killin'

toliveornottolive on wattpad & ao3. call me murder, early twenties, they/he, multifandom.

[tomurderornottomurder]

masterlist

you can find my older writing on my wattpad account. my ship content/character studies are on my ao3. this blog is all new posts but most will also be posted on my wattpad.

last updated: 11/30/24

personal favorite = ☆

marvel

hands; matt murdock, gen reader, fluff/angst, 0.5k

boyfriend's day off; ned leeds, male reader, fluff, 1.3k

used; marc spector/steven grant/jake lockley, gen reader, angst/fluff, 1k

a new something; matt murdock/frank castle, gen reader, fluff, 0.3k

naked; frank castle, gen reader, fluff, 0.4k

our state of love; matt murdock, gen reader, angst/fluff, 3k (maybe don't read this one)

☆if we could just pretend; peter parker, male reader, angst, 8.8k

pretty kitty; venom, gen reader, fluff, 0.7k

dc

the batman

what's wrong with me?; edward nashton, gen reader, angst/fluff, 0.5k

harry potter

movies

inglourious basterds

fresh fruit; wilhelm wicki, gen reader, fluff, 0.4k

tv shows

better call saul

☆i don't want to talk; saul goodman, gen reader, angst, 1.8k

stranger things

battle of the bands; eddie munson, gen reader, fluff, 2.5k

the eternal idol; eddie munson, gen reader, angst/fluff, 1.8k

taking care; eddie munson, male reader, angst/fluff, 2.3k

gay = happy; steve harrington, male reader, angst/fluff, 1.4k

now that you're dead; eddie munson, gen reader, angst, 1k

☆teen dad; steve harrington, ftm reader, angst/fluff, 1.5k

any other way; eddie munson, ftm reader, fluff, angst, 2.5k

videogames

codmwii

close to my heart; johnny soap mactavish, male reader, angst/fluff, 2k

nice to be; simon ghost riley, male reader, fluff, 0.9k

sleeper; simon ghost riley, gen reader, fluff/angst, 1k

[gothamorphosis]

𝐇𝐲𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐬

Or: You ask a sleepy Bruce the age old question "would you rather be a cowboy or a pirate?"

Warnings: none, complete and absolute teeth rotting fluff // longer than usual so the rest of it is under the cut! <3

Morph's thoughts: this idea came up in a conversation with @batwngs and i haven't been able to stop thinking about it :p

"Bruce…?" It's barely loud enough to be considered a whisper, a quiet mutter of your husband's name that somehow manages to fill the silence in the quiet Manor.

You stay completely still for a moment, trying to gauge if he might be awake. You wouldn't want to ruin it if it were the case, not the one time in weeks —perhaps even months, but you'd rather not think about that too hard— that he finally decides to hang the cowl and cape for the night and properly rest.

There's no real answer for a moment, not when he just shifts a little closer, the arm around your waist tightening the tiniest bit around you. A few more seconds go by and then, a quiet hum of acknowledgement, something that you feel against your back more than you hear. His face nuzzling against the back of your neck a reassurance that he is listening.

"You awake?" Maybe not your brightest moment, but in your defence, it’s late and quiet enough to double and triple check.

"Mhm," another vibration of his chest that rumbles through your back, and another squeeze to your waist, more firm and aware than the previous one. "I am, darling."

You give a light nod, and before you can say anything else he's burying his face into the side of your neck. A small smile starts pulling at your lips as you feel the tickle of his scruff, one of your hands leaving the spot it was occupying on your pillow to instead cover his. Your fingers tangling together almost immediately.

"That all you wanted to know?" A soft peck to the base of your neck and another light nuzzle.

For a moment you shake your head, but the doubts of him being able to see the gesture in the darkness of the blackout curtains take over soon after. "No, was just making sure."

A comfortable silence settled in, the only little sound making it through the still air of the night a light ruffling of fabric caused by the rhythmic rubbing of Bruce's thumb over your wedding band.

"Which one would you rather be…" you have to pause for a second, lightly biting the inside of your cheek to avoid laughing preemptively. Perhaps this kind of questions were part of Bruce's reasoning for only leaving his responsibilities as the Bat once you were deep in sleep. "A cowboy or a pirate?"

A sigh leaves him, one that only makes it harder for you to hold the laugh in. Quietness settles for a minute again, only interrupted by the surprised squeal that leaves you when Bruce easily turns you around so you're facing him.

"Hi," it should be embarrassing, how lovesick the little coo that leaves you sounds, specially given that it's prompted by a barely-perceptible contour of his face.

"Hi," perhaps not as embarrassing when his murmur comes just as soft. Your eyes fluttering closed when the pressure of his forehead settles against yours. "Mind repeating that question for me, sweetheart?"

"Mhm," there's a light nod to go along with it, although it mostly achieves having your forehead a bit more squished up to his. "My question, my dear, was weather you'd be a cowboy or a pirate if you could choose."

He hums for a moment, as if deep in thought, truly contemplating the type of lifestyle he'd pick. Instead, "and where does that question come from?"

You let out a dramatic little groan, readjusting so you can bury your face into his neck as a sign of your discontent at his lack of straight answer. Despite your pretended indignation, any tension in your muscles melt the moment the familiar smell of his cologne fills your nostrils. "Curiosity. Not everyone has ulterior motives."

"Are you sure?" Right, you can't see him, but you can hear the smile in Bruce's tone, the way he's just being complicated for his own amusement now. "How can i know this is not a set up?"

"A set up for what?" your head lifts so you can look at the spot in the void where you presume his eyes are. "So i can ship you off into a life of pirate adventure? Even if it were the case, how would that be a bad thing? It sounds awesome."

A satisfied smile settles on your lips when a soft yet unrestrained laugh leaves him, one of his hands finding the spot between your shoulder blades so he can pull you in and onto his chest. You're more than happy to melt against it, ear perfectly placed to hear the constant thump of his heart.

"So you did plan to sail me off?" You're the one laughing this time, snaking your arms around his waist to give a light squeeze.

"You wish," you murmur with a lighthearted scoff, pressing a soft kiss to his shirtless pec before resting your head there again. "You're stuck with me, love."

A soft scoff leaves Bruce at the same time his arms tighten around you, making it so every part of your body is pressed up against his. "Nowhere else i'd rather be."

Comfortable silence blankets the room once more, the mix of his even heartbeat under your ear and the light drag of his fingers against your arms and shoulders proving to be effective to lull you to sleep.

"Pirate then?" you mumble, words slurred in that way that only happens while being in the brink of sleep.

"Definitely not," he murmurs in return, his head ducking for a moment so he can press a kiss to your forehead. "Cowboy all the way. Would manage cattle all day and then get home to you as soon as the sun goes down."

⋆. 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𐙚˚ || 𓄹 ⊹ . 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 . 𐐒𐐚₊⋆｡˚

Comments and reblogs are welcome and encouraged <3 Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai / © gothamorphosis 2026 all rights reserved

[snoopzy]

RISES THE MOON . clark kent x depressed!gn!reader

𖤐 syn. ..⃗. your depressive episodes are suffocating, but at least the person you've been harboring a crush on came to check in on you 𖤐 con. ..⃗. 2.4k words, mutual feelings, (TW) depiction of a depressive episode and depressive thoughts, insecurity, angst, comfort, no use of y/n 𖤐 note. ..⃗. this one is ROUGH, the depiction of a depressive episode is based on my own experiences

Every day felt difficult. Even if nothing made it so.

It felt like every moment of the day was soul-crushing, built up with pressure from moments that shouldn't really mean anything, but always do. It didn't matter if you woke up perfectly fine or feeling like there was no point in battling the day. Nothing was worth fighting for, it seemed.

Deciding your mood would only worsen if you continued going against the days, you had ultimately taken it upon yourself to simply not face the day. So, you turned your back on it and stayed in bed.

You didn't remember how this started, but it's been weeks. At least, that's what it felt like. You weren't sure how long you'd been stuck in this fit. You felt childish, as if you had nothing to be upset about, but you couldn't help it. It felt like there was nothing you could do to help yourself.

You didn't want to leave your bed, your room, your home. It wasn't even out of comfort. You felt no comfort under your sheets. No matter how warm the blankets were, you felt like you were freezing. You felt cold to the touch; hollow, empty, like a useless shell of the person you usually were.

The days went by unknowingly, at least what you assumed were days. Your curtains shielded you from the bright sun, and your phone died long ago. You couldn't be bothered to charge it after it died. You didn't need it anyway; you found a sunken distraction in watching the blank wall of your room.

The thoughts in your head were ever-flowing. They were the only constant during your episodes besides your worsened mood. All you could think about was how it felt like no one would care for you if you expressed how you felt. How nothing felt worth it. How you had to use the bathroom, but couldn't bring yourself to do anything about it. At least you hadn't drunk any water since you lied down. It wasn't so bad.

You most often wondered if anyone was thinking of you. It wasn't unusual for you to not reply to texts; you often kept yourself busy or too distracted to check who was texting you and why. You pondered if anyone was concerned with your well-being.

A big part of you thought not. Not because it felt good, but because it felt right. No one cared. Why would they if you didn't?

You were stuck, slow-moving like molasses. It felt horrid, but you didn't know how to force yourself out of it. You would likely die in this bed. A pathetic way to go, but fitting for you. Perhaps it was what was meant to happen. You'd stay like this forever and be unable to do anything about it.

It almost scared you when you heard a knock at your front door. Almost. You couldn't bring yourself to even jump over the surprise of the sound. Was it that bad? Someone had come to check on you?

After a few moments of no response from you, there was another knock, followed by a voice calling your name.

"Are you in there?" He followed up.

It was Clark. Of course, it was Clark.

Maybe it was because he was naturally kind to everyone in his life, and as he often told you, "everyone deserves some kindness." Or perhaps it was because everyone around you was sure you both shared mutual feelings for one another. You didn't know why he was there, but your heart fluttered in your chest nonetheless. Which was more than it had been doing for as long as you stayed in bed. The beating had gotten monotonous, and it made you unsure if you were even still alive.

"Um, I'm gonna come inside. I'll fix your doorknob later." He called out to you, followed by a noise that sounded very much like your front doorknob being forced out of place to open it. You wondered how strong he had to be to be able to do that. Probably strong enough to battle depression without someone needing to break his doorknob.

You heard his footsteps wander through your apartment, checking the living room, kitchen, and bathroom before stepping into your bedroom. The door creaked as he entered, and you very barely shifted in your spot, mainly trying to hide under the covers, not that it worked, since you barely moved.

"Hey there, Sweet Pea." He greeted you, his voice hushed and soothing, as if trying to coax you out from under the covers, "Are you okay?"

You liked the way he called you sweet pet names. It made you feel warm. Though the warmth was unwelcome today, you didn't deserve to feel warm in your eyes. You deserved to feel cold under this stupid blanket.

He neared you slowly before sitting on the edge of your bed, facing your back since you lay on your side, your empty eyes boring into your stupid wall.

He hesitated before placing a hand over the blanket, near your shoulder. You shifted, the hand moving off of you, and you automatically felt worse. You didn't know if you wanted him to comfort you or leave. You didn't deserve him, but you craved his worry, his company, him.

"Sweet pea," God, it made tears fill your eyes, "Can I see you? Please?" His voice held a gentle desperation, and it made your breath hitch in your throat. Your throat felt like it was swelling and straining. You wanted to cry out so badly.

This time, when his hand reached for you, you allowed him to pull the blanket from your head. He let it go on your shoulder, not wanting to make you too uncomfortable. He let out a quiet sigh as he caught sight of the tears that quietly began to slip from your eyes. It was as if it pained him to see you this way. You felt worse. You never wanted to make him upset. He was practically sunshine on Earth.

"How long have you been feeling this way, honey?" He asked you. His voice was gentle, as if a hug from the sun itself. It enveloped you much nicer than your stupid blanket ever could. It enveloped you more than you deserved.

You shrugged in response. You didn't want to talk. You didn't want to do anything. You also didn't want to let him leave. You selfishly wanted him to stay, even if you didn't want to talk and barely wanted to move.

"Have you eaten? Used the bathroom? Showered?" He asked, obviously worrying about you. You felt more tears fall onto the pillow beneath your head, his worry making you even more upset. You didn't deserve him. You were only friends, yet he was the only friend to come check on you.

You shook your head in response. You hadn't done any of those. You didn't know how long it'd been since you did, but your stomach was practically screaming at you, your bladder ached, and your hair was greasy. You should get up. You should stop being an idiot about it. Who cares if you were depressed? You had nothing to be sad about. You were pathetic.

"I can make you food." He offered. You shook your head, your sad eyes glancing over to him. His frown made your heart clench horrifically. "Do you have to use the bathroom?" He asked. You thought about it. Your bladder hurt. You hurt. You really had to pee. You didn't want to get up. You shrugged.

It seemed that he knew what you meant because then he suggested, "I can carry you there." Your eyes returned to the wall. Was it that bad? So bad that you had to embarrass yourself in front of the man you liked by letting him carry you to the bathroom because you were too sad?

You shrugged again. Your eyes felt heavy from the tears. Your tears weighed on you. He took your shrug as a go-ahead. He stood from the bed before circling it to move to your side.

He smiled at you, a sympathetic, too sweet for you smile, before crouching beside you, "I'm gonna pick you up now, okay?" You gave him the smallest nod; you could barely muster moving your head too much. His arms slipped under your limp body, picking you up almost effortlessly. Your blanket fell from your body, but you didn't find yourself cold. His strong arms held you with such warmth that you didn't need a blanket. You leaned into his touch, as undeserving as you were of it, and it made him look down at you with the most loving eyes.

He carried you to the bathroom and set you gently on the toilet. He gave you a kiss on the forehead before leaving the bathroom, giving your privacy. You used the bathroom as meekly as you thought you would, almost slipping when raising your pants back up. It made you feel pathetic. It made you feel worthless.

Your slow tears made way for a silent yet horrid sob, tears falling in fat dollops onto your thighs. You pushed your face into your shoulder, covering your mouth to stop yourself from being too loud. You sat on the toilet while sobs wracked through your entire body like terrible waves.

It took you a while before you mustered the will to stand and wash your hands. After you did so, you opened the bathroom door to see Clark there, waiting for you as sweetly as he typically existed.

As soon as he saw your tearstreaked face, he pulled you into possibly the warmest hug you'd ever experience. He leaned down, his head pressing into your hair. You felt bad; it was so greasy.

"What can I do for you, sweetheart?" He asked into your hair, his words a soft murmur. All you could do was cry. You bawled into his chest as he held you. It was all you really felt like you needed. To be held. Held by someone who actually seemed to care. He cared. It meant so much to you that you couldn't help but cry even harder at the realization. You clung to him as if being held by him would save you.

There was no silence as you sobbed into his chest, but you eventually broke the cry-filled quiet with a small voice, "I'm sorry, Clark." Your words were shaky, muffled by his shirt that now had a wet spot from your tears.

"For what, honey?" He asked. You shrugged, "For needing you to come check on me. For worrying you. For being a sad, pathetic loser." Your words made you cry harder, causing your tone to wobble and tear apart.

"Sweetheart, you are anything but. I was worried, of course I was, but you don't need to apologize for that. I'd rather worry and come check on you than let you suffer alone. You don't deserve to be alone. You're worth so much, Sweet Pea. Even if you're sad. You're not pathetic, and you're definitely not a loser." He responded, his words ever so lovely and comforting. You could only cry out a "thank you" as you held onto his shirt as tightly as you could.

You stayed that way for a while, crying into his chest as he held you, occasionally pressing small kisses to the top of your head. You deserved it, he claimed, so maybe you did.

This wouldn't snap you out of your episode, but seeing his care for you definitely healed a piece of you. Your already strong feelings for him were only affirmed with this visit. He was worth it. Worth giving your heart to. Because now, he'd seen all of you, but he still stayed with you in your small hallway, holding you as you cried, whispering sweet nothings that felt like everything to you. And maybe they felt like everything to him, too.

After likely multiple minutes, he spoke quietly into your hair again, "I'm gonna make you something to eat, okay? At least, something small. I need you to eat, honey." You simply nodded into his shirt. You felt his lips curve into a smile against your hair. It made you feel soft inside.

Without notice, he carried you to the living room, setting you down on the couch. Your hands automatically reached for the blanket you had left there, and his reached for the remote. He went to YouTube on your television and found his way to a video he remembered you mentioning. It was one you would rewatch all the time.

"I know you like this one." He smiled at you, as nicely as he always did. Tears filled your eyes again, and he only leaned down to kiss your forehead with a quiet, "Be right back". With that, he retreated to your kitchen, and you felt deep in your soul that you'd find a way to be okay again. You'd heal from this bump because it was worth it. Life was worth it. He was worth it. And maybe you were worth it, too, especially if Clark was taking care of you.

He returned a few minutes into the video. He hadn't made you anything big or extravagant, knowing your stomach may not be able to handle it, but he still cut up some fruits for you to eat. To pair with the fruits, he brought you a glass of water. Was it obvious you hadn't had any in a while? Likely so. He was thoughtful. It made you want to cry again.

As you ate your fruit and watched your video, he sat beside you, letting you lean on his shoulder. It felt nice. Having someone be nice to you. Care for you.

"How long do you think you'll stay?" You asked him suddenly. He turned to you, wrapping an arm gently around your shoulders and kissing your cheek lovingly, "As long as you let me." It made your heart skip a beat.

"I also have to fix your doorknob."

You laughed a bit. The sound was odd to hear since you hadn't heard it in so long. It made Clark smile, letting out a laugh of his own. His laugh was bright, hearty. It made you relax into his side.

You'd probably cry a lot more during your healing process, but at least Clark would be here to fix your doorknob. And likely help you. You couldn't thank him enough. Maybe when you escaped this episode, you'd ask him on a date to solidify your thanks.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Pepto Abysmal (Clark Kent x Reader)

Summary: You have the flu. Clark does not.

AN: I'm not immune to being babied when I'm ill. I've also written fics where the reader and Clark cuddle in the sunlight like five times now lmaooo

Moodboard sources: x / x / x

Disclaimers: I do not use AI, nor do I consent to this being used to feed an AI generator (get fucked if you support AI generated fics). This blog is an adults only space for my safety and yours. Minors DNI. Reader is gender neutral.

Masterlist // AO3 Link // Request a fanfic! // Guidelines

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Permission to enter the royal bedchamber?”

Clark’s dumb posh play voice echoed through the stuffiness of your ears. You had a decision to make: use your remaining energy to crack open an eye and watch his grand entrance or offer a monosyllabic reply. You sipped on your water through the bendy straw that was pre-positioned to fit right into the pillow pile. Then you called out to your boyfriend.

Your bedroom door creaked open. Despite your boyfriend’s monstrous size, he crept across the room as graceful and silent as a ballerina. Swapping the bowl around, he lifted the flap of the blanket up, watching you wince at the hint of daylight from outside the room creeping in.

“I made you some food,” He held his offering close to you.

Burying your face into the pillow, you hummed – a contradiction that you could tell Clark was dithering over. But he knew you were happy it wasn’t another round of medicine.

“Wanna try?”

He waited patiently as he perched on the edge of the bed. Your head rolled on its axis after summoning the power to do so from deep within your soul. You squinted at the bowl, pleased to actually focus on something further than an inch in front of you. The man would probably baby bird the food for you if you asked – regrettably, but still counted. Thankfully, you were aware enough to stretch an aching limb out and ladle the porridge into your mouth.

A glow of sweetness amidst the oats flickered on your taste buds and you reached for another spoonful, propping yourself up onto your side. Soon enough, you were gulping back the porridge. Gulps for air punctuated your gratitude at the swirl of jam.

“Thank you,” You mumbled, covering your mouth with the spoon.

“You can’t infect me.”

“I feel gross.”

“You’re not gross,” Clark assured you and leant in to prove it. He met with the palm of your other hand.

“Don’t kiss me. I can’t breathe when you do.” A hard truth to swallow for both of you. You swore to make up for it once your nose was clear.

“It’s too muggy in here,” Clark patted the shape of you under the bed (presumably your hip?), “C’mon, we’re getting you some fresh air.”

“You’re a mental health practitioner’s wet dream,” You slumped back down.

Clark’s subdued astonishment was picture perfect and you hoped that your sickness hadn’t fried your brain cells so badly that they couldn’t recall this when you were well.

“Pardon?” He asked, his voice caught between stern reprimand and morbidly curious.

Your nasal tones paired well with the simpering tone you knew and barely tolerated: “Just go for a walk in the fresh air, you’ll feel better.”

Exhaling, Clark plucked you from your kingdom of cosy blankets, though he granted clemency and allowed you to keep one around you as he pulled you to sit up. He slotted your slippers on, which had you snorting because it made you think of “Sneakernight”, which then made you choke on your own phlegm as well as your hubris. He rubbed your back until the coughing fit subdued.

“Where are we going?” You flexed your feet to test how achy they were.

Instead of replying, he hoisted you into his arms. His warmth reminded you he was far preferable to your bed (though you loved to have him in it). Nuzzling into him with sleepy eyes, you let carry you across the apartment and struggle over the window sill. You could tell he had to fly just a little when his bulk refused to crush you to fit through. It just made you feel more spoiled.

Golden rays glowed behind your closed lids and warmed where your ankles were exposed by your pyjama bottoms. As Clark sat back in the chair he’d placed earlier out on your fire escape, you curled into his lap and allowed drowsiness to take over.

The weight of you grounded him as much as the yellow sun. If he closed his eyes and tuned out the traffic, Clark could imagine sitting out the front of his house in that rocking bench, dawn instead of dusk, hay bales instead of high rises, your hand still peeling back his shirt and thumbing at the bare skin at the base of his throat.

You sighed in his embrace; your grip on his shirt slacked. From your heart rate, Clark could tell you were close to falling asleep again.

“Feel better?” He whispered just before you could slip from him.

When you grunted, he kissed your head before resting his cheek upon it, keeping it safe until it soaked into your skin and healed you from within.

[dilfzuku]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 (𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊)

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. gn!reader x clark kent

𝐜𝐰. 2.8k words, college au (somewhat implied undergrad), love at first sight (kind of), frat party, alcohol drinking (potentially underage?), swearing, making out, reader is implied to be shorter than clark, he is NOT a fratboy he's just there

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. based on a real party i went to so if you were there and know who i am no you do not lmao. also not bad for my return to writing, eh?

𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.

When you heard the words “co-ed STEM frat” come out of your friends’ mouths, you were not impressed in the slightest. Yes, everyone’s favorite place to party on a Friday night: the frat of literally-fucking-anyone, the frat of science-y people, the frat that was sliding recruitment flyers under people’s dorm doors mere weeks back. 

But there was no list for getting in, hence your attendance, and when you paid your $5 to enter, you were pleasantly surprised. Yeah, people’s glasses fogged up the second you got in the door, and something—probably the pregame drinks—swirled in your stomach when you saw the stairs to the basement, but you were determined to have fun, especially since it had been a few weekends since your whole group had gone out together (damn midterms and study schedules). 

You made a beeline for the bar to get your first of many free drinks. Your friends had insisted that it wasn’t actually free because you had to pay to get in, but $5 for unlimited alcohol? That was practically free in your book. 

The vodka tasted like Kool-Aid. It was Kool-Aid, in fact, you could tell it was Sharkleberry Fin flavor, there was so little vodka in it. You were getting your money’s worth, unfortunately. It still left that slight burn at the back of your mouth when it went down though, so you figured it was enough to, at the very least, placebo-effect yourself into a more inebriated state. 

Your head already swam in the heat as you made your way through the dark, crowded basement to the cluster of your friends in the middle. The bass pumped, the cohorts of college students bounced to the beat, and you’re pretty sure a group of girls were trying to ask if your friend was gay, but you couldn’t really hear them over the sound of Chappell Roan’s The Giver. An interesting pick for a frat party, you thought. 

Cups splashed, sprinkling pink droplets on your arms and outfit, but you didn’t care, you were having too good a time. Laundry was a later-you problem. Your friends’ hands gripped you, pulling you closer before you could get carried away in the sea of people. One guy pulled an entire bottle of mango pineapple Svedka out of his backpack and started passing it around, letting anyone and everyone take shots. You laughed; it was so nice to let loose after a long week of actually being a student.

Several red solo cups later, you saw him, and you felt your heart skip a beat. He was leaning against the inconveniently-placed column in between the bar and open area where the party people coalesced, and he looked so out of place. His glasses looked a little dated and dorky, and they were foggy, too, which didn’t surprise you in the slightest, but they kind of went well with his dark, messy curls. As if you weren’t already inexplicably enamored by him, his flannel was unbuttoned at the top and the sleeves were rolled up. You noticed his forearms and your throat felt a little dry, though it definitely could have been the alcohol you’d been consuming for hours finally dehydrating you and totally not the definition of his muscles. You took a gulp of your drink. You decided to approach him. 

Your friend’s hand slipped from your wrist as you pulled away. She reached out for you, swaying a little. “The walls are wet,” she gasped, “the basement is sweating.” Another of your group pulled her back toward them, watching you go with a small, knowing smile, but with your back turned, you didn’t see. And as you waded through warm bodies, your target didn’t see either. Probably the fogged glasses. Idiot. 

You stopped in front of him. Damn, he was taller than you’d thought. He seemed to be so put together, there was no way he’d had much to drink. The cup in his (big, you noticed) hand was half full of whatever cheap beer they were giving out, and it was probably his first. 

“You look a little out of place,” you called over the music. His face turned more toward you, glasses slipping down his nose a little. The LEDs caught his eyes for a second and you could see with startling clarity, over the top of his frames, just how blue they were. Your breath caught in your lungs momentarily. His mouth quirked awkwardly in a little smile. 

“Oh, really?” Something about the inflection of his words was just so… genuine. Who the hell was this guy? “I guess this isn't really my scene.” You were only partly listening.

“You’re hot? I mean—aren’t you hot?” You tugged lightly at the collar of his flannel. He shrugged. You didn’t notice the goosebumps that raised where your fingers had brushed his exposed skin. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, it’s… it’s actually really hot in here but I kind of dressed based on the temperature outside, which was… quite the mistake, to say the least.” He removed his glasses, looking down to wipe them on his shirt. His curls fell forward, blocking your view of his face. You let your mind wander while you waited impatiently for your view to return. The heat and humidity were definitely tag-teaming your senses with the alcohol to leave you breathless and susceptible to any whim you could dream up. 

You stuck your free hand in his hair, running your fingers through it and lightly scratching at his scalp as he tentatively raised his head again, looking like a deer in headlights in response to your drunken affection. You let your hand fall back to your side. “You’re really pretty. I don’t know what you’re doing here but like…” you trailed off, frustrated that in your state, your mouth couldn’t seem to move fast enough to keep up with the words you wanted to say. “...Thank god you are. Here. Wow.” You didn’t know if it was the colored lights or even your imagination, but it looked like he was as pink as the Kool-Aid, which reminded you to take another drink. After all, you were so thirsty. 

“Oh, uh… thanks.” His gaze, previously gliding across the room in avoidance of your compliment, shifted to you with an edge of sudden concern. “Are you… are you here with someone? You shouldn’t be alone somewhere like this, in… well, with that.” He gestured to your cup with his own, accidentally clinking the cups.

“Cheers,” you murmured, taking a drink. He didn’t react but you saw a slight tremor in his shoulders as if he were holding back a laugh, though it could have just been your mind playing tricks. “My friends…” you turned and gestured vaguely toward the opposite wall (glistening disgustingly with moisture, just as your friend had pointed out) “they’re over there. I”—you snickered to yourself and placed an arm against the column behind him in some sort of pathetic, drunk kabedon—”saw you from across the bar.” With a giggle, you dropped the act. He, also very much entertained by your theatrics, threw his head back and knocked it on the hard surface. 

“Ow,” he grumbled, somehow almost entirely unfazed and more adorable than hurt. 

“Fuck it,” you whispered. His brows furrowed minutely as if he’d heard you over the dull roar of irresponsible young adults and party tunes, but you swore it was the alcohol planting ideas in your mind because there was no way anyone could’ve heard. “I want to kiss you so bad.” You grabbed his face, palms on his cheeks (well, one palm and one plastic cup), and stared into his eyes. “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

Shyly, his hands came to rest on your hips and your breath hitched, eyes nearly sliding shut before he ever-so-gently moved you back and away. “We really shouldn’t, not when you’re in this state, I mean, it wouldn’t be right and I—I just met you! Not even! I can’t take advantage of you like that!” Bottom lip jutted out in a pout, you sighed, hands sliding down from his face and the empty one forming a fist to knock once lightly on his broad chest. 

“Too damn chivalrous.” You pointed, agitated, at his cup. “What’s that?” He looked at it quizzically, as if just noticing that he had it.

“Beer… I don’t know, I just grabbed it but I haven’t really—”

“It’s half empty. You’ve had enough of it to be… I don’t know, you’ve drunk tonight and I’m the one coming onto you anyway so just shut up and let me kiss you.” His hands, you both realized, still hadn’t moved from your hips. You threw your arms around his neck (good thing your cup was almost empty) and surged forward onto your toes, closing your eyes and bringing your lips to his. It felt electric, and some delirious, alcohol-inundated part of you could’ve sworn it was meant to be, especially when his grip on your hips tightened. Clearly, he felt it too. 

Slowly and gingerly, like you were made of glass, he moved one hand to cradle the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. Spurred on by the contact, you subtly adjusted the angle and slid your tongue in his mouth when he sighed against you. The proximity pushed his glasses back up his nose, the feeling of the hard frames against your face grounding you somewhat while the rest of you felt incorporeal. 

You learned that he was a talkative guy, despite, or maybe because of, his shy and awkward demeanor. It seemed that with every breath he took, there was something to be said, some G-rated, one-word exclamation (“Oh—golly—”) or compliment to be given (“You’re—beautiful, did you know that?”), for your ears only. And his hands. For a guy who was initially too respectful to lock lips with someone who’d been drinking, he sure had no qualms about letting them wander. He went from your hips to your lower back, then upper, then back down to your ass before he presumably got shy again and left them firmly around your waist. He was all warm and willing and every vocalization, whether it were an actual word or just some amorphous sound, screamed to you this is right. You knew there was something special when you saw him from across the room and felt the inexplicable tug in his direction. Being there in the moment with him, it was like the rest of the room was gone. 

Well, it wasn’t, because after who knows how long (not enough, in your humble opinion) you felt a third hand grasp your forearm. Confused, you cracked open your eyes, only to see that the object of your affections, glasses steamed again, was blissfully unaware of, well, everything; still leaning into the hand you had caressing his cheek and jaw, still nuzzling your nose with his as he kept your mouth busy. You’d almost forgotten the interruption when you were actually yanked back, nearly stumbling out of the strong arms wrapped around your middle. His eyes shot open, wide not with disappointment but worry, before they slid from you to something, or someone, behind you. You spun around, face-to-face with one of your friends. By her body language, you could tell she was probably the most sober of everyone you came with. “I didn’t want to bother you since clearly you’re having a good time,” she teased, and you felt your face grow impossibly warmer, “but we’ve got some… how do I put this… I’m cutting some of us off and we’re heading out. I’m sorry to drag you away, but I’m not going to leave you here like this and, no offence,” she regarded the figure behind you, “but I can’t exactly trust you just because you macked it with my friend once.”

“None taken, I wouldn’t either,” he affirmed with a nod, suddenly self-conscious and adjusting everything from his flannel to his glasses and hair. Your eyes, unfocused, lingered on his swollen, rosy lips, and subconsciously, you reached and swiped a tiny string of spit from his chin. He faltered momentarily before breaking into an embarrassed smile. He had dimples. Was there a single thing about this man that wasn’t utterly captivating?

“Well, come on, someone’s probably jaywalking right now even though I told everyone to wait just outside, and I don’t feel like dealing with someone getting hit by a car.” She tugged on your arm again and you tripped, trying to regain your footing quickly because she was already weaving through the bar line to reach the stairs and also still gripping onto you.

Your head swiveled back to look for the handsome man, and you stretched your arm out to him just as you were led out of reach. “Wait, I didn’t get his name!” You protested, but she couldn’t hear you, and neither could he, as he watched you leave with an expression you couldn’t name, but would probably place somewhere between longing and disbelief. You almost wished you could go back to the bar for some beer just to taste him again.

Leaving the lecture hall, you breathed a sigh of relief. The air outside was cool and crisp, smelling of the morning’s rain despite the bright early-afternoon sun. The campus may be beautiful, but breathing the stale air in the older buildings was only tolerable for about the length of your chemistry lecture. 

Beside you, your friend did a hyperbolic impression of your professor, drawing out each syllable to emphasize the crawling pace of the already sleep-inducing lessons. You couldn’t help but throw your head back in a closed-eyed cackle when she threw in a joke so scientifically incorrect that it would have set your professor on a 20-minute tangent completely unrelated to the actual lecture topic. Unfortunately, that meant you tripped going down the stairs and tumbled. Luckily, you only fell down one step but, unluckily, you collided with someone making their way up. 

“Shit, sorry, I”—you cut yourself off quickly when you realized you had planted your hand right in the middle of a strong chest to stabilize yourself and quickly retracted it. ”Sorry—sorry.” You barely had the courage to look at the poor stranger you’d accidentally assaulted when your friend started to chuckle incredulously. 

“No way,” she breathed, covering her mouth in an attempt to hide her amusement. The stranger—who was beautiful, you realized with disappointment—smiled at you, apparently unfazed. He adjusted his glasses from where they’d been ever-so-slightly knocked off center. 

“No worries, I’m glad I was there to break your fall. It would have ended a lot worse if you’d collided with the pavement.” You did not miss the captivated look your friend was beaming straight at you.

“What?” You hissed out of the corner of your mouth. 

She giggled and whispered in your ear, “That’s the guy I pulled you away from at the party a couple weeks ago.” Your face burned.

Right. You had gone to a frat party and drunkenly made out with a guy that you couldn’t remember much of except for the fact that he was respectful, made your heart skip from the first glance, and was probably the most attractive man on campus. And now here he was in front of you again, looking up into your face with what you would almost describe as affection, and you wanted to both thank the universe for letting you gaze upon him again and curse it for the way it came to be. 

“Um—”

“—You look really good in the light. You know, where I can actually see you better.” His cheeks pinkened. Says you, you thought, you’re practically glowing out here. “Sorry, you were saying?” “No, no, I… I wasn’t saying anything. Thank you. And sorry for… well…” Your friend squeezed your arm.

“I’ll see you at the dining hall,” she whispered with a smirk, and headed off. Leaving you alone with the guy you now had to talk to without the liquid courage pushing you along. 

“...Sorry for being all over you at the frat.” He blinked and his brows raised. 

“Oh. Well,” he flushed and tried to push his glasses up his nose only to find that they were already there, and then flushed harder as if he were caught doing something he shouldn’t. “I think I made it kind of obvious that I liked it. A lot. Even if it’s kind of embarrassing to think about now. And I was hoping I could take you out sometime. Oh, and maybe learn your name first.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’m Clark Kent.” You chuckled. He was simply adorable. 

Maybe there was a bit of boldness left over from all those nights ago, or maybe it was just Clark—you were going to use his name all the time now that you knew it—but whatever it was, it bubbled up inside you and erupted as quiet laughter that had him exposing his dimples with a grin.

“Alright, Clark. Why don’t you walk me back to my dorm and then we’ll see what I can do about getting you that name.”

© 𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐟𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. do not modify, translate, ai-train, or repost my works on any platform.

[fiction-is-the-new-reality]

rainy day barista | Matt Murdock

word count: 2k

warnings: cussing and heated kissing and two idiots who are ignoring their emotions. Thank u for reading! Pls comment or reblog if you enjoyed

summary: you and Matt have know each other for six months. You’re his favorite barista and him your favorite customer. Both of you are two idiots who ignore your emotions, until the dam breaks.

Other works can be found here

Matt Murdock’s always been “alright” for as long as he could remember. Every time someone would ask him how he’s been doing, that was always his response. Never was Matt great. Sometimes he was sarcastically amazing, rarely was he ever good, but he was consistently just alright.

"Mornin’ Matt! How’s it going?" You sound like a windchime to Matt, cheerful, light, and bright. Even after a hard night, his tension eases.

“I’m alright. How’re you this morning?” He almost cringes at his voice. It’s gruff, heavy, and strained. He hopes you don’t notice the tension he’s carrying. At the thought his aching hands grip the top of the cane, a mix of anxiety along with embarrassment in every movement.

Usually, Matt wasn’t the type to be bothered by what other people thought of him, until six months ago. Until you, now all he does is wonder if you think of him. He wonders if you ever think about him in the same great length or with the same intensity as he does of you. If you wonder what he’s doing, where he’s going, how he’s feeling, how his week is. Matt wonders if you’re as love-struck as he is.

“I’m great, but never mind that. Why are you always just alright? We, uh, you, you should fix that! It’s a beautiful day outside-”

“You’re right, you know I failed to see how beautiful it was outside.” Sarcasm almost drips on the floor from Matt’s response

You shake your head with mock disbelief. “Wow. A blind joke? Are you seriously hitting me with a blind man joke at” You check your watch, “Seven thirty in the morning? That's a new low and record. A new low record for you.”

The soft laugh from Matt's lips has his ribs screaming at him, but he ignores them. The smile on your face makes the hurt worth it.

Matt raises his hands in front of his chest. “I’m all ears for any ideas. Sorry, no pun intended.”

You make an offer, “Coffee first, then we’ll go from there.”

“Wonderful idea.”

You hum a melody as you prepare Matt’s drink. Warmth spreads through Matt as the sound resonates in his chest. The tune is familiar, but not clear enough for him to place.

“Here is that cappuccino for you, my good sir.” You clasp his hand gently to guide it to the mug's misshapen handle. “It’s in a favorite mug of mine. So, don’t, like, drop it or anything.”

“Describe the mug to me.” He almost begs, not wanting to lose your attention so soon.

“It’s a deep, warm brown. Like the wood of an old, cherished table. Walnut, maybe, if I had to name it. The cup itself is taller and full of divots. Clearly, the potter was a beginner.” As you describe it, Matt slowly skims his fingers over the ceramic, lingering on each divot and bump as if memorizing every flaw and curve by touch. Your eyes linger on his long appendages as they repeat their menstruations, 

“Yet, despite the little dents, it feels grounding when you hold it. It has the right thickness, so the coffee never burns you. It just radiates a gentle, comforting heat. It’s something you want to hold onto. You can actually savor the warmth, let it seep into your bones. Makes it feel like for a moment everything will be ok.”

When Matt doesn’t respond, you blow a raspberry, rocking back on your heels. “The short, less pretentious answer is. I like the color brown, plus I like when things are imperfect.”  

He remains caught in thought, contemplating the visual you’ve painted. The warmth from the mug travels through his bones. For a moment, his breathing falters at the sensation. When Matt finally speaks, his words are a hushed thank you.

​

Matt had known better. He had felt the electric hum buzzing all around him. His skin prickled, and goosebumps erupted as his suit grew uncomfortable. The air had been so thick with a potent, earthy smell when he stepped out of his apartment that morning. It was all a clear warning of the immense storm on its way. He thinks about all this as he tries to find someone else to blame. When his mind can’t conjure an answer, he accepts that he is singularly at fault.

At fault for his drenched clothes. At fault for his brown hair plastered to his forehead. At fault for the chills wracking his body. And, most of all, his greatest crime, your worry over him.

“I-I would hate to intrude,” Matt stammers, the picture of bashfulness as you open the shop door to plead with him to come inside, and out of the onslaught of rain.

“Matt, just get inside before you catch your death out there.”

You scan him as he stands near the door. His hair sticks to his forehead, raindrops fall from his jawline, and his suit clings to him. All while a puddle forms at his feet.

Your shoes squeak as you turn to walk further into the shop. He wastes no time in following behind you.  

“Didn’t check the forecast this morning?”

Matt huffs something that sounds like a chuckle, but gives no answer.

Soon, there’s a soft noise of ceramic sliding against wood. Then the aroma of a hot latte washes over Matt. Matt offers a soft smile followed by an even softer ‘thank you’.

“What's got you out so late, Murdock? Exciting day at the office?”

“Oh yeah, all the never-ending cases. Plus, don’t forget the massive piles of documents. It’s a real rager.”

You laugh at his sarcasm, Matt's heart beats a pace faster.

“At the risk of sounding creepy, where is everyone else?”

“Sent them all home early. I didn’t want anyone getting swept up in the storm, so I sacrificed myself. Because I’m a really nice person.”  

“Yes, you are.”

Matt’s agreement isn’t really praise, but it still spreads warmth through you all the same. Face warm, you turn to cleaning, pushing the feeling down.

“My apartment is not too far from here, so really it’s no big deal.”

“Will you let me walk you home?”

“I can’t ask that from you, Matt.”

“Good thing you’re not asking. Please, I-I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight not knowing if you got home safe.” His forehead wrinkles slightly while his brows pinch together.

“You’ll sleep the same way you’ve slept the past six months of not knowing my whereabouts.”

“Touche. But still, I want to make sure you get there safely.”

“Matt, I will be fine. Please just worry about getting yourself home. I really do appreciate the offer.”

Matt shakes his head, admitting defeat. “Ok, ok, fine. I’ll see you later.”

The sight of puddles pooling from the sidewalks to the streets makes you hesitate at the door. A sinking feeling grows as you realize your small umbrella is useless in the downpour. Despite the dread knotting your chest, you notice Matt hesitating too. For a moment, hope stirs, thinking he doesn’t want to leave you. You know this is unlikely, but can’t suppress the nervous thrill.

Once outside, you go left while Matt heads right. At the curb, your little umbrella tries its hardest to stay upright, but it can’t fight the wind. You admit defeat as you collapse it. After waiting a few minutes, you realize you haven’t seen any taxis. Most have probably stopped running, and the ones that remain are most likely already full.

“Fuck.”

You stand under the awning of a random building to start calling some taxi companies. None are available for your area, and the ones that will venture out are charging an extreme amount.

“Fucking great, just absolutely wonderful. This night couldn’t get any better.”

As if the punchline to a cruel joke, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed before rain pounded the earth like miniature bullets. It bounced off the fabric above you and whipped across your face. Among the steady drumming of the rain, a faint call of your name seems to cut through the downpour. Appearing through the veil of rain is Matt Murdock. His familiar voice cutting through the downpour, he stood close, his imposing figure now clearly visible as he called your name.

“What are you doing?”

“I realized that the cabs weren’t running. I can’t leave you out in this. I’m walking you home, don’t try to fight me on it.” Even as he commands you, his voice is soft. You take a moment to admire his rain soaked face before grunting in agreement.

“Let me.” He grabs the umbrella from your hand, just to follow up by raising his arm, hinting at you to link your arms. You swoon internally at his chivalry. Once you do, you start leading him to your apartment. The brisk walk is void of conversation, both of you distracted by each other's warmth. The umbrella does very little to keep the rain off you two, but you enjoy Matt's gentlemanly effort.

Finally, at your apartment, he waits patiently as your cold, trembling fingers struggle to unlock the door. He hovers closely behind you. You silently bless every god you can think of for the compact umbrella that has him almost pressed to your back. You thank them again for Matt’s wide physique, which, by occupying so much of your space, effectively shields you from the rain’s abuse. A relieved sigh escaped your lips as the lock finally slid open.

Stepping through the threshold, you turn to face him as he fully enters the foyer. Matt collapses the umbrella and juts it at you.

“Take it with you. You’ll need it for your trek back.” Your voice trembles from the chill that's settled deep in you.

“Thanks.”

He’s close to you, so close that the puddles on the floor from your dripping bodies are merging. Another silence falls into place as you face each other.

The warmth of his breath fans over you, making a shiver run down your spine. As you roll it out with your shoulders, one of Matt's big hands reaches out. With the middle section of his pointer finger, he brushes a raindrop from your cheek. He rests his calloused palm softly at the junction of your jaw and neck. You gasp as the sensations have you feeling a thousand things at once. The warmth of his breath brushes over your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine.

His finger was so warm. His touch is so delicate. Why would he do that? Was that something or nothing? Did that really just happen? Is this really happening?

Matt’s eyes close briefly at your gasp. He has to stop the groan that wants to bubble out. Your rapid heartbeat doesn’t go unnoticed by him; soon, his heart is mimicking yours. A fresh batch of goosebumps spreads over your body, as another shiver rolls through you. This time, not from the cold.

“Matt?” It’s a soft plea for him to do something, or maybe you’re asking what he’s doing, you can’t tell.

When he doesn’t move, you lightly grab at the lapel of his suit jacket. Matt replays the interactions you’ve shared over the past six months. They appear in a different lens now, making him realize he’s been too caught up in his own head. All the signs had been there, all the touches, the gentle voices, the jokes, and the attention that you never shared with the other patrons in the cafe. It was all reserved for him.

The intoxicating murmur of his name, with the warmth of your breath caressing his skin, jolts him from his thoughts. He leans forward, takes the time to nudge his nose against yours. Then you’re breathing into each other's mouths, and finally his plush lips slot against yours. He’s consuming all of you and begging for more. The soft clicking of your wet mouths separating and reconnecting provokes him, it’s like Matt can’t stop kissing you. Not that you’re complaining, you’ve never experienced a kiss like this. The large hand on your jaw tightens slightly, and there’s a distant noise of something clattering to the floor. Matt's other hand soon wraps around you. That wide palm splaying across your upper back, pressing you even further into him.

His chest is solid beneath your hands, radiating a heat that seeps right through his rain-soaked shirt and into your fingertips. You can’t help the rough, desperate sound that escapes you, a half-whispered “oh god” lost against his lips as you press closer. The left side of Matt’s mouth twitches, an attempt to smirk, but the attempt melts away the instant your lips capture his bottom one. The sensation of your teeth teasing the tender flesh steals his breath, every ounce of composure dissolving under your touch. 

Matt only pulls back at the sound of an apartment door being slammed closed. He twists so you’re not seen as the other resident shuffles down the stairs. They throw Matt a rushed, disgruntled "sorry" before they bolt out the front door. 

“It’s getting late. You should probably get home, Matt.” It’s an out-of-breath mummer, and Matt wonders how he could ever leave after hearing you like that.

“Yeah. I should.”  

But he’s leaning in to place a searing kiss against your now pouty lips.

taglist: @peaky-marvel @technicallydeepfan @hottie-bishop-belova @lapaufabi @013-jackson @kityri-imera @frogsfr @shlumbo @againnagainnagainn @peterparkers-bbymomma

[ellecdc]

TASM Peter Parker falling for a journalist. Any drabble/short fic works for this one. Btw do you think he'd ask her out as Peter Parker the freelance photographer or as Spidey coz she has been covering his stories.

intriguing....here's my take on it

Peter Parker x journalist!reader who's doing a piece on Spider-Man [1.4k words]

CW: no gender markers used for reader, meet-cute, fluff

You had come to learn that there were two kinds of major cities in the States; there were cities like Chicago and there were cities like New York. 

Chicago had its high rises, grand architecture, and the vast Lake Michigan often sending hurricane strength winds through the corridors of concrete that cascaded into the sky which left people needing parkas in the shade, sweltering in the sun, and nearly blowing away in the shoots of violent wind. 

New York City had its organized grid of skyrises, perpetually congested city streets, and only the meager Upper Bay providing any chance of air movement which left one feeling like they were melting right into the pavement with no hope of reprieve. 

You wondered if maybe you should’ve found a job in the midwest. 

You were flipping through the pictures your boss had given you to pair with your next piece on Spider-Man; each and every single one of them grainy, blurry, or…just plain awful. 

You felt good about this upcoming piece, too. You didn’t want to have to settle for a mediocre picture.

But you were tired of looking at them, and you were very tired of sweating on them. 

Deciding to call it quits, you began gathering up the pages you had spread out on your bistro table when you were startled by a voice.

“Hello there.” 

You snapped your head up to find yourself nearly face-to-face with Spider-Man; the suited-up vigilante hanging upside down directly above your table. 

You startled, leaning back in a desperate and rather futile attempt to create space only to feel your chair coming out from under you.

You braced for impact that never came. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy there.” Spider-Man laughed, his hand having caught the back of your chair which he was quick to right.

He was also quick to lower himself into the small bistro seat across from you. 

“What…are you doing?” You asked breathlessly, watching him pause in flicking invisible lint off of his thigh as he rested his ankle on his opposite knee. 

“What? Can’t Spider-Man take a seat in the shade?” He asked, tone laced with an undercurrent of humour. “You’ve managed to stake claim on the only bistro table on the street with coverage – good find, by the way.” 

“Is there not any…crime you should be fighting?” You asked him, relaxing slightly into your seat once your heart decided it no longer needed to be in fight or flight mode. 

“No, actually,” he replied, sounding almost as surprised as you at the fact, “besides the crime that is this fucking heat.” 

“The suit’s not very breathable, I take it?” 

You couldn’t see his face, but you swore you could see him smirking at you. “Not as breathable as spandex companies would like you to believe.” 

“Interesting.” You murmured, reaching for your notebook. If Spider-Man was going to speak candidly with you, you might as well take advantage of it. 

“What’re you working on here?” He asked you in turn, picking up the terrible pictures of…himself. “Oh come on; these aren’t right at all! These make me look awful!”

“This just in, Spider-Man is vain.” You teased, eliciting a disbelieving breath from the vigilante. 

“Even you have to admit that these do not do me justice at all.” He insisted, holding the pictures up beside himself as though you hadn’t been fussing over them all morning yourself. “I mean, this one is just a red and blue blur, half of me is covered with some guy's thumb in this one, and my back end looks way better than this picture would suggest.” 

A surprised laugh bubbled out of you that saw your hand flying to your mouth in embarrassment; you’re quite sure Spider-Man seemed pleased by this. 

“Why are you carrying these around, anyways?” He asked as he handed them back to you. “Are you a fan? A stalker? A practicing voodoo witch? Has someone paid you to curse me? Bet it was that asshole with the bikes from last week; he seemed particularly shady.” 

“I’m a journalist.” You corrected with a laugh.

Spider-Man laughed too, though it was stilted; you had the impression he was grimacing beneath his mask. 

“Not…of the photography kind, right?”

You laughed again. “No. Of the writing kind. My boss wants me to pair one of these pictures with my article.”

“Oh.” He said, looking back down at the pictures. “Does your boss hate you?”

“It feels like it right now.” 

He let out a sigh as he leaned back further in his chair, appearing for all intents and purposes far too casual for a certified celebrity of the city. “Well, guess you better make the article worth it.” 

“And what? Are you going to help me with that feat?”

Spider-Man scoffed. “Help is literally my middle name. My full name is Spider Help Man. Write that down.”

You laughed but did as told, writing S.H.M and circling it in your journal. 

“How do you always manage to be where the trouble is?” You asked. The web-slinger seemed to scrutinize you for a moment and you found yourself amazed at how expressive he managed to be even behind a mask. 

“It’s… a sense. There’s a sense; it sort of alerts me and I just follow it.” He admitted. You felt your brows furrow.

“Trouble…has a scent?” You asked incredulously as you wrote down ‘smell???’

“No!” He hollered, voice cracking subtly before he schooled himself. “No, no. A sense, like a sixth-sense. Good grief, you don’t have to make me sound like such a freak.” 

With that, he shot a string of web out of his wrist to pick up a coffee cup someone dumped onto the ground before tossing it into the nearest garbage bin. 

“I hate to tell you Mr. Man,” you laughed, “but you kind of are a freak.”

“Oh, I’m a total freak,” he agreed readily, “you just don’t have to make me sound like one.”

You smiled down at your journal before taking another look at your surprise companion; perhaps it was delusion or maybe a little bit of hope, but you got the sense that he was smiling back at you. 

…

The deadline was quickly approaching and your boss was breathing down your neck for a final decision on which terrible picture would accompany your article on The Amazing Spider-Man. 

You weren’t even given a moment of peace to feel sorry for yourself when your pity party was interrupted by the sound of an email coming in. 

You were ready to fire off an email right back – telling your boss that you still had twenty-four minutes until the deadline – only to find an email from someone named Peter Parker. 

I swear to God I’m not a creepy stalker, but I was at the cafe the other day and overheard you lamenting with Spider-Man about your choice of pictures. I figured I’d offer a few of my own to add to the pool. 

Three action shots of Spider-Man were attached; one of him leaping between buildings, another of him hanging off of a crane, and one of him helping a cat off of a ledge of a high-rise building. 

I also included a few other pictures that might interest you. Have you ever considered modelling, btw? You should. Feel free to reach out if you want some head shots – it’s not every day I get to photograph such a beauty.

The final three photos were one of Spider-Man hanging upside down over your bistro table, one of him catching the back of your chair as it nearly came out from under you, and one of you smiling at him from across the table where he sat with his ankle on his knee. 

You saved all six images and forwarded them to your personal email as well before you decided to respond. 

I can see you spend a lot of time photographing Spider-Man; he might not be too pleased to hear you suggesting you don’t often get to photograph beautiful people. 

You were finishing up the final draft of your article with one of Peter’s pictures attached to it before sending it to your boss when another email popped up. 

Something tells me Spider-Man might be inclined to agree with me on this one.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[mutsukisses]

THE FEELINGS WE BURY

yan! therapist! leon x ftm reader

warnings: reader is schizophrenic, intrusive thoughts, stalking, slight hand kink, power imbalance, obsessive leon, unprofessional behavior, oral (reader receiving,) pleasure bottom leon

A/N: really exposing myself with this one..

each tick of the clock on the wall felt less relaxing and more like a metronome counting the inevitable. sitting face-to-face with a new therapist was always a fun way to waste an hour of your life.

it was always the same process: you open up just enough to get taken on as a client, you tell them the more vulnerable and weaker part of your psyche, and you leave the appointment with a dismissal letter. god forbid you aren’t the perfect fucking victim.

telling a stranger that you fear everyday you’ll lose touch with reality and go missing really isn’t a good icebreaker. but what else are you supposed to do? be normal on the first session? yea, right. might as well weed out the therapists who can’t deal with your symptoms and not waste your time.

a soft rapping on the table next to you startles you out of your thoughts, bringing you crashing back to reality. the newest therapist on the roster- Dr. Kennedy- leans over you, a respectful and professional distance that doesn’t intrude into your space. his eyes are wide in concern, softening slightly as he sees you check back in with reality.

“you all right?” he asks, sitting back down in his bulky leather chair. the muscles of his arms strain against his tailored white button-up, and it makes you wonder what he does in his free time to have all that meat. “we can pause if you need to.”

shaking your head, you reply quickly, “no, no, it’s okay. i just do that sometimes.”

Dr. Kennedy nods, leaning back in his chair and placing his hand on his chin. “tell me more about that.” he questions, softly tilting his head in encouragement.

you sigh, wringing your hands together as your brain scrambles for an answer. swallowing thickly, you decide to bite the bullet, words tripping over themselves in your unexpected haste. “i- you’ve definitely read my file, had to to take me on. it probably mentions something about my memory issues and my schizophrenia. i’ve been in psychosis before, and i-” you pause, words too heavy as they leave your mouth, “struggle a lot with the fear of it happening again. i just check out sometimes and i think that leads me to not remembering things. that had also severe trauma.” you end with a laugh, nervous and uncertain as you extend your only olive branch.

he listens, Dr. Kennedy’s pen a distant scrape against his moleskin notebook. his silent writing makes you feel like a cadaver on display for a medical student exam; flayed open and bared to hands ready to tear and pick you apart.

“that sounds like a lot,” he chuckles shifting in his chair so his elbows rest on his knees, face level with yours. “how do you deal with that fear day to day?”

your eyes flick away from his to a random spot on the wall, biting your cheek as you try and think. what do you do?

“ah. i usually just repress it,” you answer, scoffing. “then when i get home i check out for a few hours. lay in my bed and not think. i describe it like being an NPC in a game. not there, not the main character, unmoving until needed.”

the doctor hums, nodding along as you speak. you see his throat bob as he thinks, a nervous habit if you had to guess. “do you ever confront those feelings afterwords? or do you just let them simmer?”

you shrug. “sometimes. the fear is paralyzing at times and other times i can manage it pretty well,” you end with a laugh, eyeing the clock set on the wall behind Dr. Kennedy. thankfully, session was basically over, and your chest felt strangely… lighter.

“i see you getting antsy,” the doctor teases, a little smile on his face that makes your stomach flutter. “session is done, unless you want overtime?” his voice shifts to a lilt, something teasing that borders on unprofessional conduct.

“no, i’m good,” you respond, standing and shaking yourself out. something akin to hope settles like a light in your chest, though you don’t have the heart to nurture it. “will i.. see you next week?”

Dr. Kennedy hums absently, writing something in his notebook last-minute. your gut sinks- you really did like this one. you’d hoped it would last more than an introductory session-

“i can put you in for wednesday appointments?” his voice cuts through your thoughts, sending that same, warm feeling of hope crashing through your chest. hurriedly, like the offer will disappear if you don’t answer immediately, you agree, giving him the time that works best for you.

you leave the office with a newfound hope blossoming in the rot of your chest. maybe, just maybe, this one would stick. he’d even shook your hand on the way out without looking disgusted.

trying not to get too emotional as you drive home, houses and street lamps passing by in a hazy blur as some pop song plays through the radio. warm summer air whips against your face from the open window; and it feels like, for the first time in years, someone could really help you.

“fuck,” leon curses, erection throbbing through his dress pants. it strains against the zipper, each shift of his torso sending sparks of heat to his core. his thighs clench involuntarily, hips humping the air and creaking on the leather of his seat.

every part of your confessional today dragged him further and further into the depths of obsession. the way your fingers locked against each other as your voice lowered in nervousness, the anxious flicker of your eyes as they try and avoid his, the subtle flush on your face as you (very poorly) ogled his figure.

leon wasn’t ashamed of his body, and often relished in the attention it gave him- he worked out hard to keep himself in shape. many a woman had thrown herself onto his arm, latching on and going home dissatisfied when leon revealed he didn’t want them in the same way. he never really came out in the usual way, his work taking up too much of his time to delve into his preferences post-graduation.

but he knew he liked men of all types- short, tall, heavyset, slim, trans, cis, other- he just didn’t care for women. but, to his chagrin, they cared for him. everytime he was dragged by claire to a new bar, hoping to find someone to hook up with, he was met with at least a dozen women eye-fucking him, causing him to get up and leave.

at least he had managed to get some decent fucks over the past few years. chris, his FWB, was right in his league. carlos, practically a puppy with his needy he was, is on leon’s speed dial- though he struggled with the man at times since both of them preferred subbing.

something had changed in him when he had gotten your file in his hands. reading through it made his heart ache and his dick throb wantonly- he knew it was awful, and wrong, and completely inappropriate, and abusing his power- but he really couldn’t bring himself to care.

the first time you entered his office, he could barely hide his hard-on. he felt like a teenager struggling with a newfound sex drive, but leon was a 40 year old man with barely any spare time and a lackluster libido.

how could he match up to you?

‘you don’t need to,’ his brain supplies, ‘he likes you too. no need to impress what’s already yours.’

the slamming of the door to your car drags him back to reality, heart pounding in his chest as he watches you skulk off to work. the engine of your car revs loudly, and he can faintly make out the beginnings of a song he’d heard in his youth; heavy bass and catchy drums, lyrics edgy and tinged with that late-90’s sound.

“knew you were my type of guy,” leon chuckles, watching your taillights fade out of view. he shifts into park, eying your apartment door greedily. “now let’s see what you get up to in your free time.”

you needed to be neutered with how riled up one offhand comment had you feeling. the way Dr. Kennedys voice dipped into something heady, something sultry when he whispered something about overtime- the implications of that making heat pool in your core.

he must’ve meant it in that way, right? the way of him bending you over a table, hair messy and breath heavy, turning the pleasant floral smell of his office into the stench of sex- yea, you needed to be put down.

but you really couldn’t help it, and the impending afternoon follow-up didn’t help either. images of his hands on your thighs as he kneels in front of you, tonguing the head of your cock in a way that has you seeing stars. it was completely inappropriate and absolutely out of the question, yet the looming fantasy of it all had you reeling.

what if he really did mean it in that way? could you give him some subtle hint about your shared feelings? would he care about the power dynamic, or would it spur him on? each new quandary makes your head spin.

even as the car ride required your absolute attention, your brain kept going back to Dr. Kennedy. his low voice, his steel-blue eyes, his hands, god his hands-

a loud honk from behind you pulls you back into reality, realizing you had stalled at a green and holding up the line. face flushing with embarrassment, you step on the gas, quickly regrouping.

a quick knock on the door of Dr. Kennedy’s office has you let in, sitting in the plush chair with a bottle of water placed within reach on the corner table next to you. you feel his eyes burning holes into the back of your neck, and you turn towards him, manspreading to mimic his casual appearance.

“so, tell me what’s on your mind today,” leon prompts, and you swallow thickly, throat bobbing uncomfortably. ‘you, you’re on my mind.’ your brain screams, but you’d finally gotten a therapist that would take you, and you didn’t dare mess that up.

“i feel..” your voice tapers off, trying to focus your thoughts on anything but Dr. Kennedy’s strong figure. your eyes dart away from his as you answer honestly. “conflicted.”

he raises his eyebrows in intrigue, shifting in his chair so he can face you more directly, crossing his arms over his chest. “in what way?”

heat rises to your face as you consider your next words very carefully. “hypothetically,” you start, hands fidgeting nervously, “say i had feelings for someone that would be considered inappropriate.”

he nods, shifting his head in a gesture for you to continue. “and say, this person hypothetically probably shared those feelings.”

a smirk tilts Dr. Kennedy’s lips upwards. “you wouldn’t happen to be talking about me, would you?” he teases, though the look on his face suggests a more serious question.

flustered, you stammer, grasping for a response. unprepared for him to ask so bluntly, you scramble to to damage control. “uh- and if i was?”

“i’d say your assessment would be correct,” Dr. Kennedy hums, his half-lidded eyes meeting yours in a smoky invitation, head tilted so his hair curtains his face; “but do you know what you’re asking?”

you practically gulp as he answers, heat pooling in your gut under his lecherous stare. “i know.” you respond, looking away from his eyes, ashamed.

he hums. “very well,” Dr. Kennedy huffs, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and adjusting his collar. “guess we’ll have to do something about that.”

you watch as his knees hit the floor, shuffling until his head is level with your crotch, chin resting on your knee. Dr. Kennedy’s eyes dilate as his hands undo your pants quickly, fingers shaking slightly.

you watch his breathing pause in his throat as his eyes zero in on the wet patch on your boxers, a sly grin making its way up his face. “needy thing, aren’t you?”

you hum, thighs clenching together at the tone of his voice. “need you, Dr. Kennedy,” you whisper, breathing picking up excitedly as he pulls down your boxers.

“let me take care of this for you, then,” he replies, his head sinking between your thighs. you blush, using your fist to try and stutter the moan that leaves your throat as Dr. Kennedy latches his mouth on your cock.

Dr. Kennedy’s tongue licks stripes from the base of it, mouth bottoming out on your dick as he moans in pleasure. the vibrations make you squirm, head throwing back against the seat as he hollows his cheeks, eagerly taking all of you in his mouth.

his large hands make their way up to your waist, pulling you closer to him as you ride his face. each swirl of his tongue around your cock has your hips humping his face eagerly. the pads of his fingers trace soothing circles around your hips, one squeezing the fat of your ass as it roams your body.

“fuck, doctor, please-” you gasp, panting heavily in pleasure. “so close, keep going-!” every syllable interrupted with a moan, you can barely speak coherent sentences as Dr. Kennedy blows you.

he obliges eagerly, head bobbing up and down your cock with a newfound fervor. your body responds. humping into his face and latching your legs around his neck, trapping his head in between your thighs.

you come with a gasp, body tensing and caging Dr. Kennedy on your cock as your orgasm crashes through you like a wave. he takes you fully in his mouth, spend gushing onto his tongue as he drinks it all like a man starved.

when he pulls away, a thick, glistening sheen of your come paints his face in debauched beauty. his tongue swipes around his lips, gathering it into his mouth and swallowing greedily. he smirks at your blissed-out expression, a horrible quip escaping before he can stop it.

“i hope you’re satisfied with your care.”

[envy-of-the-apple]

Sweet Home

idk how the multiverse works so im just fucking up the worldbuilding but basically my hc is that whenever a dimension suffers trauma (too many ppl leaving dimensions, rift in time etcetc), it will create a shield around itself, preventing anyone from entering or leaving as it works to self-correct. 

(Yandere, dark, kidnapping, captive, delusional behavior, gn reader, implied deaths, talks of bombs)

Yandere!Miguel O'hara x reader

Honestly, you weren’t much of a threat. 

It was a rather misfortunate case of wrong place wrong time. One second, you were in your home, mulling about. The next, you were across dimensions. 

At least, that’s how it was explained to you. You had no idea there could be more than one spiderman, and now you were surrounding by millions. Maybe even billions. Here they all were. Heroes, all working together to save the multiverse, returning innocent people, like you, back to where they came from. 

But, according to Miguel, you were a special case. 

Keep reading

[godjustkys]

“𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑷𝑳𝑨𝒀?”

SYNOPSIS: you wanted foreplay. frank reluctantly agreed.

CHARACTER: male reader x frank castle

NOTE: something about frank... it turns me on....

kinktober masterlist .

WC: 1,0k

WARNING: boot grinding,, praise,, frank is very embarrassed,, dry humping,, soft-ish!frank,, light ooc!frank,,

oh, now this was interesting. you actually managed to get frank, the frank castle, onto his knees, on the ground. here you were, sitting on a chair, looking down at him. “didn't think you’d listen.” you say, a hint of amusement lacing your voice. “this ain’t ever gonna happen again. it’s a one time thing.” frank warns, voice cool, eyebrows knitted together in an attempt to look put together. but you saw the bulge in his pants. say what you want, but this was one hundred percent turning him on.

“oh, i’ll make sure to keep that in mind.” you muse, lifting your foot from the ground, the hard bottom of your boot pressing to frank’s crotch. he inhaled a sharp hiss, looking down at the result of your action. his lips parted and he was about to say something snarky. “don’t even try defending yourself.” you say. “if you didn’t like this, you would’ve been out of the house already. so, fess up.”

he gritted his teeth, eyes flicking up to meet yours. he looked pissed. he hated that he couldn’t deny it either. the heavy feeling of your foot on his clothed cock felt better than he ever would've imagined. “this’s stupid. we don’t need the foreplay.” frank reasoned, a rough hand landing just above your boot, on your shin. “hey, it doesn’t hurt to try.” you say with a grin, moving your foot to see just how much he’d react. and oh, did he. his thighs visibly tensed, muscles tightening, fingers squeezing at your flesh. for frank, that’s so much more than a subtle reaction. after raising an eyebrow and letting a smirk adorn your features, you slip your foot off of his crotch and onto the ground, pushing it forward slightly. frank looked at your foot and then up to you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. no way.

“you’re just gonna sit there?” you ask, pointing to your foot with your chin. “make me do all the work?” you can see frank’s face twitching slightly, anger and embarrassment overwhelming him, but he held himself. he always did around you. he knew what you were implying and he never felt more pathetic. grinding on your boot like a bitch in heat? that isn’t like frank at all.

but who am i kidding. lovesick frank’s rare, but god is that version of him the sweetest and most neediest ever. you were hoping, praying, you’d be able to bring that version out of him. it tended to be the most prominent when you took on the dominant role, when you didn't listen to his complaining and groaning. that’s when he softens. when he lets himself go.

“go on.” you urge him softly, watching his every move intently. frank caves in, very hesitantly, with a dissatisfied grunt. he shifted up, hand still on your shin, his crotch now pressing against your EDL. fuck, that sight was so hot. “pointless.” he murmurs gruffly, head bowing down. he didn’t even start moving yet. “c’mon frank, you know you want to.” you encourage him again, moving your other leg up, resting your calf on his shoulder. frank gives you an incredulous look. he felt ridiculous, and here you were, getting comfortable. with a murmured curse word, he started grinding just slightly. you watched in amusement, and very obviously, with arousal, your mouth in an open smile.

frank grunted lowly, his mouth pressed to your knee. ‘wouldn’t like it’, he said, but his hands dug into your leg. his embarrassment seemed to wash away pretty quickly, seeing as he started rutting against your leg more insistently, pressing his crotch harder against you. “seems like you’re getting the hang of it.” you mutter breathlessly, your hand sliding into frank’s short, black hair. you don’t get a response, not a coherent one anyway. he turns his head a bit, subconsciously leaning into your gentle touch as his face scrunched up. there it is. that needy side of his. he tried to ignore your words, to push aside the shame. to be quite fair, as long as he focused on the feeling of his covered bulge rubbing against you.

“good boy, frank.” you coo, fingers pressing to his scalp as you nudged his head backwards to look at his face. in any other situation, frank would give you a side eye and tell you that he’s not a dog for you to be calling him a ‘good boy’, but currently? he’s not in the right headspace to string together a sentence. after some unrelented grinding, frank was starting to crumble. his rutting got more stuttery, inconsistent and broken. his hips were twitching and pressing down more into your boot—he was not even holding his weight up anymore. “fuck.. ngh-” his voice was quiet, strained, as if he was holding himself back. was he?

“you gonna make a mess in your pants for me?” you tease lightheartedly, but meaning every word you’ve said. before frank could even answer, you cut him off. “do it.”

the authorative tone? your hand still in his hair? fuck he was pathetic for you. low, breathless sounds left his lips, eyes shut tightly as he focused on the sensation. he was painfully hard and he needed your hands on him, but damn it, he’d wait. he’d give you what you wanted first. his eyebrows furrowed and breath faltered, his fingers now seeking purchase on your thigh, fingernails sinking into the fabric of your pants. it didn’t take long before he came, coming down from his high with a few slow, broken grinds. he was gasping for air when he body slumped against your leg. to not seem overwhelmed, or tired, frank swallowed roughly looking up at you through his eyelashes, his eyes glassy.

“that was—”

frank interrupted. “—embarrassing. i can’t believe i even agreed to this.” he grunted out as he slid back down to sit on his own heels.

“we’re so doing that again.” you tease, leaning down to capture frank’s lips in a sloppy kiss. you couldn’t have asked for better foreplay—seeing frank get off on your boot? just like that? dick hard and throbbing. now, however, it was time to fuck frank proper.

[spider-stark]

SAME SIN

pairing | frank castle x reader

summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count | 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose him,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you learned, was a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[sanguineterrain]

YAYYY SANNE IS WRITING STEVE 🙏🙏🙏 may I please rq Steve with reader who doesnt like to be touched but they r rly upset for some reason and reach out to Steve for a hug and Steve's like omg omg its happening but he tries to play it cool

thanks for the request! steve harrington x gn!reader. s5 spoilers. reader is vecna cursed.

****

The radio studio is cold today. Whenever the breaker burns out, it takes at least half a day for the heat to return. You're shivering as you walk in. Steve and Robin are in the booth, so you quietly curl up on the small cream sofa in the corner with your Walkman and watch the lights flick on and off. You stay bundled in your coat and scarf.

You don't know why you're here. Vecna hasn't tried to grab you since last fall, when you and Max used the curse to lure him out. And you don't have to listen to music on repeat like you used to; you've gone plenty of days without. Today, you're not playing anything on your headphones; you just like them on your ears.

There's a bad feeling sitting in your gut like a rock, ever since Hopper and El went into the Upside Down. Your eyes hurt from a pressure headache that you can't shake. Today has been particularly awful, and usually, your instinct is to self-isolate when you're in a mood. But for the last year and a half, Steve doesn't go a few days without telling you that he's here for you and that you can stop by any time. He almost seems anxious about it, like he's scared you'll shut him out.

But you'd never.

"She's Got a Way" begins to play and Robin's voice fades out. You look up as Steve exits the booth. His eyes immediately fall on you, and he waves. Robin does too. You wave back.

"Hey," he says, sitting next to you. There's a good amount of space between your hip and his; Steve never crowds you.

"Hi," you say, sliding your headphones off. "I like this song."

Steve nods. "Rob's on a Billy Joel kick. But she refuses to play The Stranger. Says it's overplayed."

You frown. "That album's a classic."

"What I said! She's drunk with power." Steve smiles, bracing his arm on the back of the sofa. His eyes flick to your Walkman, then back to you. His voice is softer when he asks, "How are you?"

You shrug one shoulder. "Alright. I didn't know where else to go today. Didn't want to be at home." Alone.

"You're always welcome here," Steve says. He presses his lips together; you can see he's itching to ask you more. You decide to relieve him.

"I don't feel him or anything," you say. Steve's shoulders sag as he exhales. "I'm just... not feeling good."

There's so much to say, too much to fit into a few words. You're sick with fear. Too many days, you've wondered if this will ever end. Between the military, Max, and the fruitless search for Holly, it's all beginning to weigh on you. It doesn't matter that you survived. Nothing is promised.

You don't realize you're crying until Steve makes a soft noise, like your tears cut right through him.

"Hey. Hey. it's okay," he says, strong and sure. "It'll be okay. We'll end this."

You see his hand creep toward yours, like he wants to touch you. You wipe your tears with the back of your hand. The longing to be held suddenly overwhelms you.

"Can I have a hug, please?" you ask, carefully glancing at Steve.

He's surprised, then eager. "Yeah. Of course, yeah. You never have to ask."

He scoots closer and puts his arms around you. It doesn't feel right with your coat on, though; you take it and your scarf off, throwing both over the back of the sofa. Then you return to Steve. You instantly discover that he runs hot. Even with the draft in the studio, every part of him is warm. Maybe you can curl up into him for the rest of the morning, until the heat returns.

He smells like hair product, sweet and creamy like expensive conditioner. His hands are on your shoulder and the middle of your back, his hold firm. You put your arms around Steve, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

"You smell good," you say, muffled against his shirt.

You feel him laugh, the sound warm. "I try."

You tighten your hold and Steve does the same instinctively. It's the best goddamn hug you've ever had.

"Thanks," you say, quieter this time.

"Of course. No thanks necessary."

You close your eyes and the rock in your stomach weighs a little lighter.

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

The Morning After

Pairing : Steve Harrington x Male reader

Fandom : Stranger things

CW: None

Tags: Fluff, Unestablished relationship, No Hurt All comfort

Word count :2,600

Beta'ed: Yes

Summary : The morning After Steve and Y/N hook up, their relationship is undefined

— ✶ — ☾ — ✶ — ✶ — ☾ — ✶ — ✶ — ☾ — ✶ — ✶ — ☾ — ✶ — ✶ —

The first thing Steve registered was the light. It wasn’t the harsh, blinding light of a fluorescent bulb or the direct glare of the afternoon sun, but the soft, diffused amber of a late-morning in early autumn, filtering gently through the gap where his curtains didn't quite meet.

The second thing he registered was the weight.

It was a familiar weight, now, though one that only recently had become a fixture in his king-sized bed. A solid, warm arm was draped possessively across his chest, the fingers curled just below his collarbone. A head of hair was nestled against his shoulder, and a steady, deep breath feathered the skin of his neck.

Steve blinked, his eyes adjusting, and slowly turned his head.

Y/N.

He hadn’t meant to stare, but he couldn't seem to look away. Y/N’s face, usually animated by a quick, sarcastic wit or a challenging smirk, was completely relaxed in sleep. His mouth was slightly parted, and the deep shadow of his eyelashes rested against his cheekbones. He looked younger, softer, stripped of the layers of well-worn wit he presented to the world.

A soft, almost silent chuckle escaped Steve. Steve had woken up next to plenty of girls. Plenty. But those mornings were usually characterized by a mutual, slightly awkward realization that they would need to sneak out before Mrs. Harrington woke up (in the rare instances his parents were even home), followed by a quick, transactional goodbye. It was fun, fleeting, and utterly lacking in... Feelings.

This morning, the air didn’t feel thin or hollow. It felt thick, saturated with the faint, lingering scent of sex, and something else—something warmer, heavier, and undeniably right. It settled in Steve’s stomach like a perfectly cooked meal.

He shifted slightly, careful not to wake the sleeping boy, and gently nudged the arm off his chest. Y/N mumbled something incoherent that sounded vaguely like a complaint, burrowed deeper for a second, then settled back into a heavy sleep. Steve took the opportunity, easing himself out of the bed.

He winced as his feet found the cool hardwood floor. He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and the slight chill of the morning air raised goosebumps on his arms. He quickly grabbed a discarded t-shirt—definitely not his—from the floor and pulled it over his head.

He glanced back at the bed. Y/N hadn’t moved. A slow smile spread across Steve’s face. Quietly, Steve made his way out of the bedroom, down the hall, and descended the grand, carpeted staircase. The Harrington house was too big, too quiet, and often felt too empty, but this morning, the stillness felt expectant, not lonely.

He headed straight for the kitchen.

If Y/N was going to stick around and Steve sincerely hoped he would then he needed to be fed. Fighting off interdimensional monsters was hard work, but he had found that simply existing in Hawkins lately, with the constant threat of some new doom, required a decent breakfast.

Steve, despite his reputation as a pampered jock, was surprisingly competent in the kitchen. When his parents were away—which was most of the time—he’d been forced to figure out the basics. He pulled out the Family-sized carton of eggs, reached for the thick-cut bacon, and located the waffle mix he kept hidden for Dustin and the gang.

He put a record on the turntable—a Tears for fear album that wouldn't wake the dead—and the kitchen slowly filled with the smell of sizzling bacon and melting butter. Steve cracked eggs into a bowl with the practiced ease of someone who’d made breakfast for too many hungry teenagers over the years, whisking them until they were light and fluffy. He poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, watching the bacon crisp up on the stovetop.

It was a good morning. A really good morning. It was one of those rare moments where the world felt blessedly, perfectly normal.

Twenty minutes later, Steve was just pulling the waffles off the iron, golden-brown and steaming, when he heard a slow, dragging sound from the hallway.

“Do you know what time it is? And why is it so bright?” a voice groaned, thick with sleep and irritation.

Steve turned, a smile already forming, and nearly dropped the spatula.

Y/N was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, looking like a glorious, exhausted disaster. He was wearing one of Steve's favorite navy blue sweatshirts—the thick, soft one—which hung loosely over a pair of Steve's black athletic shorts. The clothes were a little too big on him, making him look smaller and younger than he usually did, and the combination was utterly, ridiculously endearing.

His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and he rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand.

“Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Steve said, his voice softer than he intended, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. He poured the eggs into the pan, careful not to let them overcook. “Sleep well, Sleeping Beauty?”

Y/N pushed off the doorway and shambled over to the counter, still moving with the slow, deliberate pace of the recently awakened. He stopped next to Steve and sniffed the air dramatically.

“Mmm. Bacon. That’s a good smell. But did you have to turn the lights on?” He squinted at the perfectly reasonable amount of natural light flooding the kitchen.

“My delicate senses can’t handle it.”

“Suck it up, buttercup. Coffee’s right there.” Steve nodded toward the pot. “And yeah, I woke up, and unlike you, I don’t hibernate until noon.”

Y/N reached for a mug, his movements slow and methodical. “I’m a growing boy, Steve. I need my rest. Especially after… certain activities.” He leveled Steve with a tired, but pointed, look that made Steve’s cheeks flush a little.

“Right. Well. There’s no rest for the wicked. You want me to plate you up?” Steve asked, turning back to the stove. The eggs were perfect now—creamy and soft.

“Please, King Steve,” Y/N sighed, leaning his hip against the counter. “My energy reserves are at 10%. I might dieif I have to lift a fork myself.”

Steve chuckled again, shaking his head. “Drama Queen.” He grabbed a clean plate and began carefully arranging the food. He put two slices of crispy bacon down, then the golden waffles, and finally, a generous scoop of the fluffy scrambled eggs.

He set the plate in front of Y/N. “Here. Eat.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly at the presentation. He picked up the fork, took a bite of the eggs, and made a soft, appreciative noise.

“This,” he said around a mouthful, “is amazing. I mean, I already knew you were good with your hands, but this is a whole new level.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the pleased grin. “I try.” He plated his own breakfast—slightly less extravagant—and sat down opposite Y/N at the large kitchen island.

They ate in a comfortable silence for a minute, the only sounds the clinking of silverware and the soft music. Steve watched Y/N, still amused by the sight of him swallowed by the sweatshirt, his hair a mess.

Then, Y/N paused, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“So, quick question,” he started, his voice back to its usual sarcastic lilt, though still carrying the early-morning rasp. “All the other girls. Like, all of them. Did they get this treatment? Full breakfast service? Waffles, eggs, perfectly crisp bacon?"

Steve froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. The question was a total Y/N move—disarmingly casual, but loaded with a deeper curiosity about where exactly he stood. It was an indirect way of asking for a comparison, a metric.

He took a bite of his waffle, stalling for a moment, letting the sweet maple syrup and warm butter coat his tongue. He had to be honest. He’d built his reputation on lies and superficiality, but he’d sworn off that with Y/N.

“No,” Steve said simply, meeting Y/N’s gaze across the island. He put his fork down. “No, they didn’t.”

Y/N raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Aha! I knew it. So I am special. Good to know my efforts are rewarded with carbohydrates.”

“It’s not about being special, jerk,” Steve countered, the endearment slipping out easily. He leaned forward a little, his voice dropping slightly, serious now. “Look, with... with them? It was always just... that. Hooking up. We both knew the score. They’d usually leave pretty quick, or I’d make them toast. Maybe. If I was feeling generous.”

He paused, glancing at the plate in front of Y/N, then back to his eyes. He took a deep breath, and the words just tumbled out, honest and unfiltered.

“This… this spread, the whole thing?, me waiting to eat with you? That’s reserved for... I don't know. Boyfriends. Or girlfriends.”

The statement hung in the air, heavy and immediate, cutting through the soft music and the smell of breakfast.

Steve watched as Y/N’s small smirk completely vanished. His eyes widened a fraction, and he stopped chewing. The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife, filled only by the internal monologue screaming inside Steve's head.

Did I just say that?

Oh my God. I just said that.

They hadn't talked about it. Not once. Their weeks of late-night movie dates, whispered secrets, hand-holding under the table at the local diner, and the incredible, fiery hookups—it had all been a glorious, unlabelled mess. They hadn't dared put a name on it, afraid to break the fragile, perfect thing they were building. Steve had just blown up the whole operation with a casual declaration about breakfast standards.

He scrambled mentally, already formulating an escape route, a backtrack, a stammered, 'I mean, I just meant close friends who hook up a lot! Definitely!'

Before he could utter a single word of panicked retraction, Y/N slowly lowered his fork. He picked up his coffee mug, took a long, slow sip, and set it down with a delicate clink.

He looked Steve dead in the eye, his expression completely unreadable for a moment. Then, his face cracked into a slow, utterly devastating grin—the kind that made Steve's stomach flip over.

Y/N picked up his fork, scooped up a large, creamy mouthful of scrambled eggs, and chewed deliberately. After he swallowed, he leaned back, the collar of Steve's sweatshirt falling slightly off one shoulder.

“Well,” Y/N drawled, his voice a smooth, satisfied purr, “in that case, I have to say, you’re an excellent house husband, Steve Harrington.”

He winked, then happily dug into his waffle, leaving Steve completely dumbfounded.

Steve just stared, his mind racing to process the implication. House husband. That wasn't a denial. That wasn't a freak-out. That wasn't even a clarification of status. It was... an acceptance. He'd not only acknowledged the implied 'boyfriend' status but had immediately went along with it.

A slow, incredulous laugh bubbled up in Steve’s chest,“ Shut up, you asshole!” he managed to get out, before bringing his folk to his mouth “I am not your house husband!”

“Mmm, but you are,” Y/N insisted, still focused on his breakfast. “You woke up first, made a gourmet meal, and You’re practically wearing a frilly apron, baby.”

“I’m wearing a t-shirt and boxers!” Steve protested, throwing a napkin at Y/N, who leaned out of the way slightly.

“Details, details. The spirit is what matters,” Y/N replied, chewing happily. He paused again, looking at Steve with that familiar, warm sincerity that always lurked just beneath his layers of irony. “Seriously though, thanks. This is... nice. Really nice.”

Steve’s smile softened. All the bluster and sarcasm dissolved, leaving only the honest truth of the moment. “Yeah,” he said quietly, picking up his coffee mug “It is.”

He watched Y/N eat, the morning sun catching the colour of his hair. He picked up a piece of bacon and chewed, A House husband. Maybe he could learn to live with that. Especially if he got to keep waking up to this.

“Hey, by the way,” Steve said, casually. “I’m making lasagna tonight. You interested in staying for dinner, honey?”

Y/N swallowed his eggs, his eyes sparkling with challenge. “Oh, I’m interested, sweetheart. But I'm doing the dishes.”

“Deal,” Steve agreed instantly. He knew a fair trade when he heard one.

⋆ I Love comments, likes, re-blogs and messages, it feels like validation ⋆

[kisspotion]

frank castle is so necessary for winter time. the gruff, yet sweet reminders to bundle yourself up, despite him braving the brisk outdoors with nothing but a hoodie on. the warm, solid body to cuddle into when the heat in your apartment breaks, paired with a perfectly made tea that you can’t seem to replicate on your own. which is strange—because why does a coffee drinker know how to steep tea better than you? but none of that matters when frank always welcomes your cold fingertips beneath yet another one of his black zip-ups.

[digital-grim]

Robert Robertson X Male Reader PT2

tags: date night, reader tries to fake confidence, Robert has a PHAT ass, Reader checks it out and gets distracted, wholesome, crushing, dinner dates

Part one

You stared at your phone for a long, uncomfortable thirty seconds, thumb hovering over Robert’s contact, stomach tight with that same swirling embarrassment that had been haunting you ever since you woke up hungover in his bathroom with the world’s driest mouth and Courtney laughing as she helped you out of his tub.

It had been days, but the humiliation still lived under your skin like a rash.

You exhaled sharply and finally typed out the message before you could talk yourself out of it:

“Hey. Are you free tonight? Dinner?”

You hit send immediately, no hesitation, because if you hesitated you’d delete it and rabbit-hole into avoiding him for another week.

The phone buzzed faster than you expected.

Robert: Dinner? Like… dinner, dinner?

You rolled your eyes even though no one was there to see. You typed back:

“Unless you think I’m texting you to challenge you to a push-up contest, yes. Dinner, dinner.”

There was a pause. A long one. Long enough for panic to bloom in your chest.

Then:

Robert: …Yeah. Sure. What time?

Relief hit you so sharply you ended up sitting down on your couch like you’d just run a marathon.

You typed:

“9. I know you work late.”

Robert: Okay. Where?

Your pulse jumped. Crap. You had to choose. You hadn’t planned this far. Your brain scrambled through restaurants, diners, anything that wasn’t weirdly romantic or stupidly formal.

You settled for something safe:

“That ramen place near the center.”

Another pause, shorter this time.

Robert: I like that one. I’ll meet you there.

You stared at the final message, your reflection faint in the dark screen. You could see the flush on your cheeks. Maybe from nerves. Maybe from the way your chest loosened just knowing he hadn’t brushed you off.

You sat there with your heart pounding, running a hand through your hair.

Dinner.

With Robert.

Not as coworkers. Not as Dispatcher and recruit. Something else.

You didn’t know what, didn’t dare define it out loud, but something in your ribcage stretched wide and warm.

And for the first time since that embarrassing night in his bathroom, you didn’t feel like running.

You took the longest shower you’ve taken in weeks, long enough that the bathroom steamed up like a fogged greenhouse. You scrubbed the stress out of your hair, used the “fancy” body wash you always forget you own, and actually exfoliated.

By the time you stepped out, your skin felt warm and clean and… presentable. Which was good, because the last time Robert saw you, you were slumped over his toilet bowl apologizing to the gods of plumbing.

You shaved next, carefully. No rushing, no half-effort. A real, clean, deliberate shave. Your jawline came out sharp, the kind of sharp you hoped someone like Robert would notice.

Then came the outfit.

You stood in front of your closet like a man considering war strategies. It had to be casual enough not to scream date, but nice enough that if he did think it was a date… you wouldn’t look like an idiot.

You finally pulled together something that hit the perfect line: fitted slacks, a button-up that made your shoulders look good, and a jacket that said “I’m chill” but also said “I’m trying.”

Then the cologne.

Two sprays, one to each wrist, rubbing them together with precision.

One to your neck, fingertips smoothing it into your skin.

One behind each ear, because someone once told you that’s where scent lingers the longest, especially when someone stands close.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

Not bad.

Not too much.

Confident… and a little nervous. But the good kind.

You let out a long breath, heart thudding with anticipation.

Robert was going to see you tonight.

Not drunk.

Not embarrassed.

Not a mess.

Just… you.

Clean, sharp, purposeful.

And with any luck, he’d notice.

You rehearsed the walk from your car to the restaurant door three times in your head before you even got out. Shoulders back, chin up, relaxed smile, relaxed. Not creepy. Not too eager. Just… effortless.

Which, of course, meant the entire thing was absolutely effort.

You spotted Robert right away, already at the table he’d picked, seated near the window where the warm light made his hair look unfairly soft. He looked up, noticed you instantly, and gave this small, crooked smile that hit you right in the sternum.

Okay. Show time.

You pushed the door open with what you hoped passed for cool confidence, even though your stomach was doing front flips. Each step felt like you were auditioning for a role you’d never rehearsed for.

You put on the swagger anyway, fake it till you make it, right?

“Hey,” you said, voice pitched casual, breezy, normal. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

It wasn’t until you were halfway into the sentence that you realized you’d been gripping the back of the chair too hard, knuckles white. You quickly let go, smoothing your palms down your jacket like that was the plan all along.

Robert’s eyes skimmed you, your outfit, your hair, the way you were very carefully pretending your heart wasn’t about to beat out of your chest. His brows lifted just barely, impressed or amused or both.

“You look nice,” he said.

And for a second your carefully constructed confidence almost cracked like cheap porcelain.

But you held it together. You flashed a little grin, tried to lean back in your seat like Mr. Effortless.

“Oh, you know,” you said lightly. “Figured if I was gonna ruin your bathroom the least I could do is show up looking respectable.”

Robert laughed, genuine, warm, the kind of laugh that makes your fake confidence feel a little more real.

Inside, your nerves were still doing gymnastics.

Outside, though?

Cool as hell. Or at least… a decent imitation.

On the way into the restaurant, you swore you were going to behave, actually behave. This was supposed to be a calm, normal dinner with your boss-slash-crush, not a thirst tour. You repeated that to yourself as you followed the host toward the table.

And then Robert walked ahead of you.

And suddenly behaving became… theoretical.

His outfit wasn’t even flashy, just fitted slacks and a button-down he’d probably thrown on without thinking, but the man filled them out in a way that felt borderline unfair. Broad shoulders tapering to a tight waist, long legs, and, God help you, an ass that should honestly have been classified as a workplace hazard.

You tried to keep your eyes up. Really, you did. But every few steps, when Robert turned his head to thank an employee or glance toward the table, you let your gaze dip… just for a second.

He’d never know.

Hopefully.

You tore your eyes away every time he looked like he might pivot back around. But you couldn’t help the thought that kept circling in your head like a drunken moth:

Damn. No wonder Invisigal kept flirting with him.

By the time you reached the table, your brain was already a little scrambled, not from nerves this time, but because you had spent the walk in cataloging the fine, sculpted topography of Robert’s backside like a man studying for an exam.

He pulled out his chair, sat down, and the moment he settled, you finally got a front-facing view. Big mistake. His shirt hugged him perfectly, hinting at the strength underneath without screaming it. His forearms were right there on the table, pale, defined, distracting in their own right. And his hair was pushed back in that casual, perfectly-messy way he probably didn’t even realize looked good.

You sat down too, trying to arrange your face into something dignified, but your brain was still off somewhere replaying the walk in, forgetting everything you’d rehearsed.

You didn’t know what to say. At all. Your thoughts were just:

Robert’s hot. Say a normal sentence. Robert’s really hot. Try again. Words. Words now.

He rested his elbow on the table, leaning in a little like he expected conversation, expected you to function. His eyes were focused on you, warm and open, waiting.

You still had nothing.

The silence stretched just enough to become noticeable, and you felt your fake confidence starting to fray. You opened your mouth, nothing came out.

That was when Robert finally stepped in, voice easy, gentle, and merciful:

“So,” he said, a small crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “are you gonna keep staring at me like that all night, or should we order first?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Your face? On fire.

Your dignity? Critically endangered.

But God, that smile made it worth every second.

You blurted out the first entrée your eyes landed on, something with rosemary, maybe?, before snapping the menu shut like it might burn your hands. Anything to look like you weren’t floundering. You cleared your throat and leaned forward slightly.

“So uh… what’re you getting?” you asked, pretending like you weren’t hyper-aware of the man sitting across from you.

Robert lifted his eyes from his menu, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

He looked different in this lighting, warmer somehow. Still broad-shouldered and lean, that unmistakably wiry athletic build of his visible even under the casual button-down he’d thrown on for the night. You couldn’t stop remembering the flashes you’d seen of him shirtless: defined abs, faint chest hair, the natural build of a guy who took care of himself without obsessing about it. His jaw was sharp, his expression naturally focused, brows slightly heavy and angled in a way that made him look both serious and quietly amused at the same time.

And his eyes, soft, blueish, thoughtful, gave away far more emotion than he ever liked to admit.

Robert tapped a finger on the menu, shrugging lightly.

“Thinking the steak. Medium rare. Or whatever doesn’t give me food poisoning,” he deadpanned, then tilted his head at you with that familiar dry smirk. “You always read the first thing you see, or is that just a special occasion?”

Your mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Smooth. Very smooth.

“I’m just, y’know, being decisive,” you said, straightening in your chair with all the fake confidence of someone holding themselves together with duct tape and prayer. “Very… bold of me. Thought I’d try it out.”

Robert huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back, arms crossing as he studied you more closely.

His gaze wasn’t judgmental, it was warm. Curious. Like he was trying to read you in a way he hadn’t before. And knowing Robert, he probably was.

“Well,” he said, “you’re already doing better than last time I saw you. You weren’t exactly conscious enough then to read anything.”

You groaned, burying your face behind the menu.

“Please don’t remind me.”

“No promises,” he teased, eyes flicking over the rim of his glass as he took a sip.

For a moment, everything in the room faded except the fact that Robert, your boss, your crush, the guy who made your brain shut down by existing, was here on a date with you. And he was actually enjoying himself.

You lowered your menu, clearing your throat.

“So, steak?” you repeated, trying to restart the conversation, trying not to stare at the line of his throat as he swallowed.

He gave a slow nod, lips quirking.

“Yeah. And you’re getting the rosemary… something.” A pause. “And you’re going to tell me why you were checking me out on the walk in.”

You choked on your water.

Robert grinned.

This was going to be a long night.

And you didn’t mind one bit.

[poorly-written-fiction]

mmm having thoughts about sonar dispatch

thinking about going and playing pool with him and the z-team after hours

he's good, like ridiculously good. it's gotta be an intelligence thing and less of a luck thing.

so when you go to make your shot - bent at the hips over the table, laser-focused down the end of your cue - and feel his body leaned down over yours, it catches you off guard for a moment. how could it not? even worse is when you can almost feel his snout brushing the shell of your ear.

"don't aim for that one, you'll miss." he speaks so matter-of-factly that it's annoying. you can't even protest or move from him before he's got you by your hips and moves you slightly to the left, lining you up to hit a straight shot into a corner pocket. "riiight.. there."

he doesn't move off of you, and you become vaguely aware that his breathing has slowed down. what you're not aware of is how your breathing begins to match his. you slide your dominant arm back, retracting the tip of the cue just barely through your fingers. crack! the cue ball slams into your target, sending the ball right where victor said it would. only then does he stand up straight, letting out a satisfied half-laugh.

[carbon-dating-everything]

what a boy (part 2) l waterboy x reader

pairing: waterboy x gender neutral reader

summary: in which you get invited to dinner with herman and gladys, get to know more of the former and get wingmanned by the latter. also featuring: baby pictures, black metal, and a gratuitous amount of both you and herman being very awkward (read part 1)

content / warnings: lighthearted, reader works in assistive care / as a home health aide and doesn't have superpowers, gladys (my name for wb's grandmother) does something that passes for being a wingman, reference to the song Myrmidon by Abbath

word count: 4.1 k

a/n: in the span of 2 weeks the first part has become one of my most popular posts and my most popular fic on ao3, which is bonkers!! thank you for liking this :)) 𓆜⋆˚࿔ here's a part 2! i have no idea what to put for a part 2 in a header image so you get the same one again for now haha (also, i have now finished dispatch, so no worries about spoilers anymore!)

You’ve never been more nervous in your life.

It’s been exactly one week after your last visit to Gladys’s household, where you made a very obvious show of realizing that you were interested in her grandson, and were promptly invited to dinner for — well, you don’t really know, exactly, other than the fact that Gladys had planned it, and nothing gets past her. You’re a little too early for your liking; you didn’t want to make a bad impression, but it’d be a bit of a faux pas to expect them to answer you ahead of schedule, so you spend a few minutes awkwardly fidgeting on the welcome mat caked with mud, a corny message (Cats Are In Charge Here!) emblazoned on the straw.

You’ve been here at least a dozen times already, but it feels so different this visit — not coming here as part of your job, but for a social event. A get-together. Not, you think, that you’re expecting to be getting anything from this at all — it was a completely normal invitation from completely normal people, and it makes sense that you’d eventually progress to visiting their house outside of work, especially with how well you know Gladys at this point.

But at the prospect of Herman being there, too — someone who you may have spent a fair amount of time thinking about in the past week ever since you saw him on the news…

Well. You're here already. You might as well throw yourself into it before you lose your nerve completely and run.

Taking a deep breath, you press the doorbell, the melodic chime horrifyingly announcing your arrival to the whole neighborhood, and then spend the next ten seconds listening to the sounds from the other side: a chorus of meows strumming up and feet hurrying across the tiled surface, accompanied by a clatter of pots and pans.

The door opens, and you open your mouth to greet Gladys, but you don’t do that because it’s Herman who opened it, obviously.

With the absence of the screen separating you from him, you can see him in full detail (4K widescreen, your brain helpfully supplies). Still tall, but hunched over, as if trying to make up for his height by giving himself neck pain. His hero costume is absent. He’s wearing what appears to be swim gear disguised as normal clothing: a light blue, long-sleeved swim shirt and dark blue swim trunks that are dripping water onto the porch, only his white gloves still remaining. Most notably, his goggles are gone, the dark tint of the plastic giving way to wide eyes as blue and beautiful as the ocean themselves.

During one train of thought you’d had in the past week, you’d half convinced yourself that your attraction had been a fleeting thing. Never mind the fact that you’d been thinking about his face from before; you know the TV adds glamour to everything.

But seeing him in person only confirms your attraction — cements it, drags you down into the ocean of his eyes where you are never to resurface. This was a horrible mistake.

Herman, of course, is stuttering a mile a minute, and it takes you a moment to remember that you should be listening and not gaping at him like a goldfish.

‘H-hello! Nice to meet you, I’m — well, you know who I — my name, but it’s nice to meet you, officially, anyway.’

Remembering yourself, you give him a smile back that you hope helps reassure both of you. ‘Nice to meet you officially, too! Thank you so much for inviting me over, Gladys has told me a lot about you.’

‘Oh, no p-problem, me — also.’ The lack of sense in that statement must hit him, because his cheeks flush red (isn't that cute?), and he coughs, stepping aside. ‘Well — come, welcome — in.’

This first social barrier overcome, you step into the house. It, too, is exactly the same as you last saw it, but you find yourself suddenly wanting to commit more of it to detail — you're not here for business anymore, you're here for pleasure.

In the evening, you can see just how much Herman’s presence affects the level of moisture in the air, the dehumidifier on the side table almost half-full, the plants wet and glistening, the cats’ fur sticking to their bodies as they mill around, slightly displeased. A large amount of steam is wafting from the kitchen, a pot about to bubble over on the stove; Herman lets out a keen noise of panic and runs ahead to stop it, leaving you to keep surveying the environment with only a little shame.

Gladys, comfortably seated at the dining table, raises her beaming face towards you. ‘Hello, dear! So glad you could join us tonight. Have a seat! Herm is making a wonderful soup.’

‘Thank you, Gladys.’ You take a seat to the left of her; the table, an antiquated piece of wood with a heavy vinyl tablecloth on it to waterproof it, is already set with bowls and cutlery. ‘And thank you as well for inviting me, it’s very kind of you. How are you feeling this week?’

‘Oh, fine, fine,’ she dismisses, waving it off. ‘And I should really be thanking you for accepting.’

Her voice drops lower, conspiratorial, as she leans towards you. ‘He’s been waiting to see you all week, you know. I’ve told him a lot about you, too.’

Oh. ‘Oh,’ you say, feeling suddenly frozen in place, trapped underneath her stare. ‘I, uh —‘

‘W-what’s that, Gamma?’ Herman yells from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of an excessive amount of water pouring out of a pot. ‘I ha — heard my name.’

‘Nothing, Herm,’ she sings back at him, the perfect picture of a sweet old lady, before turning to you and grinning, the large white squares of her dentures suddenly seeming devilish in the context of what she’s implying. What is she implying? How much has she told Herman? Does he know what she's doing? Did he ask her?

You stare back hard, trying to discern whatever she's got planned, but Gladys has a formidable poker face. (You remember the first time you’d played cards with her in the first place — innocent, she was not, and were you not playing for fun rather than money you would have lost all your life savings to her by now.)

Before you can pry any further, Herman ambles up to the table and sets a pot of split pea down in the middle — ‘w-watch — careful, it’s really hot, Gamma — and uh, you, too.’ Ladling some out into each bowl, he leaves and then comes back in two shifts with bread and, to your surprise, a towering edible fruit arrangement that you can’t help but goggle at a bit. Herm notices your staring and laughs awkwardly as he sits down.

‘I took — got it, not took, it was g-gave — given from work. From a — colleague. He has lots and lots of it.’

‘Guess we’re good on dessert, then,’ you attempt to joke. It’s not one particularly deserving of praise, but Herman chuckles awkwardly as he sits down, a stop-start, musical sound that shouldn't make you as happy as it did.

‘Yeah, hope you’re into — enjoy — it.’

‘Well, let’s eat!’ Gladys chirps, reaching for her soup, the two of you following suit. Blowing on a spoonful of the soup before putting it in your mouth, your eyes widen.

‘Wow, this is delicious.’ That’s not a lie. You had expected it to be at least slightly watery, given, well, his whole situation, but it’s a perfect consistency, slightly sweet and salty at the same time — much better than any canned soup you’ve ever had.

Herman flushes at your praise, ducking his head bashfully. ‘It’s pretty easy when you know h-how to make it. I have a l-lot of knowledge — experience, anyways.’

‘Well, my compliments to the chef,’ you joke again, and at this he laughs again, several drops of water landing on the table, and you want to hear that again for all of time.

Wow, you’re screwed. —— The dinner continues fine, the three of you making normal conversation, or at least playing at it — you're mostly listening to the two of them talk. Herman’s accounts of what happens at work sound frankly insane, and like they’re desperately in need of more people in their HR department. But you can’t deny it’s entertaining, especially when he describes missions he’s been sent on.

He downplays his own actions a lot, but when he gets to something he was really proud of, he’s much more expressive, reenacting certain fights with wild gestures that send drops of water flying everywhere. You have no doubts about him being a good hero, and you’d be perfectly comfortable to listen to him stammer out his recollections all night.

The real trouble starts when he changes the topic.

‘Ah, s-so,’ Herman says as you’re taking a brochette of cantaloupe squares out of the edible arrangement, ‘do you — are you liking your work? Job? With old — elderly — people.’

It’s not often that you actually get questions about your job, so it takes a second for you to actually answer. ‘Oh, well — yeah, of course! They’re all really sweet.’

‘You’re just saying that because I’m sitting right here,’ Gladys remarks, waving her own half-eaten melon stick at you. ‘I’m sure I must drive you all sorts of crazy.’

‘No, really,’ you protest, ‘it’s great. The main reason I got into assistive care is for the people I’m, uh, assisting. You get to talk to a lot of people with interesting perspectives of the world.’

‘That’s code for ‘we’re old and we have opinions,’ Gladys cracks, and you chuckle, eating a piece of cantaloupe before you continue.

‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought about my job at length. It’s just something about — helping people, you know? Everyone needs help, and it makes me happy to do it. It’s hero work in its own way. Although I’m sure it’s nothing compared to actual hero work,’ you add, looking back at Herman. ‘What you guys do is really impressive.’

‘Oh, well, yeah, we both are. Im-impressive, I mean,’ Herman stammers, but he looks happy at what you’d said, smiling as he fidgets with his cloth napkin (wrings it out is more what you should say, twisting and untwisting it in his hands).

Gladys smiles too, but it’s too much like the one from earlier for you to feel at ease. She’s got her hands steepled; in the position she’s at, she can observe both of your faces. She’s laying some kind of trap here, but what? It’s a good thing she never decided to become a villain.

‘Impressive, yes,’ Gladys says, ‘although I do wish he had more time for friends. It’s been a long time since he had anyone over—‘ here, Herman chokes on a mouthful of water — ‘and I’ve been wondering when he’d start getting out there again!’ She shoots you a knowing look, before proclaiming, ‘Dating, even!’

The intention behind her statement hits you like a truck. You suddenly feel a great interest in spearing as much of the melon kebab as you can down your throat to avoid talking. Herman’s hands have begun the process of gluing themselves to his face in humiliation.

To save him further embarrassment, you try to come up with another topic once you recover, lest she begin mentioning children of all things. ‘Uh, so, Herman. Of the cats in your house, which are your favorites?’

He shoots you a grateful look through his fingers, and Gladys narrows her eyes. ‘I mean, can you really — I can’t really choose, but I like M-Mecha — Mecha Meow Prime, and Astral, and B-Blue —‘

Ever the opportunist, Gladys sees a spot in the conversation to steer it back towards her plan. ‘He likes all of the ones I let him name. Herm has been a fan of superheroes ever since he was small. Did you know he still sleeps in an old Phenomaman t-shirt? He’s had it since he was a teenager.’

Herman goes very, very still. A gleam appears in Gladys’s eyes. ‘I never showed you the baby pictures, did I? His parents and I made albums. Waterproofed, of course.’ She pushes herself off of the table with a grunt. ‘Come over to the couch and I’ll show you.’

Now. As much as you don’t want to encourage the further humiliation, seeing baby pictures is too good of an opportunity to pass up, and she knows it.

With the flimsy pretense of helping her out, you walk with her as she pulls out an album from a shelf and sit yourself down to the left of her on the couch. After a short moment of deliberation, you hear Herman push back his own chair and walk over; instead of coming around to the front, though, he climbs over the back of the couch, settling himself in on Gladys’s right side so that the elder woman is sandwiched between the two of you. It’s a little surprising, but you find yourself smiling at the sight, at how clearly both of them are used to it.

Gladys opens the album, pointing to various laminated pictures of Herman gracing the page and cooing over each one. ‘He’s so cute, isn’t he? My little tadpole.’

‘Gamma,’ Herman whines, sliding lower on the couch. ‘Th-that’s so embarrassing.’

‘Oh, hush, you,’ she scolds him, pushing the album further towards you. ‘They’re adorable. Aren’t they adorable?’

You find yourself fully grinning now; you can't help it. They really are adorable. Pictures of a little Herman in a (soaking wet) crib, at the beach (next to a half-destroyed sandcastle), him playing with a Mecha-Man figurine at Christmas with an extraordinarily well-watered pine sapling…

Gladys shows up in many of the pictures, too, often a reassuring presence next to him. It’s clear that despite Herman’s embarrassment, they both love each other, as he doesn’t protest further, leaning into her side and occasionally interjecting with little comments about the context of the photo, mostly to try and save face.

Briefly, you forget all about your own awkwardness for a while, and just enjoy looking through the album. Enough to let your guard down.

It’s then that Gladys strikes. With clearly practiced timing, she yawns loudly, a cartoonish sound that catches both your and Herman’s attention.

‘Well. I am all tuckered out for the evening, and so I think I’ll head to bed.’

Herman starts to rise off of the couch, uttering, ‘L-let me get you up there, Gamma,’ just as you're saying 'Would you like some help with —‘

‘No, no,’ she objects, already shuffling to the staircase, leaving a gap between the two of you on the couch. ‘I can get myself up there fine. I’m not that old, you know. You two have fun without me.’

With no purpose, you and Herman watch, frozen, as she hauls herself onto the stairlift. She adjusts herself, getting comfortable, and then looks directly at you.

‘Feel free to stay as long as you like.’

And then Gladys winks. Whether she’s doing it for your benefit or purely to torment you is uncertain.

With the press of a button, the stairlift begins ascending with a loud whirrrr — it's not fast, but your mind is so full of what what why why that you don't think to even ask what she wants the two of you to do. She maintains a dignified exit all the way up the stairs until she disappears from view, and you hear the door close; then, silence. Silence and the disgruntled meow of one of the eleven cats they have in their house.

And with that, you and Herman are left alone in the living room, sitting awkwardly on the couch like two teenagers.

‘So,’ you start, promptly realizing that that usually requires you to say something along with it and drawing a blank.

‘So,’ Herman echoes, looking just as lost for words as you are.

It’s too much, the embarrassment of the situation, and although Herman is on the verge of saying something himself it’s you who cracks first. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve probably been weird all night. I had a great time, but I —'

You swallow and screw your eyes shut. ‘I. I think your grandmother might be trying to set us up?’

On up, your voice cracks a high octave, unconvinced — Gladys is dearly beloved, after all, and you don’t want to slight the poor man any further by accusing his only living relative of matchmaking. But to your relief, when you crack open your eyes again, Herman is nodding in recognition.

‘No, it’s o-okay!’ he stutters. ‘I — sometimes she —‘

He scrubs a gloved hand over his face, coming away with a fresh layer of water, and flattens himself to the side of the couch. ‘She does stuff like, like that, when she gets worried about me and I, I get really, uh. Well, nervous, and wet — moist w-when nervous…’

‘Right,’ you say, feeling your own face get hot. Humid, you should say. ‘Yeah. I don’t — I can go — but I did really have a nice time tonight, so, thank you.’

Again, you’re struck by the desire to just run out of the door and never look back. You can’t afford to quit your job, but you don’t know how you’ll be able to handle going back to this house any time soon.

Herman fidgets awkwardly on the couch, digging his fingers into one of the towels. So awash are you with your own shame that you almost miss the next thing he says.

‘But we can — could try, m-maybe — going someplace else?’

Wait. Did you hear that correctly? You sit forward fast — probably too fast, given that he shrinks back into the couch a little — and stare at him. ‘You mean… you actually want to go out? On a date?’

'Y-yeah.' He glances around as if trying to find words that have escaped him this entire time. 'Or, at least a — if not a date, then a — friend hang. If you want to? You're really — super, really, nice. And I don’t have many other date — or, uh, maybe-friends in general outside of work, anyways, so…’

He uncurls himself from the couch slowly and extends his hand to you, like he wants to shake it — he actually does, you realize, not knowing what else to do.

‘Try another time, again. Doing — do-over? Our terms?’

You could cry both from how endearing it is, and from pure relief that this could actually go somewhere, and you take his hand, squeezing it lightly. ‘I’d like that a lot. Either dating or, uh, friend hanging, as you put it.’

He pulls back his hand and gives you a smile. ‘Yeah, I — would, much, too. A-any ideas?'

‘Oh, I don’t know. We could maybe see a movie?’ Remembering that the biggest box office hits have all been romantic comedies lately, you hastily clarify, ‘Any movie. I’m fine with basically any genre.’

At your suggestion, Herman’s eyes light up. ‘I th-think they’re actually showing an old biograp — documen — film about the Starlight Era s-superheroes. B-Brave Brigade? If you know them?’

‘Oh, yeah! That would be great.’

‘G-great!’

A moment of silence, the dehumidifiers whirring and the cats purring.

‘…What should we do tonight, though?’ you ask, feeling awkward all over again.

‘Uh.’ Herman brings his hand to the back of his neck. ‘I d-dunno. People don’t normally chill — hang out with me this long.’

‘Well, I can’t leave too early, or else we’ll probably disappoint your grandmother and she'll ask me about it when I come over next week.’ Belatedly, you remember some of his interests. ‘You like metal music, right? I’m always looking for new recommendations. Do you have any favorites?’

‘Um.’ He fidgets, likely trying to decide how much to reveal to you, before the temptation at introducing you to his music taste wins over. ‘D-do you know — Abbath?’

—— Hoplites assemble, don thy bronze Grip aspes in phalanx of Myrmidon!!

Somehow, you’ve ended up rocking out to a black metal song, the sound blasting as loud as it can through the speakers of Herman’s phone, a man growling over heavily distorted guitar.

Herman looks like he’s having the time of his life. Aside from a somewhat awkward start — he’d spent the first minute tapping his foot along on the couch nervous smile on his face — he hasn’t stuttered once through the whole thing, and has only gotten more and more into it as the song rages on.

You’re dancing along, too. Why not? Far less of your elderly clients listen to heavy metal, and it’s been a long time since you let loose. The dance moves he’s pulling are exceedingly dorky, but it’s not like yours are any better. With Gladys being right upstairs, you briefly worry that you might be waking her up. But you know her well enough — she can sleep through anything if she puts her mind to it.

As the song winds into a guitar solo, you’re left panting and out of breath. Taking a step back and plopping yourself down on the couch to regain yourself, you’re left to watch Herman as he strikes a distinctly “metal”-ish pose, striking an imaginary electric guitar and red-faced with exertion instead of embarrassment, this time. His wet hair is flapping in and out of his face, flying out and then sticking itself back on. It’s really cute. What would it look like dry, you wonder? Fluffy, probably, and unused to the lack of wetness, sitting like a little nest on top of his head. He’d probably be able to pull off the goth makeup if they invent a permanent waterproof one. But black and white pale in comparison to yellow and blue. Or red. Red is a wonderful color on him, you’ve decided.

He leans over and switches off the song once it finishes, clearing his throat. ‘Th-thanks for — listening to that. That was super — really nice.’

‘Of course! It was really fun.’ You look back at the table, which still has the dishes you’d eaten from on it. ‘Do you need help clearing up?’

‘Oh, no, I got — h-have it, I —' A mouthful of water gargles in his throat, and he spits it out onto the floor before flashing an awkward smile at you. ‘See?’

‘Ha, yeah, I do,’ you laugh, resolutely trying to ignore how even that is cute about him and there are some things you should examine about yourself later on. ‘Okay, I guess I should probably be heading out. Maybe we could exchange contact info? For arranging further details, obviously, I’m not trying to—‘

You cut yourself off, realizing that you are, indeed, asking for his number properly, and finish with, ‘— it would be practical, I mean.’

‘Y-yeah, sure!’ He holds out his phone to you, and you input your number before copying his into your own and walking towards the door.

Just as you’re about to step back outside, he stops you — when you look back at him, his eyes dart away for just a second before they look back. Ocean blues, just as devastatingly beautiful as before.

‘You can say — call — Herm, if you want. I should’ve told — said that, before.’

‘Herm.’ A cute sound, a lovely sound, as you try it out for yourself — the anxiety of ‘erm’ laced even through his nickname. ‘Okay, then, Herm. I’ll see you next week. Message me with the details, okay?’

‘S-see you next week!’ An echo of the phone call, just as cute as it was the first time you’d heard it. But this one has an additional note of hopefulness in it — a little note of want, if you're not mistaken. Whatever it is, you'll be thinking about it until you see him again.

With a last shy wave, Herm closes the door, and you’re left to stand on the doorstep — the house no longer seeming different to you, the murky darkness of Torrance's night sky far eclipsed by the buoyant giddiness you feel in your heart.

You make it all the way to your car before you begin smiling ear to ear like a maniac. Giggling like one, too. Like a love-struck fool, because you most certainly are, and there's no denying it now.

You’re really looking forward to next week. —— FROM: Herm Hey! I just wanted to confirm the detials: would 7:30 at the Calypso movie theater Wednesday be okay? I got good seats, right in the middle for maximum viewage, haha

FROM: You hey! yeah, that all looks good, i’ll see you there!

FROM: Herm Great!! It’s a date

FROM: Herm Date as in movie date

FROM: Herm Daet for the movie to start

FROM: Herm not that I’m Not happy for it to not be a date

FROM: Herm Well excited to see you!!

FROM: You you too! see you then!

FROM: You :)

FROM: Herm 8)

a/n: we shall see how many parts this ends up being. i'm thinking perhaps 5 (if i can keep up the motivation until then ^^;)

thank you for reading if you got this far!