybe you should’ve been more careful because you scare the shit out of Ricky and the car swerves off the lane.

Screech!

“Ah,” he exhales, parking the car at the edge of the road after nearly killing you all. “That was close.” How the three kids in the back are still asleep is beyond you. They’ve got their necks twisted in all the weird places and you’re pretty sure Matthew is drooling.

But the source of your adrenaline right now isn’t the near death experience.

“What do you mean you know that I don’t like you?”

Translation: what exactly did Kim Gyuvin say to this guy?

the psychology of strawberries. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

#zerobaseone x reader #zb1 x reader #shen ricky x reader #zb1 ricky x reader #zb1 imagines #zerobaseone imagines #shen quanrui x reader #ricky shen imagines #zb1 ricky imagines #zb1 fluff #zerobaseone fluff #ricky shen x reader #zb1 x you #zb1 scenarios

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darklydeliciousdesires · 2 months

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Nobody's Girl - Chapter Two.

Ask and ye shall recieve, besties! Thrilled at how well-received the first chapter was, thank you all so much for your feedback :)

Previous chapters - One

Taglist - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 3,445

Warnings - Adult content throughout, minors DNI!

The sound of a garbage can hitting the sidewalk from the street below with a clatter was what roused Emily from her long, deep sleep the morning after, coming to and not immediately realising where she was. Until she smelled him on the sheets.

While his scent lingered, the man himself was nowhere to be found, but he had left her a note. A note and a stack of cash.

‘I have business to deal with, I’ll be back later. Go buy yourself some clothes and whatever else you need. Two of my guys, Angelo and Donny will be waiting for you downstairs. They’ll look after you.’

His writing was elegant and loopy, very fine penmanship, she thought, placing the note down and getting out of bed, remaking it neatly. Picking up the crisp stack of bills, her eyes bulged. All fifties. Twenty of them.

“A grand?” she gasped, her mouth dropping open. He’d left her a thousand dollars, like it was small change!

Placing the money back down again, she ventured to the bathroom, the only part of the apartment that was walled off from the rest. Looking at herself in the mirror, she could count it as a small mercy that Joey rarely touched her face, she supposed, always wanting to keep her pretty, as he once worded it after a beating. His body shot punches were a different matter. The soreness lingering over her ribs and stomach attested that, although she doubted anything was broken.

Her eye was tinged with the violet and shadowy green of bruising, but gladly not swollen, the same to the side of her mouth and both cheekbones. It wasn’t ideal as visages went, to have her looks marred like that, Emily always taking pride in her appearance. Looking on at her reflection, a few tears of relief pooled her eyes, realising that the wounds he’d inflicted upon her were all that was left of the scumbag that was Joey Calabrese.

Once she was washed and refreshed, she dressed in the other clean shirt left for her, pulling on the grey coat he’d also placed with it, thinking what a mess she looked. A sullied face, no shoes, no underwear (hers were still hanging to dry after she’d washed them in the sink the night before) and wearing men’s clothes that buried her.

And she was about to go out in public? The utter shame of it.

Emily quickly realised that she didn’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter, though, so all she could do was go with it. What made nerves pool in her belly more was the fact that she now had to place her faith in somebody who wasn’t Luca, two somebody’s in fact. Her trust in their boss was only tentative at best, after all.

Was she really being taken to purchase clothes, or was something else more nefarious about to befall her? What if he’d struck a deal with Gino for her return? The words lamb and slaughter came rapidly to mind. Realising she was panicking and so far, Luca had shown no real signs of deception, she took a breath at the top of the stairs before padding down, swinging the door open and turning right.

Two very large men turned in their seats at the bar, wide smiles greeting her. “Hey, sleepy head. I’m Angelo, this is Donny. The boss told us to take you out someplace nice for clothes. My wife tells me that new place Barney’s is the best, so we’re takin’ you over to Manhattan. You ready, toots?”

He received an elbow and an eye roll from his cohort. “Can’t just be callin’ her toots like you know her, man,” he admonished lightly, extending his hand. “Miss Mortensen, a pleasure. I’m Donny, anythin’ you want, just ask, alright?” She shook his hand, Donny bringing it to his lips to place a little kiss upon her dainty fingers.

“Oh, look at this guy over here,” Angelo chirped, “Mr Smooth, amirite?”

“Screw you, pal. Gotta treat the ladies with respect, eh? Plus, she’s the boss's gal and I ain’t lookin’ to get clipped for my yap, know what I’m sayin’?”

They were a pair, she had to admit, set at ease by their little back and forth banter. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, too. I’m not Luca’s girl, though.”

Angelo lifted his chin with a little grunt. “Wearin’ his clothes, came from his apartment, he told us to look after you and treat you nice. Yeah, you the boss’s gal, toots.”

“Enough with the toots, already! This guy and his lip,” Donny chuckled, offering his arm to Emily. “Let’s go, huh?”

Her giggles peppered the air, taking the arm of the younger man, Angelo ambling along behind them. “See? Even left us his best car to take you out in. If you ain’t his gal then trust me, the big man is definitely sweet on ya, wanting you taken out in the Rolls.”

“Woah,” she gasped, seeing the shiny, black Silver Ghost parked at the curb, a car of esteemed value and luxury. “Oh my god, it’s beautiful.”

“Ain’t it, though?” Donny spoke, opening the door for her and gesturing in. “Drives like a dream, too.”

The men mostly talked between themselves for the duration of the journey, asking her a few questions here and there along the way. Truly there wasn’t much more they could converse with her about, for what did two mobsters and a naive twenty-three-year-old woman truly have in common? Not a whole lot.

“So, the big man says you’re a sunshine state gal,” Angelo broached, looking at her in the rear-view mirror. “What part ya from?”

“San Francisco,” she replied.

“Get outta here, I gotta cousin from my wife’s side who lives out there!” he laughed warmly. “Hey, how about those Giants, huh? We whooped ‘em big style this year!”

“Oh, I don’t really follow baseball. I take it you’re a Yankees fan?”

“Until my dying breath, toots!”

The demeanour of the men set her at ease, even more so when they entered Manhattan, a place she had only been to once before. The buildings loomed huge overhead, Emily looking out of the window with curiosity filled eyes, Donny nudging Angelo and jerking his head back with a smile at her wonder.

“Oh, it’s so fancy,” she exclaimed, looking up at the department store once they’d parked up and alighted the car, her gaze then falling down to her bare feet. Discomfort tingled through her chest and down her legs. “And I have to go in there like this.”

“Eh, don’t you stress about it, you hear?” Angelo spoke, offering his arm. “You gonna get all fixed up even prettier than you are, I tell ya. Let’s go.”

Donny swung the doors open, following them into the hustle and bustle of the store, Emily feeling like such a fish out of water as she gazed around. It was all so indulgent, so luxurious, and there she was, a poor girl from San Francisco, barefoot and makeup free, with her roots showing and her face all marked up.

It didn’t take long for her appearance to draw stares. From clientele to staff alike. One particular woman working within the ladies' clothing section was absolutely not shy in looking her up and down several times, Emily dropping her head in embarrassment, letting her pale waves cover her face.

Oh, no. That would not do.

“Hey you, with the twisted-up mouth like a dog’s asshole,” Angelo began, clicking his fingers at the woman and pointing before him, pulling out a fat wad of bills from his pocket. “We got a lotta dough to spend in here, and it’s your job to make Miss Mortensen happy while she’s goin’ about it. So, set your face straight and hop to it.”

Her eyes bulged at being handed a fifty, the woman fixing her face in a wide, friendly smile that had not existed prior to knowing that the well-dressed men and the poor looking, barefooted scrap who accompanied them were, in fact, likely the wealthiest people in the store. Maybe the girl was of some kind of European aristocracy, she wondered? Perhaps a little eccentric, hence the men’s clothes and bare feet?

“Certainly, sir,” she nodded, turning to Emily with a smile. “Good morning, Miss Mortensen. My name is Ivy, and it would be my pleasure to show you some of our garments. What are we in the market for today?”

“Everything, four times over,” Donny spoke, winking at Emily when she smiled up at him. “Go on, you go enjoy yourself. We’ll be right here, darlin’.” She was a little reluctant to move away from them, Donny remembering Luca specifically stating to treat her with care and never leave her alone, even for a second, watching her relax when he stepped forward and accompanied her as she began browsing the clothing.

Dresses, blouses, skirts, pants, shoes, underwear, stockings, cardigans, shawls, purses and hats were all perused and gathered, Emily having a wail of a time trying everything on and playing model for her approving audience.

“Beautiful, stunning, get in black, too!” Angelo enthused as she twirled in a deep red fringed dress, he and Donny clapping. She presumed them to be merely humouring her, of course thinking she was the boss’s girl, no matter how much she corrected them to the contrary. The two mafioso’s were genuinely having a good time with their young companion, though, watching this girl who looked like she’d never had two pennies to rub together suddenly catapulted into a world of splendour.

“You need a fur too, toots. Here, feel this. Mink. Gorgeous, ain’t it? I got one for my wife last week. I swear, she’d sleep in the thing!” Angelo spoke, approaching with a gorgeous, pale grey coat. Emily placed her arms in, pulling it over her shoulders, turning to look at herself in the mirror.

How was this her life?

“How much is it?” she asked the assistant.

“Two hundred and thirty dollars, Miss Mortensen.”

She’d been adding it up in her head, her running total for the items she’d already chosen. God, it cost even more than all of them put together. Turning to Angelo, she bit her lip nervously. “Do I take it?”

“Of course, ya take it! How much did your man give ya?”

“A grand,” she confirmed, the burly man laughing softly.

“Well, he gave me an extra G on top of that, should you go too wild. Told me to make sure you had a good time, so let’s see to gettin’ you a chinchilla too. You’ll need different ones for different outfits, amirite? I know you dames like that.”

She had a thousand, and Angelo had a backup thousand. Good god, her head was spinning. The chinchilla coat was tried on, Emily falling in love with it, choosing an outfit to wear right away and going to dress while the assistant took her purchases to the sales desk and rang everything up. All in all, it came to seven hundred and twenty dollars.

She felt faint.

A trip to the cosmetics department, and she’d spent almost another hundred on high end makeup, perfume, face creams, necessities for her hair, etcetera. No matter how much the guys encouraged her, she still felt guilty, knowing it wasn’t her money and she hadn’t done a thing to earn it.

“Yeah, you did,” Donny spoke after she had voiced that thought to him, his arms laden with bags as they left the store. “You saved the boss’s life by tellin’ him about what was under his car.”

She supposed if that was the way Luca expressed his gratitude, she could live with it. Still, she would have settled for a place to stay for the night and only that all the same. Afterwards, she was whisked across the city to a beautiful Italian restaurant for lunch, Emily feeling much more confident about her appearance after applying some makeup on the ride over.

“Well, toots,” Angelo began at the doors, taking her hand and kissing it. “We had a real good time with you, but this is where we leave ya. Don’t worry about your things, we’ll get it all back to Brooklyn.”

“See ya, darlin’.” Donny spoke, offering her the same before they turned and left, Emily quite confused as the Maitre'd approached.

“Miss Mortensen, your table is ready. Please follow me.”

Were they really leaving her to dine in the city alone? How on earth would she get back to Brooklyn? She didn’t even know Luca’s address! All her thoughts swirled as her heart began to hammer, being led through the grand looking restaurant, Emily looking up and feeling her worries melt in an instant.

“Well, don’t you scrub up beautiful, huh?” Luca spoke, rising to his feet and taking her hand, kissing it softly. “You have a good time with the guys?”

“I did, thank you,” she spoke, suddenly feeling a little shy. “Thank you so much, too, for leaving me the cash. I have change, here.”

At watching her delve a hand into her pocket, he shook his head, touching a hand to her arm. “No, doll. That’s your money, not mine.” God, she was just so adorable. No other woman he’d ever encountered would think to be that courteous as to try and return the cash she hadn’t spent to him. The man pulled in roughly two million a year, and here was this sweet little flower, trying to give him change.

“How has your morning been so far?” she asked courteously, Luca taking the bottle of carbonated water from the table and pouring a glass for her. It still aggrieved him, that he couldn’t enjoy a good bottle of wine while in a restaurant. Fuck the Volstead Act.

“Busy, mainly. It’s how I like it, though. Profitable, too.” Translation; he’d personally visited a man who was proving to be a growing pain in his ass regarding his rum running operations, and duly shot him in the face for his behaviour. He’d then called upon another who owed him money, and broken a finger for every week he’d been late to pay him. Four fingers had ended up bent out of shape, Luca walking away with his money plus a hefty late payment fee.

It was good being king.

It hit him then, realising that it had been a long, long time since anybody had asked him how his day had gone. It was so simple, yet so profound that she had the courtesy to genuinely inquire. The whores he fucked never did, obviously. His ex-wife seldom had, that was for sure. He rested his chin in a clasp between his thumb and forefingers as he viewed her inquisitively, Emily just about able to see the smile beginning to grow from beneath his hand.

“What?” she asked, feeling uncomfortable to be caught in a gaze so focused. “Do I have something on my face?”

He closed his eyes, laughing softly through his nose. Fucking adorable, and it killed him. “No, baby. I just can’t remember the last time I met a woman like you.”

“I saw the girls in your joint last night,” she began, shrugging a little, “You must meet pretty girls all time. I mean, not that I think I’m exceptionally pretty or anything.”

Leaning forward suddenly, he covered her hand with his. “True, doll. I do meet pretty gals all the damned time. But that ain’t what I meant.” That bold, evergreen gaze of his fixed upon her so strongly, her heart skipped, Emily swallowing hard. Being fixed with a gaze of such intensity, she didn’t know whether to be nervous or excited, so settled for an equal measure of both. “You’re not like other women.”

Shyness crept over her, her cheeks colouring as she bit her lip, the tattooed hand resting atop hers gently squeezing. “How can you know that? You barely know me.”

“True.” His eyebrows fluttered slightly, leaning back again as he removed the toothpick from between his teeth, pointing right at her with a narrow-eyed gaze. “Says a whole lot about you that I can, though, don’t it?”

The conflict within her ran so rampant, for a few moments she felt a little queasy, shrinking into the collar of her fur coat more, the chinchilla pelt soft against her cheeks, cheeks that prickled cerise, wishing she could hide how her emotions betrayed her feeble attempt to remain passive.

She needn’t have felt bad. Nobody was a match for Luca Changretta once he’d set himself to unravel them.

“Oh, and by the way,” he began, standing, adjusting his suit a little before touching a hand to her shoulder as he leaned down. “You are exceptionally pretty. Excuse me a moment.”

He walked away grinning, leaving here there practically boiling under her collar. “Rack ‘em up and knock ‘em down.” he muttered smugly, trying to ignore the tight pull of protest against his scheming arrogance when it jabbed him in the chest. The voice telling him his desire to know more about who she was as well as what she knew could pipe the hell down, too. As could his heartbeat.

Fuck.

After using the restroom, he returned to the table to find a waiter hovering, looking at him nervously. Fear or awe; they were usually the top two reactions invoked by his presence.

“Rib eye, rare. Emily, have whatever you want.”

Lifting up the menu, she quickly scanned the dishes, thinning her lips as she tried to make a decision rapidly, so as not to hold the waiter up. None of it was familiar to her. “What would you recommend?” she asked coyly, looking up at the young man with the crisp, white notepad in his hand.

“The chicken piccata is our special today, miss. An exceptionally excellent dish.”

She nodded, handing over the menu. “One of those, please.”

“Certainly.”

She let her coat fall from her shoulders, deciding she felt comfortable enough not to hide in it and pulling her arms out, letting it drape over the back of the chair. The dress she wore was beautiful, Luca noted, realising that no matter how humble and poor her beginnings were, she had very good taste. He also very much enjoyed the way the black lace hugged her tiny frame.

God, she was so little. Five feet two, if that. He’d be scared of breaking her, if he ever got her underneath him, pressed her to his bed, let his hands and mouth wander over her...

“Do you come here regularly?”

Her question shattered the glass that housed his impure, lustful thoughts, Luca reaching for his water and taking a sip. “I used to all the time, but not so much recently. Don’t wanna run into my ex, but I know for fact she’s in Florida with the kids right now.”

She had wondered over his marital status, noticing that his apartment didn’t contain a drop of anything that could be constituted as a female presence. “Oh, sorry that you guys broke up,” she spoke out of courtesy, not really knowing how else to reply.

He sniffed, rolling the toothpick in his mouth over his lower lip with his tongue. “Don’t be, I’m not.”

“Didn’t end well, huh?”

“Nah. It’s probably mostly my fault, but yeah. Eighteen years over, because neither of us cared enough to save it. What about you? Any exes out there with burned bridges?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. She had to laugh, because little did he know but her involvement with men was so limited, it was fair to say she was severely stunted where relationships were concerned. Twenty-three and still a virgin by choice. Pathetic, really, she thought. Women her age were usually married with children, and she was still trying to find her way, but failing.

He was giving her that look again, Emily feeling like she wanted to crawl under the table and hide from the intensity of his stare. Gathering herself a little, she quickly found something to take her mind of her sexual inadequacy. “So, these tattoos,” she began, tapping the number six atop his hand. “Do they hurt? How many do you have?”

He couldn’t help himself. “Not much, it's a bit like a cat scratch. As for how many, maybe I’ll show you one day.”

Her insides were reduced to smouldered ashes when he winked again, Luca watching her blush and drop her gaze. He truly couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed having the upper hand so much.

And the arrogant fool still told himself that this was all it was.

#luca changreta fanfiction #luca changretta smut #luca changretta x ofc #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fic #luca changretta fanfic #luca changretta fic #nobody's girl #luca and emily

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matttgirlies · 27 days

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Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - mentions of drug use

y/nn = your nickname for any confusion🩷

Chapter 11

Matt Sturniolo created his own world; only in his own environment did he feel secure, comfortable, and protected. A genuine camaraderie was created at Graceland. We lived as one big family, eating, talking, arguing, joking, playing, and traveling together.

Although I became friends with the guys in Matt’s retinue, he never let me, or anyone else, forget that I was his girl. I was never to get too close or become too familiar with any of the regulars.

One evening, after we came home from a movie, we said good night to everyone and went upstairs. Returning to the kitchen a few minutes later to get something to eat, I found Jerry Schilling, who’d just started working for Matt, making himself a snack. We started talking. A few minutes later, Matt appeared.

“What the hell are you two doing down here?” he shouted at us.

Intimidated, Jerry said, “Well, Matt, we were just talking. I was asking her how she felt, because she didn’t feel well this afternoon.”

“I came down to get something to eat,” I explained.

“y/nn, you don’t need to be roaming around here late at night,” he said, angrily ordering me upstairs.

Behind me, I could hear him lashing out at Jerry. “If you want to keep this job, son, you mind your own business. If there’s anyone who’s going to ask her how she feels, it’ll be me. You better mind your own goddamn business.”

I liked Jerry. He was warm, sincere, and very personable; just a couple of years older than I, he was one of the few people who I could relate to. But from that time on, it was a dodging match every time we’d run into each other. Now Jerry and I laugh about the “good old days” when we reminisce.

Most of the boys who worked for Matt had been around from the beginning and they knew all about him—his sense of humor, his sensitivity, and his temper. He stripped himself bare in front of them, and they accepted him for what he was.

Yet working for Matt was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job, and the boys were at his beck and call constantly. They played when he played and slept when he slept. It took a certain kind of personality to put up with his demands, whether they made sense or not.

“Come on, y/nn, let’s go to Los Angeles. I’ll show you where I film movies.,” he said one afternoon when we’d only been up for a few hours. He called downstairs and told Alan to alert everyone that he wanted to leave within the hour.

Alan said, “Okay, Boss. I think Richard and Gene are still sleeping. I’ll give ’em a call and tell ’em to come right over.”

“Their lazy asses are still sleeping?” Matt asked. “I’ve been up for two goddamn hours. They should have been over here by now. Alan, from now on, when I call down for my breakfast, call the boys and tell them I’m up and to be ready for anything, and that may include me not even coming downstairs. I just want them here.”

Demanding? Yes, but Matt could be just as generous. By today’s standards the boys’ salaries were not high—the average paycheck was $250 a week—but if the boys ever felt the pinch by the end of the month, they would go to Matt. They’d ask him if he could help them out with a down payment on a house or the first and last months’ payments on an apartment. Matt always came through for them, lending them the one thousand or five thousand or ten thousand dollars they asked for. He was rarely if ever paid back.

There also was no limit to the expensive gifts he gave them—television consoles for Christmas, bonus checks, Cadillac convertibles, Mercedes-Benzes. If he heard someone was sad or depressed, he loved to surprise them with a gift, usually a brand-new car. When he gave to one, he would usually end up giving to all.

James didn’t have much respect for the guys. He said Matt just gave and gave and gave, and they took and took and took. He’d say, “Son, we have to save.” Matt would answer, “It’s only money, Dad. I just have to go out and make more.”

James resented the regulars acting as if Graceland was their personal club. They’d go into the kitchen at any hour and order anything they wanted. Naturally, everyone ordered something different. The cooks worked night and day keeping them happy. James felt, “To hell with the boys. Their main concern should be Matt.”

What was really outrageous was that the regulars were ordering sirloin steaks or prime ribs while Matt usually ate hamburgers or peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

I wasn’t too popular around Graceland when I started reorganizing the kitchen. I set down a policy of having one menu per meal, and anyone who didn’t like what was on it could go to a local restaurant. This new edict resulted in much grumbling from the guys, but the cooks were relieved, and James sanctioned my decision, announcing, “It’s about time someone organized the meals. It was beginning to look like we were feeding half of Boston.”

Matt was the boss, the provider, and the power. Both the boys and I had to protect him from people who annoyed or irritated him and were no longer in his favor. Before coming down for the evening, he’d have me call downstairs to check who was there. I’d run down the guests, aware that certain names would strike him wrong.

“Shit,” he’d say, his mood destroyed. “What’s he want? Bring me some more bad news?” He’d stay up in his room rather than spend an evening with someone he didn’t like. There was one particular regular who had incurred his disfavor, and Matt told everyone he didn’t want him around. “Don’t let him through those goddamn gates!” Matt ordered. “All I have to do is look at his face and I get depressed.” Matt barred him from Graceland for a number of years, saying, “If he changes his morbid attitude, maybe I’ll change my mind.” His perceptions were correct, as these “friends” eventually betrayed him.

Matt and James kept some of their relatives at a distance because, as Matt explained to me, they’d shunned him when he was growing up, ridiculing him as a sissy, a mama’s boy. Mary Lou stood up for Matt and told his tormentors to go their own way. Angrily, she had said, “Don’t bother us with these accusations.”

Then fame and fortune hit, and suddenly all the kinfolk came around, begging for jobs or crying that they needed help. Sometimes Matt got upset, charging, “The only time they visit is with their hand out. It’d be nice if they’d come around just to see how I was doing. But hell no, it’s always, ‘Ah, Matt, I could use a little extra cash. Could you help me out?’ Hell, I’ll bet when I’m dead and gone, they’ll still be taking advantage.” But Matt ended up slipping each of them a hundred dollars or more every time they came around. If it had been up to James, he would have gotten rid of every one of them. But Matt kept saying, “No, Dad, they don’t have any place to go. They couldn’t work anywhere. Keep them here.”

From the beginning of his success, Matt put many family members on salary, and all had titles. James was his business manager; Patsy, his personal secretary; uncles Vester Sturniolo and Johnny and Travis Smith, and cousin Harold Lloyd, gate guards; cousins Billy, Bobby, and Gene, personal aides; and then there was Tracy Smith, who seemed to go from brother to brother for support. Matt took care of everyone.

I remember one night at Graceland when Matt came back to the kitchen and saw Tracy pacing the floor. “Hey, Tracy,” he said, “How ya doing, man?” Tracy, his hands in his pockets, could hardly look Matt in the eye. “I don’t know, Matt,” he sighed. “What do ya mean, you don’t know? Everyone knows how they’re doin’, man.”

Tracy, shifting back and forth, mumbled, “I got my nerves in the dirt, Matt.” Matt staggered back, laughing. “Nerves in the dirt! Hell, I never heard it expressed like that before. You need some money, Tracy?”

Again, Tracy just shifted back and forth, as Matt called Nate over and told him to give Tracy a bill. A big smile covered Tracy’s lined face as he happily took his hundred dollars and walked out the door.

Matt knew that having his nerves in the dirt was Tracy’s way of saying he was down and out—and worried sick about it. He never forgot that phrase. “Poor ol’ Matt,” he’d say. “I’ll never forget the look on his face that night, poor ol’ guy.”

That was Matt—always caring, always sensitive to everyone’s needs, even while presenting a macho image to his fans and friends.

Anything I could think of doing for him, I did. I made sure Graceland was always warm and inviting, with the lights turned low, as he preferred them, the temperature in his bedroom set to his exact desire (freezing), and the kitchen filled with the aroma of his favorite meals.

Every night before dinner was served, I came downstairs first, checked with the maids to see that his food was just the way he liked it—his mashed potatoes creamily whipped, plenty of cornbread, and his meat burnt to perfection. I always had candles on the dining room table to create a romantic atmosphere despite the fact that we always ate with several of the regulars.

I loved babying Matt. He had a little-boy quality that could bring out the mother instinct in any woman, a beguiling way of seeming utterly dependent. It was this aspect of his charm that made me want to hold him, shower him with affection, protect him, fight for him, and yes, even die for him. I went to extremes in taking care of him, from cutting his steak at dinner to making sure his water glass was always filled. I enjoyed pampering and spoiling him and found myself jealous of others vying for his attention and approval.

But I didn’t always receive his approval. If something went wrong with his dinner, Matt blew up. “Why isn’t this steak done? Why didn’t you make sure the maids cooked it right? If you’d have done your job, it wouldn’t have turned out like this.” Obviously something else was wrong, and I didn’t recognize it at the time. Because of the continuous pressures and problems in Matt’s life, all magnified by taking prescribed drugs, little things would set him off. I took responsibility for everything in his life and always took it all too personally.

I wanted to be with Matt as much as I could, but while going to the movies or the fairgrounds every night might have been a wonderful way for him to relax, it posed an enormous problem for me. Often I wouldn’t get home until 5 or 6 a.m., and I’d have to be at school two hours later. Sometimes I never went to sleep. When I did, I could barely make it out of bed. I would lie there trying to drum up the strength to face the day, Matt making it even harder by suggesting that I sleep in and cut classes. It would have been so easy to go along with his suggestion, but hanging over me was the agreement I’d made with my parents. They trusted me and even though I was letting them down, I still had to keep up the facade.

Day after day I drove to school, attended classes till noon, then returned to Graceland to slip back into bed and cuddle next to Matt, who was still sound asleep. When he awoke at 3 or 4 p.m., I might never have left his side for all he knew. I was there to give him his usual order of orange juice, a Spanish omelet, home-fried potatoes, a mere two pounds of bacon, and—first and foremost—his black coffee.

Everyone who knew Matt was aware that it took him at least two to three hours to wake up fully. Asking him to make a decision, even a simple one such as what movie he wanted to see that night, was ill-advised. He was just too groggy and irritable from the sleeping pills, which were causing him to sleep as many as fourteen hours a day. It seemed only natural for him to take some Dexedrine to wake up.

I was always concerned about his intake of sleeping pills. His horror of insomnia, compounded with a family history of compulsive worrying, caused him to down three or four Placidyls, Seconals, Quaaludes, or Tuinals almost every night—and often it was a combination of all four. When I expressed my concern, he just picked up the medical dictionary, always near at hand on his night table.

“In here is the explanation for every type of pill on the market, their ingredients, side effects, cures, everything about them,” he assured me. “There isn’t anything I can’t find out.”

It was true. He was always reading up on pills, always checking to see what was on the market, and which ones had received FDA approval. He referred to them by their medical names and knew all their ingredients. Like everyone else around him, I was impressed with his knowledge and certain that he was an expert. One would think he had a degree in pharmacology. He always assured me that he didn’t need pills, that he could never become dependent on them. This difference in opinion resulted in many serious confrontations; I always compromised my integrity and ended up taking his viewpoint.

I began taking sleeping pills and diet pills too. Two Placidyls for him and one for me. A Dexedrine for him and one for me. Eventually Matt’s consumption of pills seemed as normal to me as watching him eat a pound of bacon with his Spanish omelet. I routinely took “helpers” in order to get to sleep after wild rides at the fairgrounds or early-morning jam sessions. And I routinely took more “helpers” when I woke up in order to maintain the fast pace and, more importantly, to study for my final exams.

During the last month before finals, I started popping more dexies than before. They seemed to give me the energy I needed to get through classes and homework. Every free moment was devoted to cramming a whole semester’s work into a few weeks. But my concentration was scattered; the strain of life at Graceland had finally caught up with me.

I had already been warned by Sister Adrian that in order for me to graduate, I had to pass all my subjects. During a talk in her office, I wanted desperately to confide in her and explained how hard it was to maintain my grade level with the late hours I kept: But how could I tell that to a nun?

I had no real goals after graduation, but I did sometimes dream of becoming a dancer or possibly enrolling in an art academy. Now I realize that I was deeply influenced by Matt’s casual attitude toward continued schooling. He figured I didn’t need it and I agreed. Just being with him most of the time would provide an education—not to mention experience—that no school could give me. He wanted me to be his totally, free to go to him in an instant if he needed me.

That sounded great to me. I’d never planned on a future without Matt. Therefore, while my classmates were deciding which colleges to apply to, I was deciding which gun to wear with what sequined dress. I was tempted to say to Sister Adrian, “Oh, by the way, Sister, does gunmetal gray go with royal blue sequins?” With that attitude it was no surprise that I was still woefully unprepared for my most hated subject, algebra, the week before finals.

On the day of the test, I sat in the crowded classroom, hyper from downing a dexy, trying to work out the problems. Despite my effort, I knew there was no way I was going to pass. I started to panic. I had to graduate. I had an obligation to Matt and to my parents, who I knew would yank me out of Graceland the minute I failed this test. I glanced at the girl next to me—and at her completed test paper. It’s my last resort, I thought. I’m going for it. I was not willing to face the consequences of being sent home for failing this test.

Her name was Janet and she was a straight A student. I tapped her on the shoulder and flashed my brightest smile, whispering, “Are you a Matt fan?” Taken aback by my question, Janet nodded yes. “How would you like to come to one of his parties?” I asked.

“Are you kidding?” she replied. “I’d love to.”

“Well, I know a way that it can be arranged.”

I eyed her test paper and explained. Janet instantly grasped my dilemma and, without a word, slid her paper to the edge of her desk. Now I had a full view of her answers. I spent the rest of the hour furiously copying them down and I not only passed, but I got an A on that test.

I hadn’t expected Matt to make much of my graduation. His attitude was, “A diploma’s not that important; life’s experiences are.” But to my surprise, he really looked forward to it and arranged to have a big party for our friends after the ceremony. There he presented a beautiful red Corvair, my first car.

On the big night he was like a proud parent. Nervous about what he should wear to the ceremony, he finally settled on a dark blue suit, and I put on my navy blue gown. I couldn’t possibly keep the cap on over that mass of teased hair.

Matt had a limo waiting for us out front. But there was one problem: I did not want him to come to the actual ceremony. It would attract a lot of attention, and all eyes would be focused on him instead of the graduating seniors.

Finally I worked up enough courage to ask him to wait outside, and explained why. Smiling his funny little grin, the one that came to his lips when he was hurt or upset, he agreed without hesitation. “I hadn’t thought about that,” he said. “I won’t come in. I’ll just be outside in the car waiting for you. That way I’ll kinda be there.”

And that was what he did. I accepted my diploma with mixed emotions. I would have loved for him to have been watching, but only I knew what a physical, emotional, and mental strain it had been to get that piece of paper. To me, it represented freedom, freedom to stay out until dawn if I wanted and sleep all day if I wanted. It represented freedom from my school uniform and from the teasing the entourage subjected me to every time they caught me in it trying to sneak past them at Graceland. I was a big girl playing in the big leagues.

As soon as I could get away, I ran outside. In front of the church, Matt and the boys were standing by the long black limo, looking like the Chicago Mafia in their dark glasses and suits, each concealing a.38. Around them a group of nuns were clamoring for Matt’s autograph.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd. This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - so cute🎀

#matt stuniolo fanfic #matthew sturn #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #Spotify

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nininikki · 1 year

Text

𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐌𝐑. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 | eren jaeger x black reader

III. nice enough

✧ summary! — as eren is faced with an obstacle regarding his fight for the office, all he can seem to think of is you. meanwhile, your dinner at the jaeger’s goes…interestingly.

✧ warnings! — alcohol consumption and mentions of it, mentions of sexual activity (piv), adultery (eren is an aspiring cheater again), age gap—reader is 29 and eren is 40

✧ author’s note! — hello all! part 3 is finally here after what felt like years 😓 hoping that you all love it! bit of exposition & lots of head hopping (aka pov switching) in this one so strap your seatbelts. lmk if i missed anything in the warnings! 🪽💘

✧ word count! — 3.6k

12 AUGUST, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

one could argue that there was nothing particularly nice about levi ackerman. he didn’t really like to shake people’s hands, evident by the well hidden grunts of distress under his breath whenever he had to do it and the prompt squirt of hand sanitizer into his palm immediately after.

he also had a not so great habit of dishing out ridiculous—or, in hindsight not so ridiculous—demands that he was certain would help eren in the polls. “go get a haircut, jaeger. you look fifteen.” or, “go change that tie. never mind, just change the whole damn suit. you look like a bachelor.”

and eren had an even worse habit of listening to everything he said, because the most frustrating thing of all about levi ackerman was that he was never wrong. there was a jump in his numbers after he got rid of that “juvenile haircut” and stopped “dressing like hugh hefner.”

so, when levi deadpanned, “you two need to start acting married.” eren could only assume it was for some reason or another that he’d eventually come to comprehend in about twenty minutes.

“acting married?”

eren had come to learn that levi’s ideas tended to be the most strategic the more asinine they sounded. this fact, however, did not help the ever nagging feeling that eren might as well have been blowing levi’s ten thousand dollar stipend into the wind every month.

levi swiftly maneuvered his way around their timelessly decorated living room, not bothering to hide the way he kept his hands from lingering too long on any furniture. “acting like you actually love each other. yes, challenging as that may sound, it could win you this election.”

however levi managed to clock the decaying spark in eren’s marriage was neither here nor there.

mikasa sprouted from her seat as though she were the timid stem of a plant. “levi, with all due respect—”

“i mean, like right now.” right now, eren and mikasa were standing no more than seven feet away from each other on opposite sides of their living room. their respective arms crossed, unionized in their waning tolerance for the current discussion. “you two look like coworkers at best. hold her hand, kiss her on the cheek. where’s the chemistry?”

eren breathed a scoff that weighed a thousand pounds. “chemistry? we have an election to win, and you’re worried about our chemistry?”

“the numbers speak for themselves, jaeger. voters under thirty-five love you. love your policies, your look. if it were up to just them, you’d be a shoo-in. but with voters forty and up—well, you just aren’t traditional enough.”

despite the nonchalance with which levi spoke, eren’s vigorously trained ear picked up on the irritation that lie just beneath. eren could practically hear into the bubbling, cynical cauldron of brilliance that was levi’s brain and pick out the individual remarks springing to the surface. am i gonna have to hire this fucker an intimacy coordinator? for his wife of all people?

never minding the question sounding almost rhetorical in his head, eren still asked, “well, how do we fix that?” he thought back longingly, bitterly to the conversation last night. and the one this morning. a fuzzy, warm, and sugar filled feeling that should’ve been guilt enraptured his chest and abdomen. the last intelligent parts of his brain were brutally kicking him for thinking of a you—a girl that was inconsequential and, for lack of a better word, trouble. you may as well have had a big, glowing red sign floating above your head that blared DANGER whenever he dared step too close.

but, oh, how he wanted to step closer! how he could feel the delicious vines of trouble you were sure to plant into his life and how he found himself longing to be wrapped in them anyway. how he wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into the forbidden fruit of your skin and revel in whatever nectar you were willing to give him. how he wouldn’t have minded looking danger directly in the eyes if they just so happened to resemble yours.

***

AUGUST 23, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

eren could feel his fingers beginning to seize with a barely discernible tremor as they hesitated over his house phone. eleven long days had passed since the last phone call, and a part of him (lots of parts, actually) had started to miss your voice. it was novel that he had even found himself missing the sound of someone’s voice. their voice, of all things. but he guessed you had a knack for realizing the fantastical.

of course, he couldn’t call you just to call. he had to have some sort of reason. an, “oh, i was just wondering if you were still up for dinner” or, “i know you’ve got your premiere today. i was just calling to wish you good luck.”

he couldn’t have wanted to call for the sole purpose of hearing your voice, or wanting to know how your day was going. or for any of the simple pleasure he may have gotten from calling you, anyway.

calling you without a reason would change things. he’d toe the already vague enough line between checking up on a totally platonic (while also coincidentally drop dead gorgeous) woman in his life and indulging in the attraction that had become so potent within him he was afraid it’d fester if he didn’t act upon it.

eren dropped the house phone back into its holder with a pathetic clunk, and began the venture into his bathroom in pursuit of splashing some sense into his face. he couldn’t have, not for a second, thought it’d be a good idea to call you at three o’clock on a wednesday with mikasa and levi sitting perfectly conscious just downstairs.

a noticeable chunk of eren’s resolve crumbled to nothing as he promptly realized that yes, he had considered calling you in the face of the present circumstances. and no, he couldn’t say he cared all that much without willing himself to do so.

***

23 AUGUST, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

your relationship with jean kirschtein was something of an enigma. to the ever present and glaring public eye, to your own friends and family, hell, to yourself even. when he wasn’t pretending to be madly in love with you on a silver screen, he was sending you compliments that he didn’t even bother to deliver in a platonic tone. and when he wasn’t doing that, he was whisking you into the dimly lit area of whatever party you both happened to be attending and coating your lips in whiskey flavored kisses that lingered into the early morning.

it almost seemed inevitable the first time you slept with him. with every stolen glance or flirtatious remark, you’d find yourself thinking, any day now. any day now, i’m gonna jump his bones.

and soon enough, your desires were realized one night as he cruised down the hall from his hotel room to yours to wish you a well slumber and wash away the pre-premiere jitters with a bottle of champagne. it didn’t take long before he had your legs wrapped around the base of his spine while the two of you rutted your pleasure-drunken bodies into one another.

ironically enough, that had become your pre-premiere tradition, an arrangement that proved convenient for you last night when colorful thoughts of a certain presidential candidate ran rampant through your mind. you’d found yourself knocking on his hotel room door with your own bottle of champagne—knowing he’d be up for taking your mind off it. still, even with jean buried so deep inside you and your fingernails raking across his shoulders, you couldn’t quite seem to purge him from your mind.

that much is evident when you arrive at the cannes film festival. a steadying, custom-tailored arm snakes around your waist, and judging by the accompanying scent of bleu de chanel, your otherwise preoccupied mind can only assume it’s jean. “hey,” the sound of his voice sobers you just enough to grant him eye contact. “you okay in there?”

“always.” you reassure him with a smile and nod. “let’s go kick ass.”

***

30 AUGUST

just as your knuckles brushed against the front door, a fleeting blanket of tranquility washed over your body in the form of an evening summer breeze. briefly, you wondered if that could be a sign before knocking anyway. it was a timid graze of skin against wood that you weren’t even sure you’d heard. you were prepared to knock again—more confidently and less like you were about to vomit all over the jaeger’s doorstep—when the door swung open.

“and here i was, thinking you’d stood me up.”

you didn’t think you’d ever quite get used to eren’s beauty. this could’ve had something to do with the fact that he was simply (by some stroke of magic) becoming increasingly attractive each time you laid eyes on him. or with the fact that you were utterly enamored with a new part of him every single time.

on this particular occasion, it was the tiny beauty mark dotted under his left eye. one could hardly even call it noticeable in the dimmed lighting you two were standing in, but that didn’t stop you from yearning to stretch onto your tiptoes and run the pad of your thumb over it.

an utterly delighted exhale whistled through your nose as you remarked, “never.” with a newborn shyness coloring your tone, which may or may not have had something to do with the way eren’s shadow managed to eclipse your entire as he braved a footstep in your direction to close the front door behind you. it was in that particular moment that you realized mikasa wasn’t at his side. she’d have most likely greeted you with a hug, a glimmering smile, and all the guilt-inspiring kindness in the world. “where’s, uh, m—”

eren’s eyes, once entirely focused on you, became awkward and clumsy as the last syllable started to leave your lips. “she’s in th—”

“honey, is that (y/n)?” mikasa’s voice, erupting from somewhere further back in the house while still managing to sound composed and almost soft. “i’ll be up in a sec, hold on.”

as the distant echo of mikasa’s voice dwindled, what proceeded to settle over you and eren was an almost tangible bubble of guilt. and taking your eyes off one another would surely burst it right over your heads and drench you both in the sordid feelings you harbored for one another.

of course, you don’t count on eren to have that much concern for things like guilt. because just as the sound of his wife’s voice grew to a steady quiet, you felt his palms—lightly callused and comfortably warm—cup over the back of your arms as he murmured, “you’re so beautiful.”

“eren,” you squeaked his name, a weak attempt at protest. you should’ve known you stood no chance, especially not when the lively green of his eyes bored into yours so deeply you thought you’d feel them in your soul.

his hands grew a bit firmer over your arms, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to stay in his hold forever. “yeah?” eren answered, and you would’ve let him kiss you right there. you were so sure of the feeling that it wrapped around your bones. it was in the beating of your heart, the quickness of your breath, in the ribbons of want dripping into your underwear and effectively soiling them for the rest of the night. it was in you.

with no forewarning (although, why would there be) the tell-tale sound of heels came clicking against the same marble floor you were standing on. almost too luckily for you, eren moved into a less compromising position, and you were able to see that the heels were still clicking around the corner and not yet in the foyer. so, mikasa hadn’t seen her husband practically mounting the girl she believed to be their friend.

this was gonna be a long fucking night.

***

sitting before you was possibly the best plate of pasta you’d ever eaten and just a foot or two across from that was possibly the handsomest man you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. if you were deluded enough, this could’ve been a date. scarfing down a fattening amount of pasta and drinking thousand dollar wine with the man present in all your recent daydreams.

maybe if you drank enough wine, you’d slide your stiletto up the inside of his leg. back and forth and back and forth again until it wasn’t enough for you. maybe if both of you had enough wine, he’d take you up to his bedroom. or maybe he wouldn’t bother with all the extra walking and just let you have it right here on the dining room table.

but none of that would happen, seeing as just a foot away from him sat his wife, your friend.

“is the pasta any good, (y/n)?” mikasa asked, as she herself was only eating a salad drenched in avocado and quinoa.

mouth too full to speak, you simply raised a positive thumb as you waited for the food to go down. “amazing,” you were finally able to breathe out. “everything’s been just lovely.” and it had been. even walking through the jaeger’s home felt like something of an out of body experience for you. the ornate detailing covering the walls, marble floors smooth enough to slide across, and ceilings bejeweled with sparkling chandeliers. the place could’ve been a castle.

after a sip from his glass, eren remarked, “i think you just make lovely company.”

your neck twitched in the urge to bang your head against the table, unsure if it was rooted in being flustered or embarrassed that he would even utter those words out loud.

after a bout of awkward silence that filled the room with the intensity and speed of a rushing tide, mikasa spoke. “so, how was cannes?” you didn’t miss the way she stabbed at her lettuce, despite desperately wishing you had.

“uh, great, yeah. really great.” you answered, despite having to flinch whenever you closed your eyes due to the blinding camera flash that still lingered behind the lids. and despite last night being your first full eight hours of sleep after what seemed like months of preparation for this money-covered spectacle. “people liked the movie, that’s all i could really ask for.” a smile graced your features as you recalled the tumultuous, fourteen minute standing ovation. even now, through all the party noise still sticking to you, you remember the triumph burning through your veins as jean wrapped you in a spine-crushing hug.

mikasa smiled through an ear of lettuce. “that’s perfect.” seconds of chewing passed before she added, “y’know, that jean kirschtein guy seems to like you quite a bit.”

“jean?”

“yeah. i mean, the way he looks at you…” you briefly wondered how on earth she would know how jean looks at you (off-camera, at least) before remembering that cannes was a nationally publicized event, and she’d most likely seen bits and pieces of it somewhere at the very very least. “wouldn’t you say so, eren?”

you were actually kicking yourself. like, banging the heel of your stiletto repeatedly your shin and hoping to wake up from this night terror sooner than later. “i don’t know. kid seems nice enough.” eren murmured. you braved a glance at him, only to see that he was staring down into his plate of pasta as his knuckles whitened around his fork. he finally looked up at both of you to say, “let’s not jump down her throat about it.”

“ugh, i’m so glad we got to do this.” mikasa breathed, her arms wrapping around your neck as the three of you entered the foyer. “i’ve got that women’s conference in georgia in a few weeks, so this is about the only free time i’m getting before then.”

“if anyone can convince them to vote democrat, it’s you.”

her eyes brightened as if it was the first time she’d been complimented in ages. “you think so?”

you nodded, trying to ignore her husband’s shadow burning a hole in your back. “you got it in the bag. don’t even worry about it.”

just as her smile began to widen, a phone somewhere upstairs trilled noisily, and her eyes darted to eren as she headed towards the sound. “that might be levi. will you walk her out while i…” mikasa gestured upwards, and they shared a look of mutual understanding over your head that had envy coiling in your gut.

in a matter of seconds, mikasa had zipped from the foyer and ventured up the stairs before you could even blink a goodbye in her direction. you shot eren a questioning set of eyes, to which he only wearily answered, “campaign manager.”

as eren walked you out the door, you could feel a question—the question—sitting eagerly on his tongue, so it wasn’t at all a surprise when he remarked, “jean kirschtein, huh?”

pale ribbons of moonlight illuminated his features, brightening the coquettish smile stretched across his face. “problem?” you quickly and confidently answered his question with another, even as you could feel your legs buckling under the weight of his stare.

“no, not at all. he seems…” eren shook his head so unconvincingly that he may as well have said yes.

“‘nice enough.’ right?”

for a brief instant, something darkened behind his eyes, and you couldn’t tell if it scared you or turned you on. “i lied. not nice enough for you.”

“oh? and are you saying you know someone who is?” a giggle slipped from your lips as you let your heeled foot briefly glide against the hem of his pant leg.

even in the growing darkness, his cheeks lit aflame in a blush. “god, i don’t even know what i’m saying.”

just then, your limo smoothed up the driveway and came to a halt where you stood at the front entrance. “well, call me when you do.”

***

your house phone trills ecstatically at around midnight, and you weren’t at all surprised by the voice on the other end. “you know i don’t think he’s good enough for you.”

throwing a nightgown over your naked, freshly showered body, you simper, “and who are you to make that judgment?”

“i’m making this judgment as someone who might possibly be good enough for you.”

“‘might possibly’ yeah, if we just remove the wife and presidential candidacy.” you momentarily considered a world where there was no wife or presidential candidacy. where you and eren met at some country club near santa barbara and could be blissfully smitten without interruption. without the glaring eyes of guilt crawling over your back whenever you so much as thought about him. “i’d say you’re perfect.”

“perfect, huh?” the cocky lilt in his tone sobered you as much as it excited you.

“hey, grain of salt.” you teased as you threw your head back into the throng of pillows at the head of your bed and wished desperately that eren could see the way you were smiling. “very clear conditions were stated. conditions you obviously cannot meet.”

“stop that.” eren whispered, his voice half a notch sterner.

“stop what?”

“being so pessimistic.” at this, you laughed, because eren’s hopeless sense of optimism was nothing if not utterly amusing.

“no other choice.”

treacherously long beats of silence roll by, giving you no other choice than to think about what you just said. would it really be so foolish to think that this (whatever it was you two had going on) stood a chance in the face of all the present circumstances—his marriage, the election, your reputation and career. sitting here now, listening to the peaceful whistles of his breath between his lips and soaking up the utter peace it brought you, you almost could’ve been coaxed into believing the answer was no.

“(y/n),” eren’s voice wakes you. “can i ask something of you?”

“depends on what.” you breathe, checking the clock on your bedside table. 12:06.

“there’s this, uh, dinner we’re hosting at my family’s ballroom. try to garner support and that kinda thing. i don’t know, it was mainly mika’s idea. but anyway,” the distant sounds of ice rolling around in a scotch glass graced your ears. “i want you to be there.”

i want you to be there. “oh, eren, i—” you cut yourself off, heart hammering in your chest so fervently you thought it might explode. i want you to be there. “i don’t—” i want you to be there. “i don’t know if that’s really my scene.” you tried to keep the tremor out of your voice for long enough to get the sentence out.

“nonsense. america loves you. you’d be a huge help, if anything.” his voice was doing that thing again. that thing where it seeped from the receiver of the phone and sang to your senses in a way that made it feel like he was really there with you. “but that’s not why i want you there.”

“why do you want me there?”

“just to see you again.” it warmed your heart, and every other surface area of skin on your body, that he was already looking for a way to see you again despite having just left you today.

“is this my official invitation?”

“‘course it is. i’ll handle everything else. just put on the prettiest dress you own and show up.” you glanced over at your walk-in closet with its double doors still open ajar and briefly pondered over which dress—out of the hundreds—might be the prettiest one you own. “can you do that for me?”

“yeah,” the word left your lips as if someone had punched it and all the air from your lungs. eren had the power to do that to you, and if at some point down the line, you got any stupider than this, you’d give him the power to do so much more. “yeah, i can.”

tags ✧˖*°࿐ — @nyanglock @beyondsuki @westcinny @taylarxse @ittostan @rensbby @madsoncrack @shawtynoire @braxxinterlude @kai7911

#nikki writes ✶#happy birthday mr. president #eren jeager x you #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger x black reader #attack on titan #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan au #aot smut #eren jaeger fanfiction #eren jaeger fanart #eren jaeger smut #snk #snk fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin eren

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oliversrarebooks · 8 months

Text

The Rare Bookseller Part 26: Lily's Favorite Thrall

Masterlist

September 1925

TW: Captivity, mind control, vampiric blood drinking

Miss Lily's room was on the third floor of the auction house, and it was flanked by a pair of thralls with lifeless eyes. She opened the door with a large brass key and let Oliver inside.

It was sumptuous, the kind of room he imagined a royal or celebrity might stay in, with two enormous four-poster beds, wooden furniture with intricate carvings, thick rugs that his stockinged feet sank into, and softly flickering oil lamps -- a necessity, since there were no windows.

A woman was sitting in a plush chair in the corner, doing some complex embroidery project, and she immediately stood up to greet them. She was wearing a dusty pink cotton dress with a frilly white apron, and something about her friendly smile and slightly glassy eyes made her look a bit off. There was a prominent scar on the side of her neck.

"Welcome home, Madam!" she said with excessive cheer. "Did the auction go well?"

"Absolutely splendid, Miriam, couldn't ask for better," she said. "Oh, and this is Oliver. Don't fret, he won't be replacing you, love. He was just purchased by Lord Alexander, and I'm going to be watching him for a few days."

"Please to meet you, Oliver," she said with a little curtsy.

"Pleased to meet you as well."

"You're so lucky to be bought by Lord Alexander!" she enthused.

"Yes, I certainly hope so..."

"You won't believe how much Alexander paid for him," said Miss Lily. "Twenty thousand dollars."

"That much!" Miriam gasped.

"And that means a fat wallet for me. I'll be buying the latest phonograph and selling the record shop out of jazz albums."

"Oh, lovely! I can't wait!"

"And I'm going to buy a new mink coat. I should get a matching mink stole for you as well, Miriam. What do you think?"

"That'd be very fetching, madam! I would love that very much," she said joyfully.

"Is there anything you'd like for yourself?"

"Oh, well... I saw the most darling pair of calf leather half-boots in a magazine yesterday, and it listed a mail order address. Could I have those, please, madam?"

"We'll send away for them -- consider it done," said Miss Lily, clearly in high spirits. "And servants will be bringing up dinner for you and Oliver. Roast chicken and all the accompaniments, and chocolate cake besides."

Miriam was looking at Miss Lily as though the sun rose and set on her. "You're so thoughtful, madam, and so good to me."

"Of course, love, anything for my darling. And after dinner... I'll be taking a meal, as well."

Miriam's adoring gaze became a bit more distant and glassy. "Yes, please, madam, you deserve it."

Miss Lily rose from the bed where she'd been taking off her heels. "I'm going to be in the washroom, fixing myself up. Miriam, why don't you help Oliver out of all those fussy clothes -- I've told the servant to bring up a nightgown for him. You two can chit-chat while I take a breather."

"Here, yes, stand here, Oliver, and I'll unlace your corset and help you out of the crinoline."

"Oh, yes, thank you," he said, feeling slightly embarrassed to be helped out of his underwear by a woman he'd just met, but Miss Lily had ordered it, so...

"So, how long have you been with Miss Lily?" he asked, trying to lessen the awkwardness with conversation.

"Four years now."

"And she treats you well?"

"Oh, absolutely!" There was something strange in her beaming grin. "She treats me very well, and I want for nothing. I love her with all of my heart. When I'm with my madam, I never have to feel sad or lonely or any other unpleasant feelings. Every day is like a beautiful dream."

"I see. That sounds very nice," said Oliver, politely, but quietly disturbed. "Does she... condition you?" he asked, unable to stop himself from the obvious but possibly impolite question.

"Oh yes, all of the time! She's very good at it, and I love madam's spell. Sometimes I spend days just floating in mindless bliss, as a reward. Sometimes she wants to practice different things on me. Not that I'm very good practice, since I always go under immediately for my madam."

Well, he didn't know what else he would expect from Miss Lily's personal thrall. He remembered how good her hypnotic trance had made him feel, how easily he'd succumbed, how he was still in it now. If he were in Miriam's place, would he be any different? Would he eventually have his feelings and his individuality erased, living life as though in a dream?

Just as Miriam finished removing everything but his shorts and chemise, there was a knock on the door, which she ran to answer. It was a servant bearing a wooden tray with a small roast chicken and an entire dinner spread, and Oliver went to help her carry it in. There was also a folded nightgown in his size, one with an open neck and a blue ribbon around the collar and bottom, and he put it on.

The food was delicious -- roast chicken seasoned with herbs, jacket potatoes with salt and butter, garden salad with vinaigrette dressing, warm and fluffy rolls, and a rich chocolate cake for dessert.

"Have you met Lord Alexander yet? Since he bought you?" Miriam asked as she tore into a chicken leg in an undignified manner he wouldn't have expected.

"I actually knew him... before," said Oliver. "He was a patron of my bookshop."

"Before?" she said curiously.

"Before... this. Before I was a thrall."

"Oh. That's quite a coincidence," she said. "I don't remember anything from before I was a thrall."

"Nothing?" he said. Miriam seemed to have enough of her faculties about her that he was surprised to learn she'd been memory wiped. "Did your madam erase them?"

"She must have, to help me be less sad," said Miriam. "That seems right, but I don't remember that, either."

"...I see," said Oliver. He wondered if that was standard operating procedure, or simply something Miss Lily favored. Would Lord Alexander wipe his memories of ordinary human life, of his precious bookshop? He hoped not, even if they did make him sad.

Oliver swallowed hard, thinking of how enthralled he'd felt in Lord Alexander's mere presence, now that he was free to use his vampiric abilities. How easily he fell into the role of a servant. How he'd yearned to offer up his own blood.

"Are you okay?" Miriam asked. "You seem to have a lot of thoughts in your head. My madam could help you with that, if you like. She's very good at it."

"Yes, I'm aware," said Oliver, fiddling with his glasses. "Say, Miriam, you're really the first thrall I've actually gotten to talk to. What's your routine like? What do you think it will be like for me?"

"Well... my madam lets me do whatever I please, as long as I don't disobey her rules or her orders. I spend most of my days sleeping, sewing, and doing whatever arts and crafts catch my fancy. Madam is very generous with supplies for my pastimes, as well as all my favorite foods and beautiful clothing," said Miriam, her eyes looking more focused as she pondered the questions. "And once a week, I get to provide Madam with my precious blood. I look forward to it all week. I'm so happy I found such a good purpose. Madam is such a beautiful and powerful vampire, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Oliver was mulling over "once a week." He wondered if that was typical or simply Miss Lily's preference.

"Lord Alexander's not as fun as Madam. He's always a little sad and he talks a lot about complicated and boring things," she continued. "But his house is very nice. Madam is friends with him, but every time we leave she says that Lord Alexander needs to get over himself and remove the stick from his ass."

"I... see," said Oliver, unsure of what to take from this. He dug into his slice of chocolate cake, rich and covered with coconut flakes. He hoped he'd at least continue to be fed well. Focusing on the delicious food was a good way to temporarily keep his head from spinning with the knowledge that he'd been purchased and was now the property of one of his bookshop patrons.

"Are you two having a nice chat?" said Miss Lily, emerging from the bathroom in a fuzzy white robe, hair wrapped in a towel.

"Yes, Madam! Thank you very much for ordering dinner for us!"

"Yes, thank you, sir," Oliver added.

"If you've had your fill then, Miriam," said Miss Lily, sitting on the edge of the bed, "then I would like to have mine."

Oliver felt the atmosphere in the room shift, his mind starting to fog with Miss Lily's vampiric aura. The effect on Miriam was pronounced -- her glassy eyes were big as saucers, the expression on her face somewhere between rapturous joy and confused daze. She stood up slowly, staring at Miss Lily as though she were the only thing that had ever mattered, and padded across the room like a sleepwalker, sitting next to her Madam, as docile as a lamb.

"There you are, dear heart," said Miss Lily, smiling and stroking her face, Miriam leaning into her touch. She turned momentarily to Oliver. "This will be instructive to you, to see what a feeding is like with a well-trained thrall."

Oliver's own eyes were fixated on the two of them, unable to look away if he tried. "Yes, sir."

"Now, Miriam," said Miss Lily, tilting her chin to look into her thrall's eyes. "When I drink from you, you will feel blissful and loved, as always. Because you are."

"Yes, Madam," said Miriam in a dreamy voice. "I love you so. Please, please drink from me."

Miss Lily ran a finger down Miriam's neck, touching her scar, causing Miriam to shudder in delight. Oliver could only watch as Miss Lily's fangs grew closer, Miriam perfectly still and utterly pliant, until finally her sharp fangs pierced Miriam's tender neck. Miriam made a soft noise, a euphoric look on her face as her madam began to drink, hungrily nursing at the punctures.

As Miss Lily continued to quietly feed, Miriam's eyelids began to blink slowly, her head tilting forward to rest on her madam's shoulder. Shortly after, the vampire finished her meal by licking at the wounds, sealing them, not letting a drop of blood spill. Miriam's eyes were glazed over and she had a sleepy, contented smile on her face as Miss Lily cradled her in her arms.

"You did so well, dear. Thank you for the meal, as always," said Miss Lily. "Sweet dreams, and do not wake until evening." She laid Miriam in one of the beds, resting her head on the pillow and draping the covers over her, as Miriam sighed in contentment, closing her eyes and curling up to sleep.

Oliver didn't know when his own hand had gone up to grasp his neck. If that was what it would be like... he pictured himself being fed on in Miriam's place, and a confusing mix of dread and desire filled his heart.

"Well, Oliver?" Miss Lily was unexpectedly in front of him. "Did you learn about feeding?"

"I think so, sir," he said, averting his eyes. He'd learned something all right, he just wasn't sure what it was.

"Good. Then it's time for you to sleep as well." She effortlessly scooped him up and laid him on the bed next to Miriam. "You're getting terribly sleepy, aren't you? Yes, that's a dear."

Oliver had a momentary sense of alarm at being placed next to Miriam in bed -- so improper -- but she was out cold and it was quite obvious that nothing untoward was about to happen. His eyelids grew heavy as Miss Lily pulled the silk sheets and thick blanket over him. He'd never been in so fine a bed before.

"Sleep now, Oliver," she said, brushing the hair out of his eyes. "Go to sleep and have sweet dreams, free of worry, free of care. Sleep so peacefully until evening."

As his eyes shut tight, he was actually grateful that Miss Lily was putting him to sleep, as it'd spare him the anxious tossing and turning that would no doubt plague him after a day where he'd been sold to a vampire.

And then he drifted away.

Part 25 >> Masterlist >> Part 27

Miriam was a kind and hardworking nurse. She had the misfortune of catching Lily's attention when she was walking home after a night shift.

Thanks for reading!

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @snakebites-and-ink @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining-blog @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

#whump #whump writing #vampire #mind control #whumpee #vampire whumper #captivity #hypnosis #blood drinking #rare bookseller #oliver #lily #miriam

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year

Text

Force of Habit Part Four

Previous Part | Masterlist

Pairing: Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only

Notes: Hi welcome to the final part enjoy thank you for reaaaaadiiiiing

Warnings: Mentions/descriptions of anxiety; fluff; explicit sexual content—oral sex, fingering, vaginal sex

Summary: Maybe your dry run of the dishes should’ve given you some indication of this, but there’s a little part of you that’s unnerved by how…Easy this all feels. You won’t deny that there’s still some low-level of swirling anxiety in your belly, but it’s assuaged by the fact that whatever happens tonight, you’ve been through way worse. You’re certain that by the end of the night, you and Berzatto will both be a thousand dollars richer, and neither of you will cover yourselves in cold Au Jus and go running into the walk-in.

“Can you help? I’m like—I am so screwed it’s not even funny.”

Emma’s voice is tinny and desperate as it comes through your phone. You’re still looking at the menu that she’d sent over before calling. You bite your lip as you consider it. You could swing it, but it would be tight. You can either implore Crispy’s owner to close up early on a Saturday, or leave Steph in charge for the evening. You’re not sure which would be worse. Besides, you can’t cater a gourmet dinner service by yourself.

“I’ll give you two thousand for the night,” Emma adds, “All cash, under the table.”

“Christ, Em. Who the hell are you working with?”

“Oh my god, yes or no, babe, I’m desperate here.”

“Okay—okay, lemme make one other call, and I will get back to you in—” You glance at the time on your phone before raising it back to your ear, “Like, an hour, okay?”

“Ugh, fine.”

You roll your eyes, hanging up and lowering your phone again. You swipe through your texts, tapping on Carmy’s contact and raising it to your ear again. It rings three times, and you think it’ll go to voicemail until he answers—

“Yeah?”

“Hey. Can you pull a job with me this Saturday? I know it’s super short-notice,” You hurry to add, “But my friend needs a favor. It’s a small wedding service for twenty at this fuckin' bougie hotel. Two thousand, all cash, even split.”

There’s a pause on the other end; you can hear the slight scritch of him scratching his head.

“Menu?”

“Pre-selected. I can send it to you now,” You add, pulling the phone back from your ear and putting it on speaker. You pull up your email, tapping on the menu and forwarding it to him.

“Time?” He asks.

“We’d be let in for prep would start at four, service would start at five-thirty.”

“...Even split, all cash.”

“Yep.”

“...Caviar-topped canapes…Grains salad…Duck confit spring rolls…Skirt steak with paprika butter…” He mutters, reading some of the menu to himself. He pauses before speaking up again: “…We springing for ingredients?”

“Nope. Already ordered and paid for.”

“The hell happened?”

“The chef has some family emergency. My friend didn’t go into all the details.” You bite your lip. “Like I said, I know it’s super short-notice, but I need an answer like, ASAP—”

“I’ll do it.”

“...For real?”

“Yeah. Are we meeting there, or do you wanna do a dry run, agree on plating?”

“That’s probably a good idea. Crispy’s is closed on Tuesdays, so if you wanna come by some time then.”

“You’re closed?”

“It’s been our slowest day. We don’t even get delivery orders. I usually come in to do a deep clean and inventory.”

“Okay, Tuesday. Is it gonna fuck you up for Wednesday if we do it kinda late?”

“Pffft, please, Berzatto. On holiday weekends, we used to get, what, three hours of sleep from leaving for close to going in for prep? I can handle it.”

“Hey, sorry for askin’.”

“Forgiven. Lemme know what time is good for you and I’ll circle back with Emma, let her know there’s gonna be two of us.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

You hang up, drawing in a deep breath and pushing out a long, slow breath through your lips as you look down at your phone. You feel a vague queasiness wash over you—and you’re not sure if it’s the cuisine, or the thought of being in the kitchen with Carmy again, or both.

“Where’s the gremolata for the, uh—”

“Halibat?” You fill in. "Working on it."

“How long?”

“Thirty seconds, chef.”

He doesn’t gripe with your use of chef this time; it’s right in this context, at least. You walk around to Carmy’s side, setting the bowl down beside his elbow before walking to the stove to turn the skirt steak. You glance back at Carmy, unable to help yourself. You watch him lower a clean spoon into the bowl and raise it to his lips, taking a taste—and then dip his head in a nod. Some little part of you that had gone dormant goes warm, vindicated.

“Skirt steak?” He asks.

“Just turned. Two minutes out, chef.”

“Heard, thank you, chef.”

You nod a bit to yourself, drawing in a deep breath and turning back to the pan. You can hear the scratch of Carmy’s pen on the printed menu by his station, no doubt taking stock of how long it’s taking you.

“Paprika butter?” You ask.

“One minute out, chef.”

“Heard, thank you, chef.”

The kitchen smells fucking delicious. With the restaurant closed, there are no other sounds besides the bubbling, sizzling, and crackling of food being cooked. It’s almost calming—almost. You just have the skirt steak to plate—and then you’re set.

“Skirt steak is ready, chef,” You announce.

“I’ve got the sauce. Walking.”

“Heard.” You wrap a dishcloth around the handle of your pan, walking the skirt steak up to the station and setting it down. Carmy takes the steak up, cutting it and eyeing the inside. Your stomach roils with nerves, eyes darting between the steak and his face.

“This is perfect, chef,” He says, plating it. You have to fight back a grin, mumbling a, “Thank you, chef,” As Carmy spoons the paprika butter over the steak. He jots one more note down on his menu before he stops the digital timer that you keep in the kitchen. The two of you look over the six plates in the window—three appetizers and three entrees.

“Wanna do the tasting in here?” He asks, glancing over at you.

“Nah, no point when there’s an empty dining room. C’mon,” You nod, taking up two of the appetizers and one of the entrees. “We can put it out on the bar.”

It’s a little surreal, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Carmy and taking bits and bites from the plates of food that you just cooked. In New York, you only ever took small samples of what you’d made to ensure quality. Now, you get to eat the whole damn thing.

“Should probably make the paprika butter first,” You comment, pushing some chicken onto your fork. “It can stand for, what—Four hours? It won’t be there for nearly that long.”

“Mhm,” Carmy nods, still chewing. “Prep the spring rolls, drop them as people get in…Put the farro on right after we make the paprika butter.”

“Give it time to drain and cool. And the gremolata after that.”

“Yeah.” Carmy reaches out, snagging his beer and taking a pull from it to wash down the caviar. “I think the chicken scarpariello’s gonna be the biggest hurdle.”

“Agreed,” You nod. “It needs the most handling.”

“Garnishes should be easy. Oven-roasted vegetables and sauteed spinach—”

“Just need the odd look-in and turn.” You reach across him, plucking up the last spring rolls and biting into it with a sigh. “These are fuckin’ good,” You mutter around the mouthful as you set the second half down on your plate.

“You know the chef that canceled?”

“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. “I think they’re a friend of Emma’s.”

“How do you know Emma?”

“We went to college together. She was a business major. She started her own event planning business, like, right as Covid hit.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. She’s keeping her head above water,” You shrug. “But it was touch and go there for a while.”

“...Why’d you ask me for help?”

“Because I needed it.”

“Why me instead of one of the other chefs you know?”

You glance over to find Carmy’s eyes wandering you, though he doesn’t meet your gaze when you look at him. You shrug, turning back to your plate.

“I knew you’d take to the menu quickly,” You admit. “It’s the kind of stuff you’re used to.”

“The kind of stuff we’re used to.”

You smile a little. “I don’t know if I’m that used to it anymore.”

“The skirt steak and I both disagree with you. Your instincts are still there.”

Your smile widens, unable to help the bubbling of your flattery.

“Well. Thank you to you and the skirt steak.”

Carmy’s smile widens as he straightens up and reaches out, taking the last of the duck confit spring roll off of your plate and popping it into his mouth.

“Dick,” You grumble. Carmy grunts in agreement, sitting up and plucking the last piece of skirt steak with his fingers. Before you can stop yourself, you lean in, catching hold of it in your teeth and slurping it into your mouth. Your lips, tongue and teeth brush against the swell of his fingertips as you lean away again. You raise your thumb to your lips, swiping away the stray sauce as you lean back. You swallow your embarrassment along with the steak, swiping your tongue over your lips.

“Payback,” You slide off of the barstool and begin to gather up the dirty plates. “Never steal my fucking spring roll again.”

“Heard,” Carmy chuckles. You try not to overthink the way he smiles—or the fact that he raises those same fingertips to his lips to lick off the remainder of the sauce.

On the day of the wedding, you half-expect Carmy to turn up with his hair slicked back, like you used to see—slicked back hair, and a pristine white uniform. But Carmy is in the clothing that you’re slowly becoming more accustomed to seeing him in: dark jeans, a white t-shirt, and a blue apron. Between the two of you, prep goes smoothly. You speak little, save for asking what one or the other is doing, or may need help with. By the time service starts, you’re beginning to tingle with nerves. But Carmy’s call of, “I need two orders of spring rolls, one grain salad, one order of canapes,” Starts your engine.

“Heard,” You call back, rounding to the frier.

“How long on the spring rolls?”

“Eight minutes, chef.”

“Heard, thank you, chef.”

Maybe your dry run of the dishes should’ve given you some indication of this, but there’s a little part of you that’s unnerved by how…Easy this all feels. You won’t deny that there’s still some low-level of swirling anxiety in your belly, but it’s assuaged by the fact that whatever happens tonight, you’ve been through way worse. You’re certain that by the end of the night, you and Berzatto will both be a thousand dollars richer, and neither of you will cover yourselves in cold Au Jus and go running into the walk-in.

By the time the last appetizers have gone out, you feel yourself beginning to settle into an easy rhythm with Carmy. You’re each flurrying around the kitchen, in near-perfect sync. Sure, now and again you’ll get in your own head about something, but Carmy usually snaps you back out, asking for a time on an item, or murmuring, “Behind,” and resting his hand on your lower back to keep you steady as he passes.

That’s new. Carmy has the same officious speed and manner in the kitchen, but there’s never been a consistent level of close proximity. And you’ve never felt so calm in a kitchen with him before—well, not a professional kitchen, anyway. Your personal kitchen is another matter.

By the time the two of you send out the last round of entrees (three halibut, two steak, two chicken scarpariello), you shut the burner under the cast iron skillet off and sigh softly. You scrub the heels of your palms over your eyes, loosing a sigh that turns into a yawn.

“...Doin’ alright over there, chef?” You hear.

“Yep. Just taking a breath before we start clearing up.” You tip your chin up, lowering your hands and giving him a small smile. “You go ahead and have your cigarette,” You add, nodding to the back door. “I’ll get started in here.”

Carmy seems to consider for a moment, glancing over in the door’s direction as he fiddles with the tasting spoon in his hand.

“I’ll wait,” He finally says. “I’ll get started with the sauce station if you start with garnishes.”

You’re surprised, but you nod, straightening up and turning.

“Heard.”

“...Think we’ll get any cake?”

“Fuck, I hope so. Did you see it when it came in? It looked fuckin’ good.”

“You gonna gripe at me if I want a drag of that?”

Carmy chuckles, pushing the smoke out as he does.

“No,” He shakes his head, holding the cigarette out. You plop down beside him on the bench outside of the venue, taking it from him and drawing in a drag. You damn near groan as you tip your head forward, smoke pushed out through your nostrils.

“Haven’t gotten a new rubber band yet?” He asks. You smile.

“I have, but…I don’t know. This was always kinda our thing, right?”

Carmy doesn’t answer right away, leaving you to stare at the smoldering tip of the cigarette in silence. But after a few nerve wracking moments of quiet, he offers, “...Yeah. Was.” He reaches out, fingers pressing against yours as he gently pries the cigarette from your fingers. You bite your lip, looking down at your empty hand and wiggling your fingers a touch. “Could work out a new thing if you’re tryin’ to quit, though.”

“New thing like what?”

You see Carmy flick the cigarette away. You frown, watching the half-finished butt fall to the ground.

“Dude, what the hell, that was a perfectly good—” As you turn your head, your argument kicking up, Carmy’s hand raises to cup your cheek. The way he draws you in feels so effortless—like every action you’ve ever seen him make in the kitchen. His hands are warm, and smell like smoke and garlic—there’s a hint of the cake icing as he slips his tongue between your lips. Your eyes blink in surprise once before sliding shut. You lift a hand to hook in the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer. The two of you scooch closer on the bench, knees knocking as your kisses deepen.

You lean back first, tongue brushing against Carmy’s lip as you lick your lips. You give a short dazed nod, meeting his gaze.

“Yeah,” You manage. “Yeah, that could work.”

You feel tired as hell. Usually after a service like this, all you want to do is take a long, hot shower and curl up in bed. Now, nothing of the sort is on your mind. Your hands fumble with your keys as Carmy presses up against your back.

“Having some trouble there, chef?” Carmy teases, nose nudging against the hinge of your jaw. You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head. You force yourself to focus up, looking down at the keys.

“No trouble at all, chef,” You bat back, finally slotting your key into your apartment door lock and shoving it open. It whacks back against the wall with a bang that’ll surely annoy or alarm your neighbors, but you can’t bring yourself to give a shit. You half-stumble into the room, turning and pulling the key from the lock as you turn to grip Carmy’s shirt. He wraps his arms around your middle, just managing to keep you from toppling over. You slide your hands up into his hair, curling your fingers in the strands. Carmy tips his chin up a touch, catching your lower lip between his teeth and giving it a tug. You whine softly at the sting. You reach back ,unwilling to let go of Carmy or break your kiss, absently whacking at walls to find your bedroom doorway.

You lean back just enough to kick your shoes off and tug off your shirt. You reach for Carmy’s shirt, too, but he takes hold of your wrists before you can pull his shirt up and off. Your breath catches in your throat as Carmy tucks your arms behind your back, holding them there and forcing your chest against his. You shiver as his thumbs sweep tenderly across your wrists. Carmy tips his head from side to side, giving you darting, quick kisses. You lower your eyes to his lips, tracking their movement, as if you can anticipate which way he’ll lean next. Carmy intertwines your fingers as he dips his head, pressing a kiss to your jaw before slipping his lips down further. You close your eyes, tipping your head, as if you need to entice him further. The shifting sensation of his tender brush of kisses blooms into a sharp heat as Carmy nips and tugs at the skin there.

“Fuck,” You shiver, fingers twitching around his. Carmy grunts against your skin, pulling away with a final kiss before he lifts his head. He rests his chin atop yours, lowering your heads and guiding your gaze back to his.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he murmurs, “You pull any’a that yes chef shit in here and you’re gonna get it.”

The warning sends an intrigued chill down your spine, and makes you smile wide.

“Well sorry in advance, chef,” You murmur. “Force’a habit.”

Carmy groans low in his chest. He teases his tongue across your lips before he lets go of your hands. You can feel him working at pulling off your bra, but you’re more focused on taking off his shirt. You scrabble at the fabric, nails scratching slightly over his side as you pull. He moans, sinking his teeth into your shoulder before he tugs and snaps your bra strap against your back. You wince, reaching back with one hand and deftly undoing the clasp before leaning back to shrug it off. Carmy doesn’t gripe at the assistance, just tugs his shirt up and over his head before flinging it aside.

Carmy shoves at your hips, pushing you back to the bed. When your knees hit the mattress, you sit almost obediently. You lean in, pressing gentle kisses along his belly, and over the thin trail of hair tracking down to his pants as you undo his belt, button and zip. Your hands smooth down, massaging his hardening cock through his jeans.

You grin as you hear Carmy hiss a swear out under his breath. You shove at his waistband, grasping his cock as it bobs into view. Taking him in hand, you tip your chin up, peering at him from beneath your lashes as you swipe your tongue along the underside of his cock. Carmy draws his lower lip between his teeth, his hand lowering to rest on the back of your head. You fight off a smile, focusing on bobbing your head and teasing him with your tongue.

Carmy’s fingers flex against the back of your head as you hum around his length. Your hands shift away from him, pushing his pants further down around his thighs. Carmy wriggles a touch as he stepped out of his shoes, nudging them aside. You draw off just enough for Carmy to shove his pants down the rest of the way before he steps up between your legs again, his hand back on your head. You begin to bob your head, taking hold of the base of his shaft and twisting your wrist.

“Fuck, just like that—Don’t say it,” He warns as you turn a mischievous eye up toward him. You grin wide, drawing off of him and lapping at the head of his cock. He pushes out a shaky laugh, eyes bright as he watches you. You lean up, pressing a kiss beneath his belly button before you tip your head up, your hand still working over Carmy’s length.

“Lean back,” He urges, nodding you toward the mattress before crouching down and gripping at your leggings, “And get these off.”

You scooch back, wriggling out of your leggings and undies and kicking them off. You squeeze your thighs together, honing in on the slick throbbing between your legs. He slides his hands up your legs, pushing your thighs apart as he kneels down on the bed. You groan softly as he shoves your leg up to bend at the knee. You let your thighs splay, elbows propping yourself up to watch as Carmy slots himself between your thighs.

He trails his knuckles over your wet, plumped cunt. Your pussy throbs as he leans in and teases the tip of his nose along your slit, then tracks the same path with his tongue. You want to tip your head back, to sink back into the mattress, but you keep your eyes on Carmy. He meets your gaze so rarely, but now he holds his eyes steady on yours. Your gut swoops at the sight—at the way his eyes are bright in the dark room. Carmy parts his lips, lapping broadly along your cunt.

You bite your lip, quieting a moan as you push your hips down against his lips. Carmy flicks his tongue against your pulsing clit. He groans against you, tipping his head to and fro, laving your lips. You hiss softly, reaching down and sliding your fingers through his hair. You give his hair a harsh yank, pushing your hips down against his questing lips and tongue. Carmy’s eyelids flutter at the pressure and sting. His groan muffles against your skin before he draws off with a slick suck. He raises two of his fingers, teasing them along your opening. He takes your clit between his lips, sucking it harshly as he sinks the fingers down to the knuckle. You whimper, back arching up off of the bed. You slide one of your hands from his hair, thumbing and tweaking your hardening nipples.

“Oh, my god,” You breathe. You roll your hips down into his mouth and hand, cunt fluttering as he stretches your aching hole. Carmy pumps his arm steadily as he swirls his tongue teasingly around your pussy. Carmy presses impossibly closer, sloppily sucking and lapping your pussy as his nose pushes against your mound. You can feel a familiar coiling sensation in your belly—one that you want to chase—but you reach down, gently pushing at his forehead. Carmy leans back, blinking up at you. You push yourself up and lean down, nudging your nose against his.

“You gonna fuck me?” You murmur, and grin as Carmy hurriedly pushes himself up to kneel over you.

“Condom?” He asks. You twist to the side, reaching into the drawer of your bedside table and rummaging around for a moment. Carmy’s hand lowers between your thighs, thumb teasing gently over your clit. You lean back with the foil packet. You rip the packet open with your teeth, taking the condom out and rolling it down over his throbbing cock. You grin as he twitches in your hand, your eyes lifting to his. Before you can tease or sass him, Carmy cradles your jaw in his hands, catching your lips with his. The two of you groan as he slips his hot tongue against yours, sharing the taste of you. You lower yourself down onto the bed slowly, a tingle running down your spine as you feel the head of Carmy’s cock brush against your tender pussy.

Carmy breaks your kiss as he lowers his head, mouthing and sucking kisses to your breasts. He takes himself in hand, tapping the head against your clit. You whine, wriggling down against him.

“Cut it out,” Carmy murmurs, slapping your hip.

“Fuck me.”

“So fuckin’ impatient—”

“You’re right there, Berzatto, c’mon, just fu—”

Your demands go quiet as Carmy shoves his hips forward. Your lips, parted from complaining, push into an o at feeling of him filling you so completely.

Oh my god, and, move, and right there all sit on your tongue, but you can’t bring yourself to say a damn word. You just heave in a deep breath, eyelids fluttering as Carmy lowers himself down over you. His chest brushes against your sensitive breasts; his hips press flush against yours.

“Nothin’ to say now, huh?” He murmurs against your jaw. You huff out a harsh breath, cunt fluttering as Carmy shallowly rolls his hips. “Smartest fuckin’ mouth off the line, quickest fuckin’ hands in the kitchen and you got nothin’ to say?”

You whimper, turning your head into Carmy’s shoulder as he begins to fuck you with short, harsh thrusts. Your hands curl around his shoulders, nails sinking into his skin. Carmy slides his hands beneath your head, cradling your head. You press your chest up against his, tipping your head back into his warm, steady hands.

“Hmm?” He hums, right up against your ear. “Still nothin’?”

You curl your legs around his, a hand sliding up into his hair as you give it a tug.

“Harder.”

Carmy’s expression goes stony at your order, and a smile flickers across your lips for just a moment before his hips snap harshly against yours.

You sigh softly, shifting your head on your arms. You’re belly down in bed, sleepy, and sore. You smile as you feel Carmy slowly trail a finger down your spine before he palms one of your ass cheeks. You give a little wiggle, and grin when you hear Carmy chuckle. He presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder before nuzzling the same spot tenderly.

“So, just so I know,” You mumble, turning your head toward him, “Is the post-job tradition just gonna be the making out, or all’a this?”

“All of it,” Carmy answered steadfastly, lips brushing your skin. “You do a real good job, we’ll do it twice.”

You scoff a laugh, rolling onto your side.

“You telling me I didn’t do a really good job tonight?”

“‘Course not,” Carmy coos, palming your hip and easing you back onto the bed as he covers your body with his. “I’m giving you a heads up for round two.”

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @paintballkid711 ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @nolanell ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce

#Carmy Berzatto x Reader #Carmy Berzatto x You #Carmy Berzatto/Reader #Carmy Berzatto/You #Carmy Berzatto fic #Carmy Berzatto imagine #Force of Habit

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itzyourlocalsimp · 2 years

Text

Here, have shit-tonnes of incorrect quotes + Green Cousins content:

Morro, negotiating with the Ninja: We have Lloyd. Give us ten thousand dollars and he will be returned to you unharmed.

Lloyd: Whoa, whoa, wait, you think I’m only worth ten thousand dollars?

Morro:

Lloyd: MAKE IT ONE MILLION–

Morro: LLOYD STOP.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Morro: I really like this whole ‘good guy, bad guy’ thing you guys have going on.

Harumi: It’s not an act, it’s just that I’m mean and Lloyd isn’t.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Lloyd: You have to apologize to Harumi.

Morro: Fine.

Morro: 'Unfuck you' or whatever.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Morro: If Harumi and I were drowning, who would you save?

Lloyd: You two can’t swim?

Harumi: It’s a hypothetical question, Lloyd! who would you save?

Lloyd: my time and effort.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Morro: Are you the big spoon or the little spoon?

Harumi: I'm a knife.

Lloyd, from across the room: She's the little spoon.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Morro: If I die, my funeral is going to be the biggest party ever and you’re all invited.

Harumi: If?

Lloyd: Great, the only party I’ve ever been invited to and he might not even die.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Morro: Please bring home PURIFIED water with NO minerals added for taste.

Harumi: We got spring water.

Morro: NO.

Lloyd: with EXTRA minerals.

Harumi: it's like licking a stalagmite.

Morro: DON'T COME HOME.

Lloyd: Mmmmm cave water.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

*Morro and Lloyd getting into trouble*

Morro: In my defense, I was left unsupervised.

Harumi: Wasn't Lloyd with you?

Lloyd: In my defense, I was also left unsupervised.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Harumi: Dandelions symbolize everything I want to be in life.

Morro: Fluffy and dead with a gust of wind?

Harumi: Unapologetic. Hard to kill. Feral, filled with sunlight, bright, beautiful in a way that the conventional and controlling hate but cannot ever fully destroy. Stubborn. Happy. Bastardous. Friends with bees. Highly disapproving of lawns. Full of wishes that will be carried far after I die.

Lloyd: Edible.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Morro: Hey Harumi,

Harumi: Yes?

Morro: Can a person breathe inside a washing machine while it’s on?

Harumi:

Harumi: Where’s Lloyd?

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Morro: We need a distraction.

Harumi: Is anyone here good at jumping up and down and making weird noises?

Lloyd, whispering: My time has come.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Morro: Who thinks I can fit 15 marshmallows in my mouth?

Harumi: You’re a hazard to society.

Lloyd: And a coward. DO TWENTY.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Morro: Harumi, keep an eye on Lloyd today. He’s going to say something to the wrong person and get punched.

Harumi: Sure, I’d love to see Lloyd get punched.

Morro: Try again.

Harumi, sighing: I will stop Lloyd from getting punched.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Wu: While I’m gone, Jay, you’re in charge.

Jay: Yes!!!

Wu, whispering: Lloyd, you’re secretly in charge.

Lloyd: Obviously.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Nya: What do you think Lloyd and Kai will do for a distraction?

Cole: They’ll probably, like, make a noise or throw a rock. That’s what I would do.

*Building explodes and several car alarms go off*

Cole: ... or they could do that.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Jay: Why are you on the floor?

Lloyd: I'm depressed.

Lloyd: Also I was stabbed, can you get Kai, please.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Lloyd: Are you sure this is the right direction?

Jay: Certainly, I'm as sure as I am honest!

Kai: In that case, we're definitely lost.

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Show host *setting an example for kids on how to treat their mothers*: If you had to choose between your mother and all the money I have in my wallet, which would you choose?

Lloyd: That depends, how much money are we taking about?

Show host: 63 cents.

Lloyd: I'll take the money.

Misako: LLOYD!!!

ʚ❐✰❐✰❐✰❐✰❐ɞ

Lloyd: WHY. why did you give Morro a KNIFE?!

Harumi: I’m sorry. He said he felt unsafe.

Lloyd: Now I feel unsafe!

Harumi: I’m sorry.

Harumi: ... would you like a knife?

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shywhumpauthor · 1 year

Text

The Merry Whump of May—Day Twenty Five

“It takes two to tango”

Hot Coffee | Doubt | In Line

The Merry Whump of May Masterlist

Cw: pet whump, past abuse, conditioning, not really hurt, not really comfort, normalized dehumanization, collar/restraints

Whumper had never really wanted a pet.

They had never seen the need, really. Why it would be so intriguing for someone to spend a ludicrous amount of money to do something you could pay anyone else to do for a mere fraction of the price. If you needed your house cleaned, they had always thought just hire a damn service. There’s no need to spend tens of thousands of dollars on some dimwit who had been abused to the point that they couldn’t function outside of their designated “use”.

It was a moronic idea, they thought. though they could see some benefits, the taxes heavily outweighed any good that could come from it. Healthcare bills, training, not to mention all of the supplies they needed. Food, clothes, toiletries, if Whumper had wanted to deal with all that crap, they would’ve gotten a damn roommate. At least then they’d have help with the bills. Water, electricity, heat, none of that shit was cheap.

They wouldn’t say they were anywhere near tight on money. Actually, they were pretty well off, all things considered. Working as a manager for some utility company, and the inheritance from their parents, they had quite a nice amount tucked away in their bank account. Enough to afford themself a nice house in a quiet neighborhood, a smooth running car, even a boat which they took to the lake every few weekends. But still, they didn’t like spending unnecessary funds. Why would they spend it on whatever useless clutter when it could be doubling itself in interest in a savings account.

They weren’t a minimalist, though. They lived comfortably. Curtains around the windows, blankets across the back of the couch, little personal touches around their home just enough to make it look homey.

And now, a small person huddled in their living room corner, kneeling, watching them with wide eyes.

They didn’t recall entering any so-called raffle. Ot had been one of those things, where the cashier at some supermarket asks if you would like to donate your change to charity or some shit. “Would you like to donate an extra ten dollars to help support the local Shelter and be entered into a drawing for a free companion?” Whumper never said yes to that kind of stuff, but apparently that one day, four months ago or something, they had. Scrounging back through their receipts and bank notices, they confirmed it was true.

Why the fuck would they do that?

A free pet, all supplies included—that was a load of bullshit. All supplies seemed to include a cheap, uncomfortable looking collar, made out of a material that looked almost plastic, a leash to pair with it, a week’s worth of whatever nutrient-heavy crap that Whumper wouldn’t even feed to a dog, a wire crate that wasn’t big enough to fit a regular sized person, but with the pet’s frail stature they managed to squeeze in, and a small, handheld stun gun like the one someone might carry on a keychain when they go out at night.

And of course, once they had arrived at the damned shelter, which had the same feel as one of those department pet stores, fluorescent lights reflecting off all of the cheap, artificially colored merchandise. Despite how they decorated, trying to incorporate colors and designs throughout, it was still insanely depressing.

Some pets had been kept out front, the pretty, showcase ones who were held at a price so ludicrous no one in their right mind would ever pay for, some curled in wider cages sleeping, others simply sitting around the floor. One was even helping a cashier bag stuff.

Ten dollars for a damn raffle ticket, then a couple hundred more spent on adequate supplies. They weren’t a monster, pet or not, Whumper wasn’t going to force them to sleep on that cold wire. They bought a nice enough pet bed, the cheapest they could find without it looking like it would fall apart if you tugged at the seams. It was still expensive.

Thankfully, the shelter had reimbursed the price of what they didn’t take. The small wire cage, worth maybe thirty-five, they were able to trade in for a larger, slightly more comfortable looking one worth sixty five, and only pay the difference of thirty. They had gotten a few more items there, what the manager had insisted they would need. A shock collar paired with a remote, a subtle blue nylon strap restraints with clasps and buckles for easy adjusting, a few sets of the basic grey scrub-like clothes the pets commonly wore—although they were available in a variety of other colors, grey was the cheapest—and a few other necessities.

Whumper wasn’t sure what they had been expecting when it came to terms of the pet itself, but it was not like anything they could’ve thought of.

They were scrawny and fragile, nothing like the pets kept out front. They looked like a strong gust of wind could knock them over completely. Like they hadn’t eaten, or been outside, or had a proper shower in months. They were clean enough, Whumper supposed, but glancing down at them. They weren’t obviously dirty, but over the worn material of their shorts and shirt, the way their hair hung limp, it was clear they needed a nice long bath. And a meal.

A domestic, the manager had said they were. Trained for basic maintenance tasks. Chores and yard work, said they were trustworthy and dependable. The manager had said they were one of the best trained there, which Whumper supposed they could see. The way they sat, even though they shrunk back a bit, they held their back straight and their chin tipped down, palms facing up resting above their knees, though their hands were trembling.

Whumper didn’t see too many injuries. Bruises on their knees, fainter ones along their wrists, a yellowing purple tint beneath their collar, the skin red from where the uncomfortable material irritated it. They had a few scars, not many at all, a faint one across their thigh and another wrapping around their upper arm, just above their elbow. On the inside of their left wrist, Whumper could see the barcode tattoo, freshly inked over and standing out contrastingly against the skin. But where their shirt collar sagged, dipping a bit below their collarbones, Whumper could see the edge of a brand, ugly patches of skin standing out against the untouched.

Secondhand, clearly.

“Come here,” Whumper finally said, after a few long moments of simply looking down at them. The pet’s eyes flicked up to theirs, and they didn’t hesitate to shuffle forwards on their knees, the distance not enough to prompt them to stand up and walk over, but enough for it to take them a moment before they stopped maybe a foot and a half away from Whumper, sinking back to sit on their heels.

It was hard for Whumper to tell what they were looking at. Whether the emotion in the pet’s eyes was fear or anticipation or something else. Whether the way they say back so tense was from the months, maybe years of training or because they were hyper aware of their body, vowing not to make any mistakes.

Whumper crouched in front of them, weight resting in their toes as they reached their hands over to the pet’s neck. The pet, to their credit, didn’t flinch like Whumper was half expecting them to, but they tensed, clear anticipation of something unpleasant to follow.

Whumper twisted the collar so the buckle was in front, and with a few easy movements they pulled it away, frowning at the texture, and the marks left along the pet’s neck.

“I’ll take you out to pick a new one tomorrow,” Whumper stood back up, tossing the collar over to the couch. “Something more comfortable.”

“Get up, I’ll show you to the bathroom. Take a long shower and clean yourself up. Then you can help me make dinner.”

Whumper gave a short motion with their hand, stepping back, allowing the pet room to rise shakily to their feet.

They never wanted a pet, but they supposed, all considered, that having someone else in the house wouldn’t be the worst thing ever.

And they really hated doing the dishes.

————————————————

Zero plot but whatever

@themerrywhumpofmay

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httpknjoon · 2 years

Text

instagram official | ksj

plot | Your fans cheered as you two finally posted photos of each other on your personal accounts, possibly confirming the relationship. But it all changed quickly when you accidentally started an Instagram live.

words | 1.1k+

genres | humor/crack, barely fluff, actors!au

pairing | actor!jin x famous!reader

disclaimer | usernames used in the fic are all fictional.

note | first drabble entry for this new series! probably an introduction on how this whole series will go for the next entries. anyway, let me know your thoughts.

main masterlist | drabble series

Y/N & Kim Seokjin finally made it Instagram official

At last!

Y/N-JIN fans, make some noise! Earlier this day, Y/N and Jin finally made it Instagram official. The longtime rumored couple posted photos of each other on their separate accounts, seemingly confirming the dating rumors.

In JIn’s account, he posted a photo of Y/N covering half of her face with a script while winking at the camera. It appears that it was taken on one of the sets of their latest movie together, Maybe Yes, Maybe No. Y/N wore the iconic baby blue dress from the said film.

“No more maybes.” Jin captioned, referring to his character’s line from the movie. He added a single red heart.

On the other hand, Y/N posted a photo of Jin holding a magazine cover of himself next to his face. It appears to be taken during their stay in France during the promotions of their 2020 movie, Lonely People. She simply captioned the image with a butterfly emoji.

This was the first time the couple posted about each other on their Instagram account after four years of being linked together. Back in 2017, when they worked on their first movie together and chemistry immediately became noticeable to the audience. A source told us that the romance started during the movie production.

“They began taking interest in each other right after their first screen test for Cornelia Street.” the source shared. “They began going on each other’s trailers during their free time and breaks, having their alone time. Jin even visited Y/N in London when she was shooting her own scenes there for almost two weeks .”

At last, after years of jokes and speculations, fans received confirmation from Y/N and Jin. To Hollywood’s newest couple, we wish you well with your relationship!

Both posts were two of the fastest photos to ever reach a million likes on the social media site. Fans immediately shared their thoughts and excitement with it, trending Y/N and Jin on Twitter. Short video clip edits of you two resurfaced again. It instantly became a hot topic since you two have the most active stans all over the internet. Even making locals updated about everything.

@seokjinniesy/n : i can finally leave this planet, knowing that y/n and jin are officially together [insert that Spongebob levitating reaction pic]

@GabbyWong : OMG Did #Y/NJin just confirm their relationship? I've been shipping them since I was twelve!

@starringy/n : please welcome the hollywood's power couple finally made it official [insert screenshots of your Instagram posts]

replying to @starringy/n

@y/nfavouriteco0kies: i hope jin posts more pictures of y/n bc that girl posts nothing but pictures of her cat 😩😩

urfavecatlady started a live video. Watch it before it ends!

The video was all pitch black. Almost fifty thousand viewers wait for something to happen. Both yours and Jin’s fans comment their thoughts. Some are asking what’s going on. While others just reply with random affirmations and support for your so-called romantic relationship.

But they only heard voices in the background. Yours was the first one to be audible and recognizable, “We already posted the photos eleven hours ago.”

“Yeah, now give us our money!” Jin’s followed protest was heard.

A male voice laughed, “I said that it has to be on Instagram for a day. I’ll give you twenty dollars each if the photo lasts until tomorrow.”

You crossed your arms over your chest as your eyes threw daggers towards Donny, Jin’s best friend. Jin sat beside you on your hotel room’s couch, doing the same thing too. On the other hand, Donny laughed at you two.

“Who knows things might still happen?”

“Things are already happening. I had to uninstall my Twitter with all the mentions I’m getting,” you spoke out.

When you posted Jin’s candid photo on your Instagram account, you immediately got notifications from Twitter popping up just seconds after. You ignored it at first, going on with your busy day. But it kept on vibrating for a straight thirty minutes like a freaking vibrator. You decided to uninstall the app. After your first shoot for the day, your manager told you the aftermath of your and Jin’s Instagram postings. There was chaos on both media outlets and social media sites.

But you just posted photos because of Donny. Earlier today, You, Jin, and Donny just finished having a room serviced breakfast in Jin’s hotel room when a dare was made.

“You two have the strictest managers. You cannot do shit every time.” he scoffed, taking a sip of the remaining coffee from his cup.

“Strictest manager.” Jin scoffed. “Namjoon still lets me have my phone even though I already drunk posted shit for like four times now. Maybe this one right here has that manager”

Your eyebrows raised, “Nope. Hayley is literally my best friend.”

It's true. Your manager for years is like an older sister to you. Except she also acts as your strict guardian sometimes. Donny remained unconvinced, wearing a smug smile on his face. Both you and Jin shared a look with each other. Yours and Jin's high level of competitiveness are both showing off.

“I will bet you forty dollars if you guys post anything right now that can possibly make your managers go crazy.”

So you did post something. Both you and Jin know your cards and how to play with them. Not less than two minutes, you two let go of your phones from your hands. Hailey later came in, asking you to get ready for your shoot.

“Well, that’s–” Donny paused from his sentence when he checked his phone. “Y/N, you are live on Instagram?”

“What?” you asked, eyebrows scrunched together, before reaching for your phone next to you. But it wasn't there. You looked around the couch. Then, you stood up, quickly spotting your phone.

"No, it's– Oh, shit!"

Jin and Donny watched as you curse constantly while tapping on your phone. After that, you moved your head from your screen to both of them with your eyes wide.

"Hailey's going to kill me–"

"Y/N!"

Your manager's voice can be heard outside your room as she knocks repeatedly on your door. You instantly ran next to Jin, using him as a human shield for your manager's incoming bullets.

"Donny... Can you open the door?" Jin told his friend, who chuckled before doing what he was told. Jin whispered to you, "Why is she so mad today?"

"I promised I won't post anything for today after the whole posting thing." you giggled. "Also, I promised I won't do shit while she's out on a date."

After you hurriedly ended the accidental Instagram live, everyone once again jumped to Twitter.

@sniperfory/n: These two dorks are literally earning millions with their movies and brand deals and they created this whole thing just to win forty bucks 💀💀💀

@seokjinniesm0on: wait a damn minute [insert a clip of that Instagram live]

@Y/NJINFAN: i am just a bet. for forty dollars. 💔💔💔💔💔💔

A day later, after the live chaos, when everyone already cooled down, Y/N simply addressed the whole thing with one tweet. Saying:

@YNOFFICIAL : Unfortunately, we didn’t get the forty dollars.

THE A-LISTERS TAGLIST

@seolaquotes @fatimaaaaa129 @bangtannieshope @jub-jub @yoontaethings @kissme-ornot @dayyy-siii @sleepy-daydreams @veronawrites @cuteipat @stoop18 @ratherbefangirling @babystarcandy-gcf @akirawhore @alpacaparkaseok

PERMANENT TAGLIST @dunixxd @cixrosie @victoryscreech61 @moonchild1 @jksjx @embrace-themagic @buttvi @starbtslove @missseoulite

#actor!jin #bts jin #jin fluff #jin x reader #jin fic #jin au #seokjin x reader #seokjin fanfiction #seokjin fluff #bts fluff #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts crack #bts series #bts au #bts fanfic #bts drabble #the a listers ksj

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spaghettificationandpretzels · 11 months

Note

Congratulations on the milestone!!🎈🎉And yes I'm running in at the last minute to beg for

Frank Castle & #15

plus smut, if you please. He & I both know he was made for it.

I'm sorry this took me so long. I've rewritten it a million times and I still hate it.

Masterlist

Midnight Serenade

Contains: Fluff, smut. Takes place in a universe where Billy was a good guy.

1.2K words

So often the end of a love affair is death by a thousand cuts, so often its survival is life by a thousand stitches - Robert Breault.

Frank knew owning and running a business would be hard, even if it was with his best friend, but he didn't think it would be like that. All he wanted to do was go home and put his feet up, but instead, he had to waste his time standing around making sure some twenty something influencer didn't get themselves shot.

Chad Money, as he called himself, had gone too far with some comments online and ended up on the wrong side of a local gang, and now he needed help. Billy and Frank had done their best to send him in another direction, by another client, one who paid them a great deal of money, was insistent that they take him on. It got worse when they realised that insistence came from Chad having dated the client's daughter.

"You got a girl?" Chad sounded like he was trying to be Justin Timberlake at the high of his frosted tip days.

"I got a woman, and she's at home waiting for me, so I would appreciate it if you'd finish buying your shirts so I can get home to her." Frank had been here for hours, no man needs ten of the same shirt in a different colour, especially when they were two thousand dollars each.

Chad flashed him a grin, "You got a photo?"

Frank shook his head, "No, I don't keep one on my person when I'm working. For her safety." That was a lie, Frank had one in his wallet and one in his car, but he wasn't going to say that.

"Shame, I bet she's pretty." Frank wanted to punch him.

"She's very pretty," Frank looked at his watch, "How long will you be? I will need to call someone to relieve me if you're going to be much longer."

Chad shrugged, "I'm done now. I'll buy these and then you can go home to your girl, sorry, your woman."

Frank gave him a tight smile, "Thank you Mr Money."

****

Frank's back ached for the couch as he walked in the door, "By day dearest?" Frank grunted, "Oh, that bad. I imagine it has something to do your new client."

Frank huffed, "He fucking sucks. You know he admitted cheating on that client's daughter. He's fucking shameless."

You shook your head, "I'll get you a beer and you can put Justin Plywoodpond behind you."

Frank made a face, "Plywoodpond, did you come up with that on the fly?"

"Nope, I've been thinking about it since the first text you sent me." You could see the upset fade from Frank's face, "You gotta admit it's pretty good."

Frank already has his phone out, "Hell yeah it is, I'm telling Billy."

"I'd ordered a Pizza from eight just before you came in," you pointed to the freezer as you opened the fridge to get his beer, "I also battered some ice cream when I got home so we can have deep fried ice cream for dessert."

He grinned, "Fucking A, I'm a lucky man."

****

Frank stood behind you in the bathroom as you washed your face, toothbrush in his mouth and a skip in his step, but you waited until he was done to ask him why he was so happy, "What's gotten into you? The ice cream couldn't have been that good."

He smiled, "I just get to do what I've been thinking about all day."

Frank's lips met yours, he tasted of tingle mint, "You already did that when you got home Frank, more than once."

He shook his head, "I wasn't talking about the kiss."

"Oh, I see." You pointed to the bed and smiled, "I'll go wait for you, don't take long or I'll start early."

Frank shot you a look, "I'll be two minutes, you're not that impatient."

Sure enough, two minutes after you were settled, Frank emerged from the bathroom and flopped down into bed next to you, "So?"

You rolled onto your side, threw your leg over Frank's hip and straddled him, "So." You bent down and kissed him and he placed hands on your hips only to slide them all the way up to your face as the kiss deepened.

You felt Frank's cock harden underneath you as he broke the kiss to pull off your shirt. His hands were rough on your bare skin as he sat up and yanked you into his lap. There was an awkward shuffle as your parted so Frank could pull off his sweatpants and he stifled a laugh when you lost your balance on the way back to his lap, "It's not funny Frank."

Frank took your face in his hands and sighed, "It's kinda funny."

Frank pressed his lips to yours and gripped your panties before pulling them down your legs. You placed one hand on his cheek and grinned through the kiss as you ran the other hand all the way down his body to wrap around his cock.

Frank bit off a grunt and nipped your lips as you stroked him, and with a giggle, you removed your hand from his cheek and gave him a shove. It wasn't much in the way of force but he went down onto his back nonetheless. You removed your hand from his cock and slid it back up his body, placing both has on his chest and looking down at him with a smile, "What do you want to do here?"

Frank's eyes racked from where you were sitting on him to your eyes but not before lingering on your breasts, "Whatever you want." One of his huge hands moved from your thigh to your centre and a look of pride came over his face when he found you wet, "All this just from that?"

You sighed, "You're a smug bastard." Further words were stolen when he slid two thick fingers inside you, and it took all your control not to crumple over as he pressed his palm into your clit, "I love you."

Frank didn't slow, "Tell me you love me again."

"I love you." You could feel the tension of his muscles under your hands as you started to rock against his fingers.

"Again." His voice was tight and you wondered what he was thinking as his eyes locked on the hand between your legs.

"I love you." You clenched your legs around him to keep yourself stable as you came around his fingers and Frank huffed as your fingernails pricked the skin on his chest, "I need you."

Frank was already rushing to give you what you asked, pulling his fingers away so he could grab your hips as you gipped his cock and sunk down with a whimper, "Tell me you love me again."

"I love you Frank." You bent down and kissed him as your hips moved and Frank bucked into you.

"I love you too y/n." The rest was a hurried mess of teeth and tongue as one of Frank's hands reached down to rub your clit, "Come on, I'm right behind you."

You were powerless to resist as Frank noised turned feral as you clenched around him, "Atta girl." His hand moved off your clit, and he gripped your hip so hard you knew you would have bruises before he bucked his hips one last time. You felt him pulse inside you and you finally crumpled over as Frank ran his hands up and down your back, "You good?"

You nodded, "I'm great. You wanna order pancakes?"

Frank chuckled, "You got a sudden craving?"

"Yes I do. That place down the street does delivery." You took him in a kiss and he rubbed your nose with his, "It's still open."

Frank sighed, "Ok, pancakes sound good. I love you."

"I love you too Frank."

Fin

#frank castle #fluff #smut #the punisher #the punisher imagine #frank castle smut #frank castle imagine #frank castle x you #frank castle fluff #the punisher x reader #frank castle x female reader #jon bernthal

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