#a few times and they just shouted at him to leave

[bywons]

YOU'RE A SUNFLOWER! 🕷️ SPIDERMAN!JAKE FALLING FOR YOU

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬──── your superhero love story with spiderman jake

❪ 𝑃𝑅𝐸𝐶𝑖𝑆 ❫ ｡ spiderman!jake x f!r 211Owc 𖥔 fluff spiderman au ── 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 mentions of fighting injuries kissing skinship 愛 ／ CATALOGUE

する ܃ this was supposed to be out a long time ago, but practicals said no TT

reb𝑙ogs& ˊᗜˋ 𝑓eedbacks

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who is your caring, obliging and hilarious roommate, with a secret.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE, your endlessly sweet, slightly chaotic, and hilariously dorky roommate, who always seems to be juggling late nights and suspiciously “urgent errands.” you’ve noticed his habit of disappearing at the oddest times, but jake always comes back with an excuse and that charming, slightly guilty smile of his. what you don’t know is that his “errands” involve swinging across the city in his spider-man suit, battling villains, and saving lives.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who quickly changes into his normal civilian clothes before you can walk in and catch him red handed in his spiderman suit. he prays you wouldn't make too much of the still open window, his sparsely webbed fingers and the cold beads of sweat forming on his neck and forehead, as you walk in through his door, greeting him.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who always seems to know when you're low, when you need him. it's uncanny really, you don't know how he always shows up with his pretty face and that boyish, contagious smile, knocking on your door with chocolates and an impromptu movie plan. “rough day?” he smiles so warmly at you, as you welcome him in.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE sits next to you in every class, it's like you're becoming best friends with him. and sometimes, he's extremely late to class and the students giggle at his funny excuses to the professor— “my alarm clock broke” or “got in a fight with my window,” he jokes, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as the class bursts into laughter. but when SPIDERMAN!JAKE runs up to you after those awkward excuses to be allowed into the lecture, he plops down next to you and pulls out a sweet treat everytime, an apology gift for being late, you must have missed him all this time!

SPIDERMAN!JAKE, who disappears at the weirdest times. you’ll be in the middle of a conversation, and suddenly he’s mumbling something about an errand and bolting out the door. “be back in a few!” he shouts, leaving you confused and a little suspicious.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who's your one call away. just a missed call or single concerning text from you and he drops everything, everything to be by your side and make sure you're okay. he doesn't care if he's in utmost danger, he'll always find a way back to you, “i’ll be there in a minute,” he promises, and within moments, he’s stumbling through your door, still catching his breath, hair disheveled, making up some vague excuse about losing track of time.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who's just so kind to the point it's infuriating. he always carries your bags and books after each class, brings you sweet treats and buys you soft plushies when you're feeling low, he offers to do your assignments at times when you're overworked. even at the perfect times, jake always has a granola bar inside his pockets when you're hungry.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who has had nothing but heart eyes for you since the day that he laid his eyes on you.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who tries not to let out a sly grin whenever he’s surrounded by faint whispers and giggles from his classmates or strangers about impressive rescues from the amazing spiderman. he loves his undercover state at times when his friends come up to him all excited, “bro did you news last night? spiderman was awesome!” , “yeah he's my hero!” and jake feels utterly proud and content with what he does to keep his city safe. but then there's you.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who first noticed you in the hallway, laughing with your friends, casual and confident, seemingly unimpressed by all the talk about the city’s newest hero. “what's so special about spiderman anyways?” you scoffed and rolled your eyes, as you walked by, your tone so nonchalant it made jake pause mid-step. he could see the others around you giggling and excited, but you? you didn’t even bat an eye at his name.

it stung SPIDERMAN!JAKE in a way he wasn't used to. everyone else idolized spiderman, a token of hope and strength of the city. but you? you were indifferent to it all, and he couldn't help but feel butterflies in his stomach. he would love a little chase.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who would start to have a little crush on you, and being a hopeless romantic and being a mildly awkward, superpowered guy— he did what he could, appearing all so suddenly when you would least expect it. “bump into you” at random times like when you were collecting your books from your locker for the next class, and just when you close it, SPIDERMAN!JAKE is already leaning against it, a coy smirk playing on his lips. he tries to act nonchalant, as if his heart isn't beating a million miles per hour right now, as if he didn't take down a villian last night. “hey” he’d greet you with a grin, eyes shining with curiosity. “you said something about spiderman earlier. got an opinion on him now?” you glanced at him, raising an eyebrow at him, “what? you're his biggest fan?” SPIDERMAN!JAKE would giggle nervously, rubbing the back of his neck as he mumbles out, “nah, just wondering if maybe you’ve changed your mind. you know, given all the... cool stuff spiderman does.” “still seems overrated to me!” you reply, shooting him a quick smile before returning to your class.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE couldn’t help it—his heart skipped a beat. you didn’t idolize spiderman. you didn’t worship him. you didn’t need to. and yet, that simple lack of interest made him want to know more about you.

and so fast forward to now SPIDERMAN!JAKE has developed relationships with you, and developed feelings about you at bay. he never thought of sharing a room with you, laughing and spending time after class with you or sometimes, sharing a tense eye contact with you. the one which wants him to kiss you right then, right there.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who in the middle of the night, stares up at his spiderman mask, feeling guilty for keeping you in the dark for so long.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who prays and prays that you will finally take a liking to spiderman, and that you will like the real, superhero him.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who's so overprotective of you, and he doesn't even realize it. you always wonder how he arrives just in 5 minutes after you just sent him a, “stuck at a party, come pick me up?” text. maybe he's just too fast? or maybe he's beating up creepy guys who tried to hit on you just to the next alley, you just don't know yet.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who comes late at night one day, adamant to go meet with your lousy, insufficient ex. and when you know about it, it's already late. jake’s already made him learn a lesson right after his mission. he looks at with puppy eyes, his glossy and sorrowful eyes reciprocating your worried, upset ones. “was it really necessary?” you whisper, gently tending to his wounds all over his face, as you look down at jake. “sorry, you didn't deserve that from him, that's all,” jake sighs, already too mesmerized by your face staring at him, too addicted to your honey touch on his skin. and as you see jake getting all guilty for his actions, you don't think much about it and press a quick, feathery kiss on his cheeks.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE whose eyes become wide and jaws hang low as you kiss his cheeks. you, kissed him? “thanks jake,” you mumble, a mellow blush creeping onto your cheeks. “d-dont thank me,” jake stutters as his whole face flushes up, he moves his hand up to capture your wrist, softly pressing it against your cheeks.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who swings around the city in joy the next day, who's so confident to confess to you now. he's super sure you'd like him back. maybe as spiderman too.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who spots you easily when returning home one night, still in his spiderman suit. you're alone, looking uncomfortable as you walk down the street. but there's no one around you, maybe you're just cold? but he doesn't think about it much before he swings down, gathers you in his arms and makes his way to your shared dormitory with him.

you gasp as SPIDERMAN!JAKE takes you along with him in the air, you feel like you're almost flying. he blushes under his mark as he feels you holding on to him. “but i didn't want…your help,” you mumble as he puts you down on your balcony. “a pretty girl like you shouldn't be cold outside, and it's my job to keep you safe!” you see the superhero giggle, patting his shoulder all by himself. “but how'd you know where i live?” you question, eyes narrowing. oh well, jake wasn't prepared for that. he clears his throat, “well, spiderman knows everything!” “well maybe not everything ‘cause…this is my roomate jake’s room not mine.” SPIDERMAN!JAKE gulps.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE tries to say something, but words are caught up in his throat. but before he could even comprehend, you step forward, and pull up his mask, revealing the handsome face of your roommate indeed.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who is stunned, didn't expect to reveal his true identity like this.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE, who’s now standing frozen on your balcony, watches as the realization dawns on your face. his heart races in his chest, a mixture of panic and anticipation swirling within him as you look at him, then back at the mask in your hand. “you really are terrible at keeping secrets, you know that?” you say, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. jake stammers, his usual confidence gone. “i-i can explain,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “it’s just... i didn’t mean for you to find out like this. its not exactly how i planned—” “you planned for me to find out?” you interrupt, stepping closer. his blush deepens, and he’s never been more thankful for the night sky to hide the embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“not really. i mean, yes. no. i don’t know!” SPIDERMAN!JAKE groans, running a hand through his hair. “i just... i wanted to tell you eventually. it’s not easy being spiderman and your roommate, okay?” you can’t help but laugh softly at how flustered he looks. “you’re ridiculous, you know that? swinging me around the city like some kind of superhero, and then you drop me off here, your balcony, not even realizing it.”

SPIDERMAN!JAKE’s eyes widen. “wait—did you at least enjoy the swinging?” you hesitate, biting back a smile. “it wasn’t terrible, i guess.” “not terrible,’ huh?” he teases, a bit of his usual charm slipping back into his voice. “that’s practically a glowing review coming from you.” you roll your eyes but step closer again, the space between you almost nonexistent. “you’re lucky you’re cute, jake.” jake blinks, momentarily stunned, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form words but failing miserably. “wait, what?” “don’t make me say it again,” you murmur, and before he can even process it, you grab the front of his suit and pull him down, pressing your lips to his.

for a moment SPIDERMAN!JAKE is too shocked to react, but then he melts into the kiss, his hands instinctively finding your waist, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss. the world seems to fade away—the late-night city noise, the cool breeze brushing against your skin, even the fact that you’re standing on a balcony. it’s just you and jake, and for once, he feels like he doesn’t need to hide. when you finally pull away, his face is flushed, his lips slightly parted as he looks at you with a dazed expression. “wow,” he breathes, blinking rapidly. “so, uh... does this mean you forgive me for the whole secret spiderman thing?” you smirk, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “i’ll think about it. but you owe me, big time, spiderman”

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who just can't believe you kissed him, and that you're his now.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who visits you in the middle of the night when he says he'd be away, surprising you, both with his presence and a kitten he just saved.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who takes you out on dates but in a special way, swinging all around the nightlife of the glowing city with you in his arms.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who loves you, and only you, who promises to fight everyone just for you.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who loves you, and only you, who promises to fight everyone just for you.

© BYWONS, 2024 / do not copy or repost without permission

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[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 20

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7 || PART 8 || PART 9 || PART 10 || PART 11 || PART 1 || PART 13 || PART 14 || PART 15 || PART 16 || PART 17 || PART 18 || PART 19

Chrissy is willing to admit that when Steve doesn’t call her after his date, she panics. If her mom wasn’t such a light sleeper, she would’ve snuck out to check up on him. But instead, she wallows, dozing on the couch, not even able to call Jeff to bitch because what if Steve chooses that moment to call?

So, she can admit, when he finally calls a few minutes after seven in the morning, she’s a little short with him.

“Finally, Steven,” she hisses into the phone, keeping her voice quiet so as not to alert her mother to their conversation. “I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere!”

“Sorry, sorry!” he rushes out, sounding contrite. “We sort of fell asleep.”

Chrissy gasps, a smile slowly spreading on her face as the implications set in. “You guys slept together?” she demands gleefully.

“We didn’t have sex!” he shouts, and she’s glad, for the first time, that his parents are so absent from his everyday life. “We just fell asleep!”

She’s still smiling, twirling the phone cord round and round her fingers. “Does that mean it went well?” she wheedles.

She doesn’t think that Eddie would suddenly realize he’s straight and renege on the date, not really, but Steve had, and she can’t get the terrified tone of his voice out of her head.

“Well—” he drawls, leaving her on tenterhooks for a few seconds more. “He took me to see some shitty horror movie.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers, full-on grinning now. “What a stereotypical move.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,�� he replies so wryly that she can almost see the way his eyes must be rolling. “Except he barely talked to me the whole time and didn’t even try to hold my hand.”

“No!”

“And then he took me into the woods like some sort of serial killer, and then tried to kiss me so abruptly that my lip split a little.”

“No!” she shrieks with laughter before catching herself and slapping a palm over her own mouth as Steve’s own amused chuckle filters through the phone line. “And you still spent the night?”

“He was nervous!” Steve defended. “And besides, the second kiss was much better.”

“Your boy’s a fast learner, huh?”

Steve hums, and she wishes he was here with her, so she could see the dopey grin that must be on his face as he says, “yeah,” with a dreamy sigh. “He took me stargazing.”

Chrissy coos, can’t help it, not when this whole thing’s been building for so long now. Not when there’s been an edge of fear to everything Steve’s said for months. He deserves something nice for once.

“And you’re going out again?”

“Oh, definitely,” he replies, and a knot of fear she’s had tucked beneath her sternum loosens.

He sounds excited, happy, hopeful. If Eddie does anything to jeopardize this, Chrissy will be digging a very deep hole and tossing him into it. She’s got a shovel, and the muscle strength built up from years of cheer—she’ll manage just fine.

So, when Eddie walks up to her in the cafeteria in some sort of fucked up parallel to that first time and bends at the waist in a showy bow, hand outstretched as he asks, “a word, madam?” she’s ready to kill him.

But, when she glances at Steve at her side, his ears are red, and he’s smiling up at Eddie from beneath his lashes. And when she looks back toward Eddie she catches the tail-end of a wink that has Steve sputtering.

Even Jason doesn’t protest from the other side of the table where he’s quietly seething.

So, she takes his hand and follows him out of the cafeteria.

Eddie doesn’t seem to know where he’s going, as he walks through the halls, peering into nooks and crannies until he finds a corner he deems suitably vacant enough. He flops down, legs outstretched in front of him, uncaring of the dirt caking the floor.

He pats the spot next to him, smiling up at her, so she slides down the wall and crouches beside him, unwilling to let her bare legs touch the floor.

Eddie leans away from the wall and wrestles his jacket off before placing it on the floor in front of Chrissy. Gratefully, she sits atop it, crossing her legs to keep them safe. She turns her body so she’s facing Eddie dead on, and he follows her lead.

When he doesn’t say anything, she breaks the silence with a quiet, “I hope you know that if you hurt my friend, I’ll kill you.”

“I have no doubt, Lady Cunningham,” Eddie replies, drawing an X across his heart with his finger. “But, I’m not here to talk about Steve.”

“Then—what?”

He’s grimacing now, no longer meeting her eyes as he fiddles with his rings, one of his fingers bizarrely missing its usual adornment. “We’re friends, right?” he asks hesitantly, like he’s choosing each word with deliberate care.

“Of course,” she replies, eyes trained on the little furrow between his brows. He’s picking at a hole in the knee of his jeans, further fraying the edges. “Why would you ask that?”

He sighs, slumping into himself in a way that makes him look small. “I’m glad I’m here, okay?” he asks, not waiting for her to answer before he continues. “Steve’s great, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. But, you still lied to me—"

"We never lied to you," she cuts in, and he waves his hand in assent.

"Yeah, yeah, but you all like, conspired behind my back, and that feels…”

“Shitty,” she continues for him when he seems to lose his words.

“Yeah! Shitty, it feels shitty that you were all talking about me behind my back all so you could keep this from me."

Chrissy sighs. She’d known they’d have to talk about it eventually–clear all this stale air so they could move on–but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. But, he’s right; no matter their intentions, they’d all made a mess of things. She’d known that even as she’d been in the thick of it.

So, she starts where these things should always start, and looks him dead in the eye as she says, “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks up, seeming almost surprised. “Just like that?”

“Yes, Eddie, just like that,” she replies, maintaining eye contact even as her gut squirms. “We were just trying to protect each other, but that doesn’t mean it was the right choice.”

His eyes are wide, still shocked, and she wonders, something uncomfortably close to pity bubbling up within her, if he’s not used to receiving apologies at all.

“Both of you?” he asks.

Chrissy averts her gaze, mouth twisting up. “You know how Steve said Jason has been kind of stalkery?” she asks, watching Eddie nod out of the corner of her eye before she continues. “Well, it was worse before. He kept coming to my house and cornering me at school, and I just wanted to move on.”

It was more than that, though. She still remembers the way fear crept down her spine as cold sweat when she’d opened her door to Jason smiling at her like they’d never broken up, the way her throat had closed up when he’d scooted far too close to her side at the lunch table.

The way he kept cornering her in the hallway when no one was around to witness it. 

“So, when I found Steve trying to write that first letter, I struck a deal,” she continues. She feels bad about that, even now, even still. “He’d be my boyfriend, and I’d help him with the letters.”

She finally turns back to Eddie, braced for, what? Condemnation? But he’s squinting at her like she’s a puzzle he’s trying to crack as he says, “you totally would have helped him anyway,” with so much conviction that it warms her. 

“Oh, definitely.”

He’s still looking at her, but he’s smiling at her, eyes warmer than she’s ever seen them. 

“Alright, I forgive you,” Eddie says, like it’s easy.

It’s too easy. 

“Just because we had reasons doesn’t mean it was fair to you,” she replies, steel in her voice as she squares her shoulders and looks at him dead on. “It doesn’t mean you weren’t hurt,” she finishes, reaching out to pat his knee.

He doesn’t jerk away, just looks at her hand on his knee with a peculiar smile on his face. “You know there was a time when you touching me like that would’ve sent me into a tizzy,” he says, still looking down at her hand.

“And now?”

“Nothing,” he replies, shrugging. “It was never you, Chrissy Cunnigham.”

“You either, Eddie Munson,” she replies, matching his smile as she smacks his hand once before withdrawing. “Now is that it, or was there something else you needed?”

He looks away, cheeks darkening to a blotchy red, she’s almost worried he’ll faint. “I, uh, well, the jacket?”

She thinks of Eddie’s jacket beneath her first, but that’s not where he’s looking. His eyes are planted firmly on the sleeve of Steve’s letterman with a sort of longing that’s almost funny in its intensity.

She doesn’t ask any follow up questions—if he wants the jacket, he can have the jacket. After all, it’s Steve’s no matter how attached to it she’s become, and Steve had looked up at him with the sappiest look she’s ever seen on his face.

She’d do more than give up his letterman to keep him happy.

Still, it feels strange when she pulls it off her back. A shiver runs through her–she feels almost naked without its familiar weight. 

Since that first day in the library, it’s been her shield against Jason’s pushy advances, and her reminder that, no matter what happens, she’d still have Steve. 

But, Jason’s backed off, and everywhere she turns, she sees her people: Steve, yes, but Jeff, and Eddie, and the Hellfire boys–even Robin. Her life’s full to bursting in a way that it’s never been before. 

Chrissy will miss it, but she doesn’t need it anymore. Besides, she knows where Steve keeps his spare key, and she’s not above stealing something else from his closet. 

“Jeff’s going to be sad,” she says, patting the bundled fabric in her arms like it’s a favored family pet, feeling strangely choked up. “He really liked it.”

Eddie grimaces down at it and asks, “do I need to get this thing dry cleaned?”

Chrissy throws her head back and laughs. “No, but if you would’ve waited a few more days, you might have.”

He makes a gagging noise, but when she holds it out for him, he readily takes it, even if he doesn’t put it on. She wonders if it’s fear of homophobes or the thought of her and Jeff’s bodily fluids that stops him. She’s polite enough not to ask, even as Eddie says, “Wait, is it you wearing it or him that Jeff likes?”

She opens her mouth to reply, ready to offer up a vague “both,” but Eddie holds up his hand and cuts her off, talking quickly like he’s afraid of what she might say. “Wait, don’t tell me. I really, really don’t need to know.”

Chrissy springs to her feet and picks Eddie’s own leather jacket up off the floor and sliding it on. It’s even baggier than Steve’s was on her, clearly designed for layering. “I’m borrowing this,” she says, turning her back on him and making her way toward her next class just as the warning bell rings. “It’s cold today.”

“Don’t do any weird sex things with it!” Eddie calls.

She laughs again, making a point to neither confirm nor deny her intentions no matter what he yells after her retreating back.

When Jeff slides into her passenger seat after school, he quirks a brow at her new look, and asks, “that Eddie’s?” as he buckles his seatbelt.

“He wanted Steve’s,” she says, reaching out to pat his knee consolingly.

“I’m going to miss that jacket,” Jeff sighs, looking genuinely forlorn for a second before he gets a particular gleam in his eye that Chrissy’s becoming increasingly familiar with. “You know—”

“Eddie requested that we don’t ‘do any weird sex things’ with his jacket,” she cuts in, putting her car in reverse and slowly backing out of the spot.

Jeff groans like he’d been shot, and throws his head back into the headrest. She reaches out to dig her fingernails into his knee, just this side of too-hard so his groan shifts into a hiss.

“I know, baby,” she says, smiling sweetly at him as they pull away from the school. “But, I’ll get your mind off it in no time.”

Jeff gulps, and doesn’t utter another complaint for the rest of the night.

***

Robin watches Chrissy follow Eddie out of the cafeteria. Even after the door closes behind them, she keeps staring, wanting desperately to know what they’re talking about. This might have all started because of her crush on Chrissy, but Robin’s nosy at heart, so even as the flames of her crush burn down to embers, she wants to know.

Steve had called her on Saturday, spilling all the details of what sounded like a truly horrible date as if it was some sort of fairy tale while Robin cackled in his ear. But he’d sounded buoyant with exhilaration, and all Robin had been able to think about was that he’s like her and he’s happy.

Maybe there’s hope for her, too.

Robin’s broken out of her reverie by a shoulder bumping into hers. “Should we help him?” Vickie whispers, and it takes Robin a minute to snap her eyes away from her vibrant green eyes to follow her gaze over to Steve.

All the losers he’s still pretending to be friends are jeering at him, Tommy H. going so far as to slip into Chrissy’s vacant seat so he can jostle Steve around with a decidedly unfriendly look on his face while Steve picks halfheartedly at his lunch.

Robin’s out of her seat before she can even think about it, palms slapping noisily on the table as she calls. “Harrington!” Steve perks up, metaphorical tail wagging as he meets her eyes from across the room. “Come help me win a bet!”

He’s up and out of his seat in a matter of seconds, leaving the remains of his lunch abandoned on his table as he trots over, slipping into the empty seat across from her while all the other band kids look at him like he’s got the plague.

“What’s the bet?” he asks, looking far more relaxed already than he had while surrounded by his supposed friends.

Robin kicks him under the table as she replies, “the bet was whether you’d come when you’re called.”

“Oh, hardy har har,” he mocks, kicking her right back until she links both her feet around his ankle and yanks him so he damn near falls off his seat.

“Poor little puppy,” she coos, reaching across the table to pat his head while he bats her hand away.

Vickie’s laughing from beside her; it rings through Robin’s ears like church bells. She gets stuck, staring at the pink of her cheeks, the red of her hair, the mirth in her emerald green eyes, hand still outstretched toward Steve’s hair.

He kicks her again, and she snatches her hand back, grateful for the intervention until she catches sight of the knowing look Steve’s shooting her. In retaliation, she grabs one of her carrot sticks and tries to shove it down his throat.

“Not a word, Harrington, or we’re through,” she hisses, finally succeeding in shoving the carrot into his mouth.

“You guys are so funny,” Vickie says, still laughing.

Steve smiles, carrot sticking out of his mouth like it’s a cigar until he bites into it with a snap, seeming oddly satisfied.

Chrissy and Eddie don’t come back, and by the time lunch is over, the rest of the band kids have finally stopped sitting there like scared lemmings, waiting for King Steve Harrington to attack. She’s sure they’ll soon learn what Robin already knows: the king is dead, long live the king.

She loves him so much, it’s almost stupid.

“So, Steve Harrington, huh?” Vickie asks, inexplicably walking out of the cafeteria with her even though Robin knows for a fact her class is on the opposite side of the school.

“I mean, yeah?” Robin replies, feeling her face heat from the inside out. “He’s just like, not what I was thinking at all, and maybe the best friend I’ve ever had, which is crazy—it’s crazy, because it’s Steve Harrington, right?” Her hands, she realizes with horror, are miming an explosion above her head while her mouth makes a weird, crackling explosion sound. “Who would’ve guessed?”

When she finally gets her mouth flapping under control, Vickie’s smiling at her, walking close enough that the sleeve of her sweater brushes against Robin’s bare arm.

“I don’t know, I always thought he seemed nice.”

Robin’s nodding along like one of those bobble head hula girls that boys are always putting in their cars, even though Steve Harrington isn’t nice. He’s an unmitigated bitch with a sacrificial streak a mile wide, but he’s not nice.

“He’s like a stray that I let into my house one time, and then my mom fed him, so now he keeps following me home,” her mouth says.

Vickie’s mouth laughs in return, so maybe it’s not all that bad.

Robin’s mind replays the angelic sound as she walks into her class, waving goodbye to Vickie as the other girl rushes away in a mad dash to make it on time to her next class.

God, Steve’s going to be such a bitch about this.

 ***

After Eddie’s talk with Chrissy, things shift.

Steve doesn’t sit with the jocks at all anymore. He and Chrissy, still joined at the hip like they really are dating, shift back and forth between the band geeks and the hellfire tables at lunch on Tuesday, prompting hushed whispers to filter through the entire cafeteria.

For his part, all Gareth says is, “does this mean you two’s weird feud over Chrissy is finally over?”

Jeff snorts chocolate milk out of his nose while Eddie laughs so hard he nearly falls off the bench entirely, only staying upright because Steve props him up.

“What?” Gareth demands, tearing into his chicken strips with a viciousness that betrays his ire.

“They’ll tell you when you’re older,” Doug replies despite having no idea himself.

Eddie loves his friends so fucking much.

By Wednesday, a clearly fed up Robin frog-marches the pair of them to the Hellfire table and plops down beside them.

“Munson, I can’t do this split custody thing anymore,” she says, making the red-head that’d followed her over giggle. “They’re too much of a handful.”

“Or maybe even two handfuls,” Steve replies, across the table at her like he’s not playing the most overt game of footsie right below it.

“Don’t be gross, dingus,” she scoffs, and Eddie’s mind goes galloping off with thoughts he shouldn’t be having in a room full of teenagers just waiting to push someone a few more rungs down the ladder.

“Are you guys coming back to Hellfire?” Gareth asks, clearly unable to stand not knowing what’s going on a second longer.

Steve looks at Eddie, brown eyes devastating beneath his lashes. “I’d like to.”

Eddie opens his mouth, ready to grovel at Steve’s feet to get him to come, to get him to keep looking at him like that, but then Robin cuts in with a sly, “you know this means you’ll have to come to Steve’s basketball games,” and he slams his mouth shut.

Steve grins, all seduction dropping off his face as he reaches across the table to give Robin a high five like they’re already on the fucking court. She slaps his palm hard enough that the sound of skin on skin damn-near shatters the sound barrier.

“We can sit together,” Jeff says, but he’s not even looking at Eddie, eyes trained on Chrissy’s blushing face. “It’ll be fun.”

Eddie groans and lets gravity overtake him, dropping his head to the table so suddenly that it would have hurt if Steve hadn’t put his palm over the spot just in time. Eddie turns his face so he can glare up at the other boy, but Steve looks so hopeful and excited that he has to look away again, burying his face into Steve’s palm.

“Fine, I’ll go,” he drawls, lips brushing against Steve’s hand with each word.

“What the hell is happening?” Gareth demands.

Much to his dismay, no one replies.

Things slide back to normal after that—Chrissy and Steve showing up to band practice and hellfire and lunch like nothing had ever come between them. But, it’s better now because Steve knocks their feet together beneath tables, and lets his hands settle on knees and stares just a little too long at Eddie’s lips.

It’s driving him crazy; he wants to reach out and touch, reach out and take.

But that’s not something that’s allowed. Boys are born in their own, invisible bubbles to keep them from touching other boys. Eddie doesn’t know how he never noticed it before, but he wants to shatter it like glass, let it cut up his feet if it means he can brush his lips against Steve’s.

There are all these rules left unwritten, but flung at their feet like slurs: don’t stand too close, don’t look too long, don’t dare to touch.

He wants to, though, thinks maybe in the confines of Gareth’s garage and behind the closed doors of the drama room he could, and it would be safe.

But they live in Hawkins, Indiana, and he’d like to live long enough to get the hell out of here.

So he lets their feet tangle beneath tables and doesn’t lean across them to have a taste, no matter how often Steve licks his lips.

Friday can’t come soon enough.

***

Robin’s been twitchy for days by the time she pulls Steve into their bathroom stall. He follows her dutifully, only laughing a little as she pulls a towel out of her backpack and lays it down before sitting on the floor.

“You plan this, Birdie?” he asks, settling across from her, the towel beneath them insulating him from the cold that’s seeping up from the floor.

Robin’s face turns a blotchy red like a blood vessel burst and dispersed beneath her skin. “Boobies,” she blurts, staring at him with beseeching eyes before she slaps her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Steve nods, his attempt at sage wisdom undercut by the way he has to bite his lip to stop from laughing at her. “Boobies, yes,” he chokes out. “I’ve, uh, heard of them.”

That’s all it takes for Robin to kick out at him. When her foot gets dangerously close to his crotch, Steve grabs her ankle and cradles her foot in his lap, rubbing the bone.

“Don’t make fun of me!” she whines, still trying to kick him.

“Okay, okay!” he cries out, chuckling as he holds onto her leg for dear life. “Sorry, just—what’s this about boobies?”

“Stop saying boobies!”

Steve uses his free hand to lock up his mouth and toss the invisible key into the toilet, smiling as the blush on Robin’s cheeks creeps up her nose and onto her forehead until she resembles an especially square tomato.

“Vickie—”

And Steve can’t help it, he really, really can’t. “Has nice boobies?” he cuts in, already grabbing at both her legs to stop her jackrabbiting feet from finally landing a blow to his balls.

“I hate you!” Robin shrieks, but even she’s laughing now as she writhes atop the towel, scrunching it as she earth-worm-inches closer to him so she can slap at his ribs while he’s defenseless. “Steve Harrington, you’re the worst thing that ever happened to me!”

She tries to say it with conviction, but Steve’s hands have crept beneath her crew socks, and his fingers are tickling against the inside arch of her foot, so her words come out more as shaky exhalations of laughter. He wiggles his fingers as she squirms away, kicking out with such reckless abandon that one of her feet breaks free and kicks him far too high on his inner thigh for comfort.

“Get your boy cooties off me!” she demands, and he does, pulling his hands out of her socks as she backs away until she’s leaning against the opposite side of the wall again, pouting at him. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies, feeling lighter than air. “Now tell me about Vickie’s girl cooties.”

Robin smiles bashfully, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them. “Vickie doesn’t have cooties,” Robin replies, gaze distant. She looks wistful, enamored, hopeful. “She walked me to class the other day, even though I know it made her late.”

“Yeah?” Steve prompts, helpless to do anything but to smile back.

“Yeah,” she replies. “And maybe it’ll be like Chrissy again, you know? But you and Eddie…” Robin kicks out at him again, nudging her foot into his and then leaving it there, their soles pressed together. “Maybe there’s more of us out there than I thought.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, absolutely in love with brave, hopeful, honest Robin, here in this stall, in this moment. “Maybe there are.”

They smile at each other, two queer kids in the bathroom together, seeing themselves in each other, again, and again, and again. Steve hopes they’ll always be like this, here, on the bathroom floor, finding hope in each other’s smiles. He has Chrissy, and Jeff, and Eddie now, too. But, Robin will always be the first person who looked at him and made him feel seen.

“We should get married,” he says, not thinking about it before it comes out of his mouth and hangs in the air between them, making Robin’s eyes bug out of her skull. “Just think about it! Eddie and I can’t get married, and neither can you and Vickie—”

“You’ve literally gone out with the guy once, and we don’t even know if Vickie likes girls yet—”

“—but we could totally just marry each other instead!”

The silence of the bathroom rings once Steve’s declaration is out there. Robin swallows, throat bobbing, eyes wide enough that Steve can see the little red veins near the back. Suddenly, Steve wonders if he’s stepped over some line he didn’t even know was there.

Before he can spiral too far, Robin launches herself across the space between them, knees bracketing Steve’s hips as she leans over and bites his shoulder, hard.

“Ow, Robin!”

“You’re insane, Dingus, you know that?” she asks, moving away from his shoulder to plant a kind of wet kiss against his forehead. “I’m sixteen, and you’re proposing in the boy’s bathroom.”

She rubs her hand against his head, likely fucking his hair up beyond repair, but he doesn’t even care because she kisses him again, this time on the top of his head.

“I meant like, later?” Steve says shyly.

He’s always fallen hard and fast, knows that about himself. It’s a fundamental law of the universe: gravity makes things fall down, the earth’s always spinning on an axis, and Steve Harrington puts his whole heart into people who don’t always give it back.

But Robin’s on his lap, kissing his head, and leaking what’s either snot or tears into his hair. “Alright,” she warbles, sounding embarrassingly soggy. “When I get a girlfriend, we can just be permanent beards for each other.”

Steve puts his arms around her and hugs her tight, mashing his face awkwardly into her neck as she laughs. “Grow old in separate bedrooms,” he replies.

“Gotta keep our cooties separate,” she says, like she’s not currently dripping on him on the floor of the boy’s grimy bathroom.

He just squeezes her tighter and gives her a little shake, like a dog with its favorite toy. “Tell me about Vickie,” he demands, but it sounds a whole lot like I love you when it comes from his mouth.

“Okay,” she replies, and it sounds a lot like I love you, too.

PART 21

[sweetshuga]

✰ 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒆𝒙 𝑰𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 ✧

𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒂. «𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒆»

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. English is not my first language!

───~𓆩♡𓆪~───

𝒃𝒇.ᐟ𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕... loves to see your cock-drunk face as he pounds into you while hugging your thighs with your back flush against the fogged up mirror.

𝒘𝒄. 337

✰ Matt’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he held your thighs tightly, your legs up in the air on one side of his shoulders and his arms wrapped in an iron grip around them—rendering you immobile. Your moans echoed throughout the bathroom as he pulled your hips forward, changing the angle and every thrust from him hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl. Your hands scrambled to hold onto anything you could, your shoulders flush against the fogged up mirror behind you. The overwhelming pleasure making your mind go numb.

𝑨 𝒇𝒆𝒘 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒓... You had just gotten out of the shower when he suddenly walked in. Matt’s face flushed when he saw your naked form, even though he’s seen it plenty of times by now. "Sorry—" you chuckled when you heard the slightly panicked tone, "hey, it’s fine, should’ve locked the door, but since Chris and Nick are out I thought it was alright, no?" He nodded slowly, his eyes raking over your body appreciatively before snapping back up to your face. A sheepish grin plastered on his lips as he shifted his weight on one leg, trying to discreetly hide the growing arousal in his pants. You raised your eyebrows, noticing the telltale signs of his desire right away.

𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕... You struggled to keep your eyes from rolling back as he worked his magic. The thick head of his length hit spots that made you let out sounds even you didn’t know you could make. The sounds of your pleasure spurred him on, grunting in exertion as he surged forward with renewed vigor. Determined to please you. "Fu—ck sweets, you feel me?" His arm left your thighs, and with gentle fingers, pressed on the bulge appearing and disappearing on your abdomen from his cock. His gaze momentarily shifted from your stomach to your face, a groan leaving his lips when he saw the look of pure ecstasy on your face. "Look at you, so fucking drunk on my dick, mffh—" ✰

𓆩♡𓆪

───~𓆩♡𓆪~───

𝒃𝒇.ᐟ𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔... loves when your ass recoils against his hips when he pounds into you from behind, holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail and pulling on it until you look up at your fucked-dumb reflection in the mirror.

𝒘𝒄. 362

✧ Chris groaned lowly as he drew back before slamming hard into you. Your backside recoiled from the force and your legs trembled, loud moans spewing out of your parted lips. He bit his lips, putting his hand on the small of your back and firmly pressing on it. The edge of the countertop in front of your upper thighs only made it easier for him to go as deep as he wanted without your body bouncing away. Your eyes rolled back in your skull before closing shut and reopening a few seconds later, widened like saucers when he increased his pace. Your hand travelled back in a futile attempt to slow him down, your moans nothing short of pornographic.

𝑨 𝒇𝒆𝒘 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒓... Nick and Matt had gone to get food. They did ask you if you wanted to tag along, but you just wanted to stay in and Chris being Chris, your sweet boyfriend, decided to stay home with you. As much as you wanted to keep cuddling with your boyfriend on the couch – cozied up in blankets – you really had to pee. And so, you disentangled yourself from Chris with a heavy sigh, "I’ll be right back, gotta piss." You could hear him chuckling and shouting an "okay" from his place on the couch as you walked towards the bathroom. A few minutes later, you heard the bathroom door opening while you washed your hands. A pair of hands pushing you down to bend over the counter.

𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕... Chris’ free hand tangled in your locks, gripping it into a make-shift ponytail before pulling on it. Your head involuntarily leaned back, your thoroughly-pleasured expression reflecting in the mirror. Chris’ pace quickened, the sound of wet squelching filling the air as he pounded into your sopping pussy from behind. "Look at that, baby," he cooed as he saw your face in the mirror, "look at yourself, the fucked dumb look on your face." He grunted as he pulled your hair with more force, making you look at yourself and a loud shaky moan left his lips when he felt your walls flutter rhythmically around his pistoning cock. ✧

𓆩♡𓆪

taglist: @strnilolover @mattsfavoritestar @sophand4n4 @tpwktahlz @lilyyliloo @slut4angstt @pvssychicken @poolover123 @loud-sturniolos @inlovewchrissturniolo @sagesturns @chrisstopherfilmed @billiesbabya @h3arts4nat @moosegirl96 @sofiaaguilaxx @sturniolo-fann @goingtojohnkramershouseee @sturniolosluttt @chrislilcumslvt @mattsninja @bilssturns @sturnioloszn @slvtf0rchr1s @knowingnothingnoel @shadowthesim @brookheartsmatt @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @m00nl1ghts1vt @strnlslut @ribread03 @hearts4werka @larallott @ivysturnss @chrisfavoritewhore @peiivnao

© sweetshuga

[ostaramoon]

lovebird  ➹ dean winchester

【 pairing 】 dean x angel!reader / cupid!reader 【 summary 】 you’re a cupid, you can’t help the natural call to make two beings fall in love. even if it means bringing critters into the bunker when no ones looking.  【 cw 】 fluff, spn lore on cupids is bland so yes i’m adding to it, grumpy x sunshine trope 【 wordcount 】 1.3k

the bunker had been under a quiet hum for quite some time now, sam in the library organizing and filing while dean sat in the war room looking for cases. the older winchester had nearly forgotten about the little angel cas left in their care a few weeks ago. a cupid, to be precise. 

at first he absolutely refused, claimed they weren’t a daycare for heaven’s flight crew. but cas, being a busy man, simply left the brothers standing in the bunker with a smiley little cherub. unlike most angels dean has met, you were sickeningly sweet, incredibly helpless at times, and though he would never admit it— adorable, too. 

you tried to be helpful, like quietly stepping in to do the chores sam and dean argued over. but it’s not like you really knew what you were doing. like the time dean tiredly shuffled into the kitchen one morning, opening the cupboard to find bacon, milk, and eggs stashed in there. when he started on an angry roll of name calling, it was your tear filled eyes and pouty lips that made him shut up quick. that afternoon was spent teaching you what food goes in the fridge. 

or the time you tried to fix up the impala, completely unaware that spray paint doesn’t cover up scratches. when dean strolled into the garage, expecting to take a sweet sunday joy ride just to find his baby had been vandalised, his shouts damn near shook the entire bunker. when he found you with paint stained fingertips and that pathetic wobbly lip, his anger dissipated. you settled on a promise to never under any circumstances ever touch baby again. 

now, as he sits before the glow of sam’s laptop, the quiet begins to feel entirely unsettling. he leaves his spot, heading for the library. when he doesn’t see you taking on your usual little helper tasks with sam his brows furrow. 

“have you seen the little bird?” 

sam looks up from his pile of books and paper, “no,” he shrugs, “i thought she was with you.”

that damn cupid is up to something, he thinks to himself. 

with a sigh dean turns, setting off to sweep the bunker. the kitchen is quiet, empty. at least the food is safe he assures himself. heading down stairs into the hall of bedrooms he finds your room empty as well. as he heads towards the dungeon, the last place he’d expect you as you once described it as dark and spooky, a muffled giggle stops him in his tracks. 

he waits, listening, as he hears it again coming from sam’s bedroom. he quietly approaches the door, gently pushing it open to find you kneeling on the ground with your back to the door. 

“what the hell are you doing, lovebird?” he crosses the room, standing over you and what he can now see to be a pair of brown fluffy rabbits. 

startled, you look up at him with wide eyes, “nothing.” you smile. his heart does that stupid little flutter that seems to only happen when you smile at him like that. all sweet with a pinch of mischief. 

“right,” his brows knit together as he points at the rabbits, “this is nothing?” 

a little humph leaves your lips as you rise to your feet, crossing your arms and looking up at dean with a determined scowl across your face, “i’m matchmaking, if you must know. these two have been hopping around outside for days and i could practically smell how much they need each other.” 

he looks between you and the critters a few times, “yeah, no, we’re not doing this. no rabbits— no animals of any kind allowed in the bunker.”

 his heart pangs as you jut out your bottom lip, eyes growing glossy. damn this pathetically cute little thing. his hands instinctively cup your face, “hey, hey, lovebird. no crying, remember?” his voice gruff, barely masking his annoyance.

you sniffle, biting your cheek to stop the tears brimming your lashes. you can’t always help the crying, cupids are naturally empathetic creatures with no qualms about showing their emotions. dean thumbs your cheeks, giving a light squeeze to one side. 

“but i’m a cupid!” you cry out, “i can’t help wanting to help them fall in love.” 

“rabbits don’t fall in love!” he drops his hands from your face, trying to find his words despite the absurdity of yours. “they mate, like the saying, ‘mate like rabbits’ there's no love happening here.” 

you stare up at him, wiping stray tears as some terrible thought makes your face turn sour. “so, like you?” your voice reflects the absolute devastation you feel at the realization. 

“oh what now?” dean groans.

“they’re like you! mating with no love.” you whimper. it’s no secret dean moves about women with everything except love. it was one of the first things you noticed about him, a spider's web of potential love stories that never takes because he’s swatting them away before anything divine can happen. you could have easily fixed this, but something about dean getting sweet with another woman makes your heart feel heavy. besides, dean asked you specifically not to matchmake with humans while you were on earth. so, the itch to use your skills was killing you and a perfectly innocent set of rabbits happened to be right outside the bunker. 

dean shoots you an incredulous look before shaking his head, “alright, i’m gunna pretend you didn’t just say that, little bird. we’re getting these things out. now.” he brushes past you, reaching for the rabbits far too slowly and aggressively, making them scurry off in opposite directions. 

“great!” you shout, “you scared them! now they’ll never even mate!” you drop to your knees, cooing gently at the fluff hiding underneath the bed. 

dean paces behind you, eyes squeezed shut as he musters up all the patience in the world, “hold on,” he stops abruptly, tilting his head to you, “why are you in sam’s room?” 

a shy smile finds your lips at you meet his quizzical gaze, “sam doesn’t say no nearly as often as you do. i thought if he saw how cute the bunnies are, he’d be on my side and i’d get to keep them and their love babies.” 

as much as dean would love to think your words fill him with nothing but anger and annoyance, your innocently sharp manipulation is rather fascinating. you were right, sam doesn’t like to say no and he was more fond of having pets than his older brother is, but dean would have put an end to this little scheme one way or another. 

as you lie half under the bed now, reaching for one of the rabbits, dean notices the little black droppings peppering the room. sam’s room.

“actually, lovebird,” he smirks, “why don’t we leave those two alone for a bit, see if your matchmaking skills really can work on the wildlife.” 

your excitement at his words makes you scramble off of the ground, peering up at him with a hopeful smile, “really? you think it’ll work?” 

“mhm,” he grins, stealing your hand in his, “let’s give ‘em some space, i’ll watch that reality show you love and let you tell me which ones are fated souls and all that cupid stuff you talk about.” 

➹

you sat with your legs crossed on the couch, dean beside you with a beer in hand and an amused grin as you raddled off all the little quirks that are tell-tale signs of a cupid’s work. on the other side of the bunker there's a clunk of commotion that startles you, but dean hardly reacts, his grin morphing into a satisfied smirk. 

“what was that?” you grab dean’s arm, shuffling closer to him.

“give it a sec.” he responds cooly. within seconds sam is stomping into the room, bewildered and clearly annoyed. 

“why,” he huffs, “are there rabbits shitting all over my room?” 

“oh no.” you whimper, sinking deeper into the couch, hiding your head under dean’s arm. 

“the little angel brought you a gift, sammy,” the older winchester let’s out an uncontrollable laugh, watching his frazzled brother with pure amusement, “don’t you just love it?” 

y'all i am not used to writing without angst or an emotional overtone so pls lmk if this sucks lol

[smokescreenimusprime]

not my usual but it was too perfect to pass up and the idea was NOT leaving my head. Decided to write a snippet for @keferon's IMMACULATE Mecha Pilot Jazz AU, though apologies if the charactization is a lil funky, this is my first time writing either of these characters and double apologies for the undoubted slew of grammar and spelling errors

but that aside, I hope you enjoy :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is It Self Sacrifice If It's Not Really You?

Despite the cacophany of the battlefield, Prowl's scream cut through it with with the ease of a freshly sharped blade through flesh and found it's home nestled into Jazz's ears.

He barely had a second to look up, hardly more than a glance, but it was all he needed to make out familiar white and black.

A Quintesson, one of the smaller but more freaky looking ones, was looming over his collapsed frame. He was pinned, his back to solid rocky walls and the Quint at his front, jamming it's tentacles into every crack of his armour they could.

He was putting up one hell of a fight, but something was wrong.

"PROWL!" he shouted, shifting his weight in preperation to bolt. "HOLD ON, I'M COMMIN-"

But the screech of the Quintesson he was currently grappling with forcefully stole his attention back, barely any warning given before it's gaping maw latched onto his mech's forearm.

It pulled, joints and plates creaking with the strain but still holding strong. It shook it's head and Jazz brought a hand up to brace against the outside of the monster, if only to stop the arm from being completely ripped out of the socket. He landed a few solid kick as it lifted him off the ground, but it's movements were still largey effortless, like his frame weighed as much as a tin can.

Prowl screamed again. This time it was louder.

Against all common (sane) sense, Jazz looked away from his enemy and toward Prowl

Some of his external plating was damaged, gouges in messy circle patterns with rivulets of blue energon sluggishly bleeding out. He seemed to be smoking too, thin curls of smoke wafting off his cables. His eyes were flickering wildly, something Jazz had grown to associate with too much damage and too little power.

All of the damage paled in comparison to where Jazz's focus was.

Now, Jazz didn't know how these guys had their mechs built, but they could hold up to some serious punishment. Their engineers seemed to keep an even more meticulous eye on any damage, and Prowler and the other's all had frames clealy meant to last.

But they were all still vulnerable at their cores.

And the Quintesson's tentacles, sparking with a terrifying yellow and red electricity, were pulling and prying right at the plating above that core.

It was starting to show some give too, a testimate to the true strength of the offending monster. Chest plating, no matter the make, didn't come off easily, intent to protect the most vulnerable parts of a pilot.

The electricity was already frying his frame, if it got a straight shot of that to his chest-

Jazz needed to do something.

Jazz needed to do something.

But what, what could he do, whatever it was it needed to be quick, he didn't have time to finish off this Quintesson, there wasn't time for finesse, he just needed to go to help to F I G H T -

Jazz readjusted the braced positioning of his legs, thanking for what was probably the thousandth time the engineers who'd made the adjustment to give him more flexibility and agility, and brought his free arm high above his head.

And brought it down.

His trapped arm creaked, the plating denting and squealing as the metal controted, sparks going flying and red error messages flashing in his vision.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

He made sure to keep his blows aimed at preciscely where he knew it was weakest and made sure to push with his legs as hard as he could, swaying side to side and focing the joint to bend in ways it had never been meant to. His movements became a dance to the orchestra of cables snapping and metal ripping and electricity cracking and his arm b r e a k i n g , the dance growing faster and more determined the louder the music played.

It felt like eternity, and the phantom sensation was disorienting. There was no pain, only uncomfortable pressure that built up and up and up, perfectly in time with the warning messages he forcefully dismissed. It was far from pleasant, but it was nothing compared to the cold burning terrified angry fight flight save him running full blast in his brain.

And with one final crack akin to lightning, he was free.

It was the furthest thing from a clean break, and to his mild surprise it didn't break at the elbow but rather a bit above it. In the second of freefall he had, he couldn't help but admire the shredded stump and mourn how he knew Ratchet was going to have his head for all the extra work.

He hit the ground in a roll and popped up running, stumbling and nearly falling face first into alien dirt at the sudden uneven weight distribution but he simply let his partial fall carry him forward until he was sprinting full speed.

With his remaining hand he grabbed the Quintesson and pulled, not letting go until it wasn't tearing into Prowl's front and instead embedded several feet in the ground. He dashed, not giving it even a moment, standing tall in front of Prowl.

The Quint got back up, enraged screeches and chitters coming out of it's mouth.

"Back off," Jazz growled back.

The Quintesson attacked, and everything became the hyperaware blur combat always became.

Dodge, dodge, punch, dodge, kick, kick, punch, dodge, jump, kick jump-

One of it's tentacles latched right onto the open stump and set a wave of electricity in.

His mech's vision went bright white, sparks exploding out even inside his cockpit and the smell of burning metal filling his nose. All the protective insulation was made useless from the direct route into the mech's systems.

Jazz jerked his arm stump back and headbutted it.

He got a tentacle to the face for his troubles, grabbers squeezing and cracking the visor. He planted his feet, one on solid ground the other on the slack of the tentacle, and pulled as hard as he could.

A decent chunk of the face came left it, not deep enough to affect any systems or his vision anymore than it was already damaged, but enough that it certainly wasn't pretty.

He kept more distance after that. Wouldn't do any good for him or Prowler if he got fried too. But the Quintesson was desperate, like a cornered animal, grabbing and clawing at anything it could gets it's tentacles on. The same gouges Prowl had began to litter his own armour as it kept making grabs, and the beastie even managing to get a few more much briefer electrical surges in.

It was obvious only one of them was going to walk away from this fight, and Jazz was not going to let it be the Quint. Prowl would kill him if he did

Finally he managed to get in a lucky shot, albeit at the cost of his feet. The Quintesson tried to get in a bite like it friend had, only to be met with the full force of Jazz's feet pressing them apart.

The teeth and other horrors might've torn through his feet but dammit if it wasn't satisfying to hear the crack as its jaw snapped and the body went limp.

The battle was still going on around them, but it was starting to wind down. A trio of bots had even started attacking the one Jazz had left behind.

The immediate area was clear, and there were more than enough bots he could shout out to for backup if he needed it.

"Prowler, you okay?" he said, though he noticed his voice had a bit of static lacing it. Maybe getting his face ripped off did more damage than he thought, or it could be lingering damage from the electricity. "Sorry it took me so long to come getcha, talk, dark and bitey kept me a bit occupied."

He wiggled his stump with a chuckle, leaning in closer. Kneeling down was difficult with the leaking hydraulic fluid and Quintesson salivia making it hard to get a solid grip, but with the current state of his visor he didn't want to risk missing anything on Prowl. To his relief, despite the extensive denting and electrical burns, Prowl's chest was thankfully uncompromised. Hopefully his mech was insulated

The electricity seemed to have done a number on his connection to the head though, the eyes were still glitching wildly and his normally expressive face seemed stuck.

"J-Jazz..." Prowl stuttered, and Jazz found himself frowning. Maybe Prowl got a bit more banged up on the inside than he thought. "You- your-"

His eyes were flickering wildly about Jazz's mech, and he could practically hear his friend's battle computer crunching away.

"Ah, don't worry bout that," he rapping his mech's chest with a fist. "This old frame's gone through worse. Nothing delicate got smashed, and I've barely got a scratch on me. Ratchet'll have me right as rain before you know it, so don't worry your pretty little head one bit."

"Speaking of, I'm gonna go find 'im," he stood back up, looking around the battlefield. "The fight's pretty much over, and I'm not sure if it's a great idea for you to be moving after all that zappy nonsense. Just sit tight and-"

"No!"

Jazz startled a bit at the sudden shout, looking back down at Prowl. The other man's mech suddenly lunged up, sitting straight and looking at him with wide eyes.

"Prowler? Is somethin wrong?"

"I will contact Ratchet," he says in a rush. "A comm message will be more efficient than searching on foot, not to mention I'll be able to tell him what to prepare for,"

Jazz raised a brow.

"Go right ahead, Prowl," he chirped despite his suspicion. He was fairly certain Prowl was hiding something from him, but prying would just make him clamp down tighter.

Prowl didn't seem like the sort to hide things from medics but...

He sat his mech down and leaned back against the wall. "You don't mind if I wait with ya, do you?"

Just to be safe.

Despite his initial assumptions, Prowl actually seemed to relax at his suggestion.

"Not at all."

[spookwriter-xo]

Coppélia

Chapter 6 - The Kim Estate

Chapter Summary - A little bit of Y/N's backstory and her family's history. She gets a tour of the Kim Estate from San and Wooyoung and gets a brief glimpse into the boys' private lives.

warnings: San does get a little violent towards the end, and Wooyoung cracks a few sex jokes (MDNI)

Series Masterlist

The house I grew up in was nothing short of a prison. I had all the luxuries of high society, yes, but that didn't mean I felt the same warmth and compassion children should be surrounded with.

My father owned a fashion company, Belluxe, one of the biggest in our part of the world. He had a lot of ties with some dangerous and powerful people, and as I got older I realized how much it had really gotten to his head.

The power. The greed.

I was forbidden to talk to him when I was young, only if we had guests. If I did without permission, he'd get angry. He had only gotten physical with me once, and that was when our family bond broke forever.

I was nine years old, home from boarding school with Christmas like I normally would be. My younger sister was ecstatic to have me home, finally having someone other than our mother to play with. Our older sister, she wasn't around this time. I figured she'd stayed at school for the holidays, but as I got older I found out she had run away.

I went by a different name back then, first and last. I'd changed it once I was disowned at 17, wanting to leave that old life behind. It was a lot easier than it should have been, all things considered.

I remember we were sitting at the dinner table, the only sound coming from our cutlery scraping across the porcelain plates. My mother had asked briefly how school was, and I gave a short but honest answer; "It was alright."

My father leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty seat where my sister should have been. He cleared his throat, causing us all to turn our heads in attention.

"Chariya, you'll be the next heir." He says simply, my old name, it felt weird hearing it even if it was just a memory. "Since Chalita has failed to exceed my expectations."

My family was Thai on my mother's side. She'd named us all after members of her family still in Thailand, bringing a piece of her old life with her.

Mother and Father married after father knocked my mother up with Chalita, the eldest. My mother used to say he was a kind man until she gave him too many daughters and no son. I think she just used it as an excuse to hide the snake he really is.

"My love, she is too young-" My mother states before she is cut off.

"Enough! I told you not to speak against me." He shouts, slamming his fist down on the table. My little sister, Chaluai, begins to cry at the sudden noise. My mother bows her head and stands, taking Chaluai with her as she exits the dining room.

I stare down at my plate, hearing the sound of his chair creaking as he leans back.

"Your mother doesn't understand the ways of this world." He says. "But one day you will."

I was startled awake by a knock on the door, causing my body to jump from my skin.

"Hello?" I call out groggily, sitting up.

"Uhm... Y/N? It's San." A muffled voice from the other side of the door calls out.

"Right..." I murmur, the events from the last few nights creeping their way back into my head. I stretch and swing my legs over the side. My feet hit the wood as I shuffle towards the door, opening it slowly.

San stands there on the other side, wearing a suit a little different from the one he wore last night. His eyes widen as I open the door, quickly looking up.

"Just thought I'd wake you... Wooyoung and I are home whenever you want that tour." He says, finding the ceiling very interesting.

"Oh! Just give me a few minutes and I'll come find you." I say, fingers gripping the door. San nods before hurriedly rushing down the hall and towards the stairs. I watch him go before closing the door. He was a lot shyer than last night. Maybe something was on his mind.

I walk into the walk-in wardrobe and look around at all the luxurious clothes hung up for me. There was a cabinet in the center, inside millions of dollars worth of jewelry for me to choose from. I feel a shiver run up my spine at the sight. It had been so long since I'd seen anything like this, and it felt wrong.

I hadn't worked for it, I didn't buy it myself. These men had only met me last night yet they were already willing to spend millions on me. Why?

I settled on a simple top and skirt, slipping on some fluffy slippers that were positioned neatly beside my bed before making my way out into the hallway.

The eery silence shared with the darkness of the hallway settled a sick feeling in my stomach. It was so quiet, that no chatter or thumping of footsteps could be heard. I figured Wooyoung and San were downstairs somewhere, praying that they weren't the type to jump out and scare me.

I head towards the staircase, the scenery getting brighter as I peek down at the pretty white marble that now glittered in the sunlight. My hand slides down the railing as the stairs take me to the lower floor. I gaze at the paintings on the wall, one of all 8 of them positioned on and around a fancy-looking couch, and another with a younger-looking Hongjoong, who I assumed to be his mother, father, and brother.

I didn't know he had a brother, I wonder what happened to him?

I glanced left and right once I reached the bottom of the stairs, the house felt like a maze, going on forever in both directions.

"San? Wooyoung?" I call out, my hands finding my elbows as I glance around. I decided to go left, entering what seemed to be the main living room based on the three couches and the fireplace with a television situated above it. I reach my hand out and press my fingers into the plush cushions, feeling the soft fabric beneath my skin.

"Y/N?" A voice makes me jump, I turn around to see Wooyoung standing in the doorway I just walked through. He had a grin on his face. "Scared ya?" He says with a light cackle.

I splutter for a moment before crossing my arms tighter. I watch as he scans my figure, admiring my figure.

"Eyes are up here, Wooyoung." I tease, as he stares a little too long at my legs.

"Yeosang picked your wardrobe well." He says, ignoring my words and stepping a little closer. "Would prefer you don't wear it around me though."

I hold my hand up and stop him from coming any closer right as San enters from another door behind me.

"Hongjoong said we should give you a tour." He says gruffly, his hair looking a lot messier than it was when he visited maybe 20 minutes prior. I glanced at his knuckles, noticing the light bruising that had begun to blossom before he quickly hid them in the pockets of his jacket.

"I'm ready to start whenever you are," I say, offering him a smile which he hesitates to return.

"Well, this is the main living room. Pretty obvious since it looks like a living room." Wooyoung chirps, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "Don't mind if San is a little quiet. He gets grumpy when he has to work early."

I glance back at San as Wooyoung starts to lead me through another archway into a large room. I gasped as the realization hit me that this was a ballroom. A large and grand ballroom, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. There was a grand piano on a small platform tucked away into a corner, floor-to-ceiling length windows with a matching door that led out to the backyard and a large diamond-clad chandelier dangled from the ceiling.

I could feel Wooyoung's grin as I slowly moved away from him, my jaw hanging slightly as I walked to the center. There were mosaic patterns that formed a lily flower on the floor under my feet which made me smile.

"Seonghwa told us to open the curtains for you, they haven't been opened since Hongjoongs parents were alive. The only person that uses this room is Mingi when he wants to play piano." San says from behind me. "Hongjoong's mother painted the lily flower herself."

"It's a painting?" I ask, turning to look back at both of them in surprise.

"Doesn't look it right? She was extremely talented at making things look different than what they are." Wooyoung says, the same grin on his face.

The tour went on, and every room amazed me more than the last. The kitchen was huge, almost twice the size of my bedroom with a dining room attached to it which was just as big. My mind wandered to all the grand dinners they must have hosted when Hongjoongs parents were still alive. Did they host balls too? It would be foolish not to considering how beautiful the setting was.

There was a pool, a greenhouse, and even a golf course in the backyard. I glanced over the hill and caught a glimpse of a tennis court on the far side of the golf course. I wondered how many acres this house was on. We weren't that from the city, however I couldn't see any other buildings for miles.

Inside on the first floor, there was a two-story library, another 2 smaller seating rooms, and laundry/housekeeping quarters behind the kitchen. The hallways were twisting in all directions, as if intentional. Was the layout meant to confuse people? Maybe intruders?

It would be smart if it was, all things considered. The house was intimidating from the outside just on its own, getting lost on the inside felt like a terrifying idea.

"Do you guys have maids?" I ask my arm now linked with Wooyoungs. I'd hate to be a worker here, having to clean this house would have to take days. Not only that but cooking? Laundry? Maintenance work would be a nightmare too.

"We do, they have Sundays off." Wooyoung answers, leading me back to the main stairwell. "Upstairs is mostly bedrooms and bathrooms. Hongjoong's home office is at the end of the hall on the right." He adds.

I nod, my neck craning to look at the paintings lining the walls once again. There was a painting of a woman, a beautiful woman with long black hair and piercing green eyes with freckles dusting her cheeks. I stared at the painting for a moment, getting a sinking feeling that she was staring back.

"That's Aurora." Wooyoung murmurs, eyes on the painting too. "She was... The one before you." He hesitates to say, glancing down at me before looking back up at the painting. I let go of his arm and climbed a few steps to stand directly in front of her painting.

"She's beautiful... Pretty name too." I say softly, my eyes softening as more details reveal themselves.

"You would have liked her," San says, his arms crossed as he looks at the painting, a sad look in his eyes. "She was like you, not a dancer though... More of a reader."

"If you wanted to find her she'd only ever be in the library," Wooyoung says with a small chuckle. "Most of the books in there were gifts for her, from us." He says.

"What happened to her?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as I turn back to them. They're both staring up at the painting, Wooyoung lowers his head and lets out a soft, pained sigh once he registers my question.

"We'll tell you in time. You should get settled first." San answers, his voice low.

Oddly enough, I didn't feel an ounce of jealousy. It was obvious she wasn't in the picture, whether she was alive or not. However, the pained look on Wooyoungs face and the behavior of the other boys when she is mentioned made me think it was the latter. I felt sad for them. It was obvious they loved her, maybe more than I would ever realize or truly know.

A part of me was envious of that fact. To be loved so unconditionally was something I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. But, another part of me was scared. Did their work have something to do with her death? It made sense in a way.

A loud crash made me jump from my thoughts. I look to San and Wooyoung who are suddenly on high alert before San grumbles something and storms off into the direction of the main living room. I glance at Wooyoung as I step down the stairs to follow but the man stops me.

"Don't follow him." He says in a hushed voice, gripping my hips in a tight hold as I glance behind him. My eyes widened, the door San had entered through at the start of the day was wide open with a man stumbling through. San grabs the man by the back of the neck and practically drags him back into the darkness beyond the door.

The man lets out a string of curses and begs as San slams the door shut behind them both, his cries fading into nothing the further they go.

"It's the basement," Wooyoung says, answering my question before I even had to ask. "It's the only place in this house that you are not allowed to go. Understand?" He says, his expression void of any playfulness I had come to associate with his character.

"I understand," I say, staring back up at him with the same wide-eyed expression.

"Good girl." He says with a grin, hand cupping my cheek briefly before moving away, heading towards the staircase. "Come, I'll show you everyone's rooms."

I glance at the door to the basement for a moment before following Wooyoung up the stairs.

I've decided to update the story consistently every Tuesday at 12 am (AEST). A Christmas special is being planned which will be set a few years after the events of this book.

I urge minors to not interact beyond this chapter, for it's going to start getting heavy from this point. I will be checking profiles to make sure so please have something to prove your age on your profile! I don't want to traumatize children <3

Also, I closed the taglist a little early however I'll be going through the comments and the past few posts and making sure I didn't miss anyone. If you aren't on it when this chapter is posted, I'll add you to the next one.

taglist:

@bellaptv @arilevenatz @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @hecateslittlewitchling

@neuviloved @monstacheol @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone

@vtyb23 @bigbabygremlin @professormingiglasses

@pinuspot @astral-trashcan @ateezswonderland

[faithshouseofchaos]

Please write about the shy reader and Kimi Raikkonen ❤️

Out of the shadows— Kimi Raikkonen x reader

Word count — 750

Fluff

The paddock was alive with the usual chaos—mechanics rushing to and fro, journalists shouting over each other, and fans clamoring for attention. Y/N stood awkwardly near the Ferrari garage, clutching her team lanyard like it was her only anchor in the storm of noise around her. She hated crowds. The constant hum of voices, the flashes of cameras, the feeling of being watched—it was all too much. But today, she’d promised herself she would try. Try to be more like the others—confident, outgoing, able to handle it all.

Her resolve was crumbling with every passing moment.

She shifted from foot to foot, looking for a quiet place to retreat when she heard a familiar voice.

“Why are you hiding here like a scared rabbit?”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, and she turned quickly to see Kimi Räikkönen standing just a few steps away, holding a cup of coffee. He stood there in his usual casual way—arms loosely crossed, face impassive, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His presence was effortless.

“I’m not hiding,” she said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked down, fiddling with her lanyard. “Just… observing.”

“Observing?” Kimi repeated, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused. He took a slow sip of his coffee, not breaking eye contact. “From the shadows?”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed as she bit her lip. “I… I just don’t like crowds.”

His gaze softened ever so slightly, but his tone remained as blunt as ever. “Neither do I,” he said.

She blinked. “But you’re always out there—racing, talking to the media…” Her voice trailed off, unsure of how to finish. Kimi never seemed to care about the constant attention. How could he be so composed?

Kimi’s eyes flickered to the bustling scene around them, but he didn’t look stressed, didn’t flinch. “Talking?” he repeated, his lips curling into something close to a grin. “No. I say what I need to, then I leave. Simple.”

Y/N was silent for a moment, processing his words. “You’re… different,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“Everyone’s different,” he replied with a shrug, taking another sip of his coffee. “You think too much about what people think. Waste of time.”

She laughed softly, surprised at how easy it was to talk to him despite herself. She had expected more sarcasm, more indifference. But there was a strange clarity in the way Kimi spoke. He wasn’t trying to be profound, but every word seemed to cut through the noise.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said quietly. “I guess it’s easier for you.”

Kimi’s gaze softened just a touch as he regarded her, but his voice remained unaffected. “You think I don’t care?” he asked. “I care about what matters. I care about racing. But the rest of it?” He waved a hand in the direction of the media frenzy. “Pointless. Why stress about it?”

She found herself smiling—slowly, hesitantly—at his nonchalance. “I don’t know how you do it.”

He gave a single, short laugh—no warmth, just blunt amusement. “You overthink everything. You should laugh more. Better than all that worrying.”

Y/N felt her nerves begin to ease, if only a little. She glanced away, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her neck. “I’ll try,” she said softly, not used to this kind of easy back-and-forth.

Kimi didn’t respond immediately, instead finishing his coffee before casually nodding toward the garage entrance. “Come on,” he said. “You don’t have to talk to anyone, just stand there. They’ll leave you alone.”

She hesitated, glancing at the noisy crowd, then back at him. Something about the way he said it—the matter-of-factness, the certainty—made her want to trust him.

She let out a breath, her shoulders relaxing just a little. “Okay,” she said, surprised at how easily the word slipped out.

They walked side by side toward the garage. The sounds of the paddock faded as she followed Kimi—no words passed between them, but for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel the constant pressure of expectations. Kimi’s presence was quiet but steady, and though he didn’t say anything more, she didn’t need him to.

It was a strange feeling, to be standing there beside him, surrounded by noise, and yet, for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of them.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N realized—maybe it wasn’t so terrifying, stepping out of the shadows after all.

[bullet-prooflove]

Haunted: Leroy Jethro Gibbs x Reader (feat: Mike Franks)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @riley-kore @ilovemark1951 @love-affair-with-fandoms @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

Companion piece to:

The Ice Queen - Gibbs meets The Ice Queen for the first time.

Break The Ice - A act of decency helps Gibbs to break the ice.

Grave - You and Gibbs bump into each other in an unexpected place.

Safe - You and Gibbs work through your grief in different ways.

Check In - Gibbs checks in with you after the night before.

Wait It Out - You and Gibbs wait out a threat to your saftey.

All Dressed Up - You and Gibbs have a frank conversation about an office event.

Right Here - You come home to find Gibbs waiting for you on your doorstep.

Revelations - Gibbs is surprised to discover a connection between you and Mike Franks.

There are three cases that haunt Mike Franks.

The Gibbs case, the Larsen case and your sister’s case, the one that was never his to begin with. After all they don’t let special agents investigate the death of someone close to them, especially not the woman that was about to become your spouse.

It hadn’t stopped Mike from hounding the agents that were working the case, sifting through their files or surveying their interviews from the opposite side of the interrogation room window.

It had earned him a suspension, forced bereavement leave they called it.

He’d checked out for a while after that, booze, fights, the whole nine yards. You’d bailed him out more than a handful of times because you couldn’t let the man who had loved your sister throw away his life or his career.

He gets his shit together just in time for the funeral, then spirals again right after.

“She wouldn’t want this for you.” You tell him one night as the two of you sit in your living room trying to regroup. He’s clasping an ice pack to his knuckles from another fight and you’re stitching up the cut above his eye from some asshole’s class ring. “It’s time to put on your big boy pants and start doing the shit she fell in love with you for instead of this nonsense.”

“You don’t understand.” He finds himself saying, his voice raw as the thread tugs tightly, pulling the edges of the wound together. “It’s like I have all this rage, all this emotion but there’s no where for it to go, no one to blame…”

Because they haven’t found the man that brutalised Violet and that case, it just gets colder every day.

“And you Maeve, you just don’t seem to feel a damn thing.”

“That’s because I don’t.” You tell him frankly, sniping the tail off the stitches before sitting down on the coffee table so you can meet his gaze. “I’ve been empty ever since the day they’d found her dead.”

And that’s when he realises you’re depressed.

You’ve spent all this time looking out for him…

And he’s done jack shit for you.

He makes you a promise that night, while he’s sprawled out on your couch. He’ll do whatever he can to pull you out of this fog because he knows where that numbness leads.

You don’t have a gun so he guesses it’ll be slit wrists in a bathtub or a handful of pills down your throat. They’re usually ladies choice.

So he gets his shit together, goes back to work, starts making an effort. He makes sure to check in on you, get you out of the house, dinner, drinks, walks with Gary. You start to come back to the world again and so does he.

It’s when he starts to date again that things hit a speed bump. The moment you see him with another woman, it’s like a flip switches inside you because you realise Mike can just move on, find someone else to take up the position that Violet filled in his life but you can’t, you can’t replace your sister.

The fight you have that night, it’s the first time you’ve exhibited any emotion about Violet’s death. You scream, you shout, you throw crockery and Mike, he just takes it because this is what he’s been waiting for, the moment you admit to yourself that Violet’s gone, that she’s never coming back.

You get distant after that, colder. When he approaches you a few weeks later you make it clear that you don’t want anything to do with him. As far as you’re concerned any personal connection between the two of you died with your sister.

It wounds him in a way he doesn’t care to admit but he respects your wishes because he understands that this, this is how you move on.

Now he’s sitting in your office, on the opposite side of your desk because the probie, he’s been digging through your sister’s case and he thinks he’s found something, and Mike kinda thinks he has too. He just needs you to make sure.  

“They never found her engagement ring.” Mike tells you, his elbows coming to rest upon your desk as he leans forward, his hands clasped together on top of the blue folder he’s placed there. “I was too fucked up to notice at the time. Is there any chance you have it?”

It’s a distinctive piece. An aquamarine stone set amongst a couple of diamonds in a silver band. It had cost him a couple of months salary but it had been worth it at the time because that gem, it had been the exact colour of Violet’s eyes.

“No.” You say softly, your eyebrows furrowing into a frown. “I thought you’d kept it afterwards as a keepsake.”

He sees the realisation hit you, about what must have happened to that ring. He knows it’s like a gut punch because that’s exactly the way that he felt when Gibbs asked him the question. The other man had spent hours trawling through those evidence logs trying to locate it. Mike has to give him his due diligence, he’s spotted something nobody else did, even though he wasn’t supposed to be working the case.

“You think that son of a bitch took it?” You ask him. There’s a dangerous lilt in your voice, one he recognises from the last time the two of you were in the same proximity.

“I do.” He says and he watches you literally bite your tongue in order to stop yourself from cursing out the assholes who clearly dropped the fucking ball with Violet’s case. They’ve moved on now, retired, he’d had Gibbs and Lala check in because he didn’t trust himself not to tear them a new one.

“What does that mean?” You ask him, agitated. “That she was a victim of a serial? Those guys like to take trophies right?”

“Actually, we’re thinking a little more close to home.” He says as he pushes the blue folder towards you with his fingertips. “I got Strickland to put together a profile. I wanted to see if it fit anyone from back then, someone that was in her life, maybe someone I didn’t know…”

There’s a reluctance in you, he sees it. The thing is this folder, it’s a grenade. It has the power to tear your whole life apart and you’re just getting back on your feet, you’re just starting to climb out of that hole you’ve been trapped in for so fucking long.

“I still dream about her Maeve,” He tells you with a tremor in his voice. “I’m with someone else, in love with her but Violet’s ghost, it still haunts me.”

Your hands are shaking when you open the folder, you swallow hard against the ache in your chest as you study the words written in Strickland’s neat scrawl. Age, behaviours, job description. It’s like you’re seeing him clear as day, leaping up at you from between the pages.

“Maeve…” Mike says as he studies the expression on your face. “Do you know him?”

There’s an agony in you, it’s excruciating because this son of a bitch, he still visits your sister’s grave. He puts white lilies against the headstone, every birthday and Christmas because they were friends, such good fucking friends.

“Yea.” You say, your voice devoid of emotion as your gaze sweeps up to meet Mike’s. “I fucking do.”

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

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[striveattemptfail]

maybe it's a little too early (to know if this is gonna work) | Logan Howlett/Wade Wilson, 5.2k, M

@poolverine-week: Day 6 – Sharing Clothes

Summary: Five times Wade steals wears Logan's clothes, and one time Logan wears Wade's suit. Rated for allusions to sex, but nothing explicit. Takes place some time after the movie’s events; assume Logan and Wade are back-up X-Men. Read on Ao3

A/N: Thank you to��B @broosepayne for helping out with random details + thank you to @fuckselfloveihatemyself for suggesting "impersonation" for the final scene. Shout out to the Manga Hoes server for listening to me bitch about finishing this fic lol. Un-beta'd and I apologize /o\ Title from You Look Good In My Shirt by Keith Urban—just be grateful I didn't give this fic the exact same name lmaooo

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Nothing / Wearing Wade’s Clothes ]

The first morning he wakes up in Wade’s timeline—his new universe—Logan has on nothing but a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a pair of highlighter pink Hello Kitty boxers. He desperately needs something to wear aside from what are basically undergarments because he came into this world with nothing but his X-Men suit.

Or what’s left of it anyway.

Which is why, once he finally gets up from the pull-out bed, he sees Wade trying on the jacket that the TVA gave him after they destroyed the Time Ripper. Wade is in front of the only full-size mirror in the apartment, twisting his body every which way to inspect the jacket.

Then, he catches Logan’s reflection in the mirror.

“Morning, peanut!” he greets, turning around to face him with a smile. “I’m trying this on to see how it fits on me.”

“Uh, yeah. I see that,” Logan says with brows furrowed. “Why?”

“I was thinking about grabbing you some clothes but need a reference for your size.”

“Bub, that jacket is too big even for me.”

“...okay, yeah,” Wade eventually concedes, “but it’s the only thing you own that isn’t shredded to pieces from the Time Ripper.”

Unfortunately, the moron has a point. As it is, the boxers Wade loaned him are a bit tight on his waist, and the collar of the shirt is snug on his neck, but it’s not like Logan’s in any position to complain.

“I have to swing by Target to grab supplies for Dogpool anyway,” Wade continues before making kissy faces at the dog in question. “We need to get you some treats, huh, little missy? Yeah! And then we’ll get honey badger some clothes that actually fit him!”

And, well, it’s not like Logan is keen on stepping outside of this apartment in the brightest colour he’s ever worn in his over 200-year existence. It’s also not like he even has the funds to buy himself a hotdog from the street vendor around the corner, much less purchase anything for a new wardrobe. So if Wade wants to go out and buy some clothes for him, Logan isn’t going to stop him.

He grunts his assent as he makes his way to the kitchen, muttering a gruff Fine as he starts on a cup of coffee.

Later, when Wade leaves for Target, Logan grabs the now tossed aside TVA jacket.

If he happens to take a sniff of it once Wade’s out the door (inhaling the scent of cloyingly sweet body wash, hot sauce, and something Logan is fast recognizing as Wade), it’s simply because he wants to know whether it already stinks after yesterday’s events.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: One Load of Staples ]

Luckily for Logan, Peter and Dopinder volunteered to help Wade clothes shop when he went to Target. Apparently, Wade wanted to buy all sorts of brightly coloured cutesy shit—like much of his own clothing, allegedly so the two of them could match—but Peter and Dopinder manage to rein him in and grab a few staples. T-shirts, jeans, sweatpants, boxers, socks, and a pair of shoes that’ll fall apart in about a month if Logan has to guess.

It’s enough for him to survive on until he can buy more clothes, and enough to produce a load of laundry once the day arrives. Luckily, the apartment has a washer-dryer combo in the unit, so he finishes the single, meagre load of clothes he owns in no time. He’s bringing them to the bedroom to put away when he finds Wade already inside, standing there in nothing but the smallest pair of tighty-whities Logan’s ever seen on a man.

“What the fuck,” is all he can say.

“Hey, honey badger!” Wade greets, normal as ever, as if he’s not exposing miles of skin and taut muscle that Logan would love to—

He messily dumps his clothes onto the bed, scowling at Wade.

“Why the fuck are you naked?” he demands.

“Oh, please, I’m hiding all the goods,” Wade brushes him off. He turns back to the heap of clothes on the hamper, presumably to find something that doesn’t smell like wet dog or weeks old nastiness.

Shit. The damn briefs aren’t even large enough to completely cover Wade’s ass, and Logan can see a hint of cheeks peeking through.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Logan rolls his eyes, hoping that his frown hides the conflict inside him.

With a smirk that can only spell trouble, Wade faces him again to thumb at the waistband of his underwear. “Would you rather I take them off?”

Logan snarls, averting his gaze to the small mound of clothes he has to put away. He angrily starts folding things, breath coming out in huffs that he hopes convey annoyance.

“Jeez, who pissed in your coffee this morning, kitty cat?” Wade complains, letting go of the waistband. “It’s not like I’m rubbing one out in front of you.”

“Shut the fuck up, bub,” Logan spits, throwing down another folded shirt.

The problem—like most things—is because of Wade.

It’s hard enough to share any amount of space with him, much less sleep in the same bed together every night, and Logan’s only a man. He might be too proud to admit it out loud (especially to a blabber mouth like Wade), but god fucking damnit somehow the fucker’s gotten under his skin. He makes Logan crave for more than innocently spooning in the early hours of the morning, want more than stolen glances when he thinks Wade isn’t looking.

It doesn’t help that Wade flirts with him constantly. People used to chastise Logan for how aggressively he pursued Jean back in the day. Now, he knows it’s nothing compared to the constant boner Wade has towards anything that speaks to him.

Logan needs to stop this train of thought—thinking about Wade’s boner is only going encourage his own.

“So, why are you naked?” he asks, probably angrier than acceptable for a conversation like this but, fuck, does Wade bring out the asshole in him.

“Technically, I’m not—”

“Fine, almost naked, you annoying prick.”

He looks up to find Wade with narrowed eyes, shooting him a dubious look that can only say, Are you serious?

“Obviooouslyyy,” he drawls out, rifling through the hamper again, “I thought I had more clothes left.”

Logan looks at the mountain Wade’s digging through. “Wait, you’re completely out of clean clothes? How the fuck did that happen?”

“I don’t know!” Wade throws his hands up in exasperation. “Ask the author!”

“I have no idea what that means,” he admits. “Anyway, why are you only in underwear?”

“What? You want me to steal some of Blind Al’s shit?” Wade pauses then, clearly mulling it over. “Actually, now that I think about it, her tracksuits would look great on me. They’d fit like baby clothes on a high schooler but it could be like a Y2K revival. Juicy Couture à la Wade. I’d smell like mothballs and old lady all day but it’d be worth it, I think!” He ends the rambling with a toothy grin.

Logan doesn’t dignify that with a response. He scrubs a hand over his face with a sigh.

“Just... put on some damn clothes, bub.”

“Fine.”

Wade—probably in an attempt to piss him the fuck off, as usual—stares at him with a piercing gaze, maintaining eye contact with Logan as he grabs a white t-shirt from the folded pile and slides it on.

Logan just glares at him, jaw clenching tight.

The worst part is that he’s not even mad that Wade’s grabbing shit that he just folded. For some fucking reason, there’s a small but very loud part of Logan deeply satisfied to see Wade in his clothes again. He hasn’t worn anything of Logan’s since trying on the TVA jacket that first day home, but seeing him in one of Logan’s tees is apparently doing something for him.

Wade spins in place, and Logan notices that the hem of the t-shirt barely covers Wade’s crotch, skims the peak of Wade’s pert ass. Once he faces Logan again, he pinches the sides of the shirt like he’s holding a skirt, dipping into a small curtsy.

“Is that better, oh, prudent majesty?” he taunts.

Logan finally snaps.

Before he’s even conscious of it, he’s striding over to where Wade is still staring at him, his expression turning confused though still playful.

“Woah, big boy, I didn’t think you’d be that pissed—”

Logan grabs his face and cuts him off with a kiss, Wade making a surprised noise against his mouth before finally kissing back. Even though Logan is leading, Wade still gives as good as gets, his tongue darting into the cavern of Logan’s mouth when he gasps for air. He’s not sure how long they suck face for, but when Logan finally pulls away, a satisfied noise rumbles through his chest at Wade’s stunned but amused face.

“Finally got you to shut up,” Logan teases, words coming out shallow and thin.

“Oh, it’ll take a lot more than that, old man,” Wade quips back, and another purr builds in Logan’s chest when he hears the gravel in Wade’s voice. Wade throws his arms over Logan’s shoulders and crashes their lips together again.

Neither of their laundry gets finished for a long while after that, both of them too caught up in seeking pleasure from each other. Most of Logan’s freshly laundered clothes lie wrinkled on the bed for hours until he remembers to put them away. Wade doesn’t even start on his own laundry until Logan tells him that Althea would definitely kick his ass if he wore her stuff.

But he continues wearing Logan’s shirt until his own clothes are finally clean, so Logan can’t complain at all.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Half Complete + A New Suit ]

They’re suiting up for an X-Men mission when Wade snatches the Wolverine cowl before Logan can put it on. He’s still in the middle of zipping up when he spots Wade grabbing it out of the corner of his eye, and he doesn’t even need to turn around to know that the dipshit’s already wearing it.

“Give it back,” he says absentmindedly, buckling in the last straps of his suit.

He turns around and shoots Wade a flat look, correct in his assumption that Wade put it on. Typical Wade, he’s wearing his Deadpool mask underneath the Wolverine cowl.

“How do I look?” Wade asks, voice lilting with anticipation.

He looks like someone threw up primary colours on his head and decided to call it a mask.

“You look like someone threw up primary colours on your head and decided to call it a mask.”

Wade gasps, clearly offended. “Rude!”

Logan rolls his eyes. “Just hand me my fuckin’ cowl, bub.”

“Mmmmm, no.”

He never makes shit easy. Logan can only sigh.

“Wade, we gotta leave for the mission brief,” Logan reminds him. They’re about to leave on time for once, and that never happens. “Gimme my goddamn cowl.”

Wade ignores him, as he often does, sauntering over to Logan with a sway in his hips, and Logan quirks a brow at him. He knows what that walk means, and suddenly heading to the X-Mansion for a mission is becoming the last thing on his mind.

Wade drapes his arms over Logan’s shoulders, and Logan automatically places his hands on Wade’s hips. Even beneath both masks, Logan can tell that Wade is waggling his non-existent eyebrows at him once they’re pressed close together. “Wanna inspect the wind resistance on these blowjob handles yourself, peanut?”

Logan snorts. “No, because I don’t wanna see my own mask sucking my dick.”

“Aww,” Wade whines, and Logan can hear the pout in his voice even if he can’t see it, “you’re no fun!”

“‘Sides,” Logan murmurs in his ear, low and sultry, as he pulls Wade closer, “I like seeing your face when we’re together, bub.”

He moves a hand from Wade’s waist to slightly lift his Deadpool mask at the collar. He then ducks his face into the curve where Wade’s neck meets shoulder, mouthing at the now exposed skin there. He smirks when he feels the catch in Wade’s throat.

“I thought we had to leave for the mission brief?” Wade mocks, but it comes out breathy and very pleased by the turn of events.

Logan hums mischievously, nipping at Wade’s neck. “Don’t give a shit anymore.”

“Cool cool cool,” Wade babbles, body pressing against Logan’s, all hot and eager. “I just—oh, fuck, honey badger—I was just thinking—”

“If yer thinking, then I ain’t doin’ this right,” he grumbles, words starting to slur together because there’s something else he’d much rather be doing with his mouth. The hand he still has on Wade’s waist travels to his crotch. Wade bucks his hips into Logan’s open palm with a husky groan, already half-hard.

“You’re doing everything so, so right,” Wade gasps, hips rutting into his grip. “It’s just—ngh—you better be the one taking off this suit, because I did not spend five whole minutes and half a thing of baby powder squeezing my ass into it just to—oh, shit!—strip it off again.”

With a final lick to his pulse point, Logan pulls away just enough to look at Wade. He smirks at the way Wade is panting, puffs of breath hitting his face in needy bursts despite the fabric covering Wade’s mouth.

“I gotta take off your clothes?” he confirms. Wade nods jerkily. “S’not a problem with me.”

And he drops to his knees, unbuckling Wade’s utility belt to do just that.

They do eventually get to the X-Mansion—just 30 minutes late, and they completely miss the briefing. Colossus looks at both of them in disappointment when he relays the abridged version of the mission objectives while they fly to their destination on the X-Jet. Frankly, Logan only half listens to the giant, completely unapologetic in his lack of focus. Being distracted is well worth it as he mulls over the events of the past hour.

Because Logan discovers that, while he might not get off on seeing his own cowl blowing him, he doesn’t mind when he’s on his knees looking up to see it thrown back in pleasure.

At least as long as Wade’s the one wearing it.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Signature Items Acquired ]

The next time they leave together, it’s to meet Vanessa and Dermot for bowling. Logan’s ready before Wade is, waiting in the living room because apparently how long it takes Wade to decide on an outfit completely depends on how he’s feeling.

Thankfully, today isn’t too awful. He’d only worn the Deadpool mask in the morning because he, quote, “felt like skewered chicken intestines,” and nearly cancelled on bowling altogether. But after an orgasm from Logan and cuddling from Mary Puppins, his mood had turned around.

All of which means that Wade is now in a mad dash pulling an outfit together. Logan knows better than to try and help him or force him to hurry up, so he’s left on the couch quietly grumbling to Mary about how he thinks Wade looks good in basically everything he wears.

He’s proven absolutely right when Wade finally steps out of the bedroom. Logan barely registers the full outfit because he’s completely focused on one item.

“How do I look?” Wade asks with a sly grin, walking over to the mirror to inspect himself. He twirls in front of his reflection while smoothing down the leather of the jacket he’s wearing.

Logan’s jacket.

He’s unable to put words together with the way his brain is currently short-circuiting. He grunts in response anyway, knowing that Wade will keep talking even if he doesn’t reply verbally.

He’s proven right yet again because Wade continues without missing a beat. “You think I should switch styles? Give yours back and get my own? Jackets aren’t really my thing though... Oh! What if I got a cape instead? It’d help for ‘no capes’ AUs to actually shed a cape, huh? Has there ever been a DP with a cape? I don’t remember seeing one when we fought the Corps.”

He hums a contemplative sound as Logan stands up from the couch, making his way over to Wade.

“Maybe I need to test trial this,” he continues to ramble, “maybe I can borrow Cable’s shawl-cape thing!”

Even Logan is surprised when he immediately interrupts Wade’s babbling with a stern: “No.”

Wade’s eyes snap to his, confused by the sudden harshness and increased volume in his tone. He makes a questioning noise and shoots Logan a displeased look.

Remembering that Wade will only ramp up how annoying he is if Logan bosses him around, he shakes his head and tries again. “I mean, just—you can, uh, keep mine.”

He clears his throat, eyes darting away to take in how the jacket fits on Wade. It’s a little loose on him, a little too broad because Logan’s chest is a bit wider than his, but it sits well on his frame nonetheless. After awkwardly patting Wade on the shoulder, Logan’s hand slides to Wade’s bicep, then down to cuff where Logan thumbs at the leather there. His fingers bump Wade’s hand and he feels electrified by the touch.

When their eyes meet again, Logan’s relieved to find Wade’s face as red as his own cheeks feel. He’s not entirely sure who leans in first but their lips meet halfway. The kiss isn’t demanding or dirty, neither of them trying to turn it into something that would lead to sex for once. It’s different from when they usually make out, just soft and lingering, and Wade gasps when Logan’s tongue gently licks at the seam of his lips.

At some point, they wrap their arms around each other, because when they finally part for air Wade’s cupping Logan’s jaw and his hands are on the small of Wade’s back.

He eventually grumbles out, “Keep it, it suits you.”

“Oh.”

It takes a moment for Wade to shake the dazed look off his face, but he recovers by flashing Logan a knowing grin. Logan rolls his eyes fondly.

Of course, the little shit did it on purpose. He should’ve known the moment Wade stepped out with that giant smile.

Afterwards, when they finally meet with Vanessa and Dermot at the bowling alley, Vanessa’s smirk and raised eyebrow are well worth it because Wade keeps the jacket on.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Full Closet ]

Logan’s been gone for almost a month because of an extended X-Men mission. Between stakeouts, recon, strategizing, and actually nabbing the bad guy, it’s the longest he’s been away since Wade and Althea’s apartment became his home.

He walks in and unceremoniously dumps his duffle bag and the rest of shit by his shoes, throwing his keys on the sidetable by the door. Despite it being well into the afternoon, the apartment is surprisingly quiet. He figures Althea is out for “bingo” (likely a coke exchange) but Wade and Mary Puppins’ lack of noise makes him suspicious.

Until he hears the snoring.

He pads over to the pull-out bed to find Wade and Mary napping together. Wade’s curled around her, snoring with his face buried in her very sparse amount of fur, and Mary’s tongue sticks out as she huffs out quiet, little snuffles of her own.

But what catches Logan’s attention is Wade wearing one of his flannels.

It’s one of the thickest he owns, made for colder weather and blistery autumn breezes, a dusty yellow and blue with snap buttons. It’s large on him—like everything else Logan owns whenever Wade wears his clothes—but this particular flannel is loose on Logan, so the fabric almost drowns Wade in a pattern of faded checks.

And like every time the moron steals his crap to wear, Logan’s stomach flips in a way he can no longer ignore.

He’s not sure if they’re exclusive or not. They fall into bed together as easily as they fight side-by-side on missions. But it’s impossible for Logan to tell if Wade is serious about half the flirtations streaming out of his mouth when the idiot’s easy affection gets directed at anyone that looks at him twice.

And as much as he’s loathe to admit it, Logan wants so much more than that. He wants Wade’s lingering looks to mean something other than platonic nothings. He wants the softer kisses they share to be more than a break from sex. He wants Wade to need him the way Logan needs him. Hell, he wants Wade to annoy him in ways that Wade would never bother anyone else, because at least then Logan would know that he means something different to the motherfucker, something more than a roommate he hooks up with.

He wants just Wade, all of him, full stop.

He gingerly sits on the mattress, trying not to jostle the two napping Deadpools too much with his weight, and he reaches over to gently stroke Wade’s cheek with a thumb. Feeling emboldened when Wade doesn’t stir, he leans down to press his lips onto Wade’s forehead.

“Well, g’morning to y’too, honey badger,” Wade slurs at him, voice thick with sleep.

Logan abruptly jerks away, eyes wide, and the movement is enough to jostle Mary Puppins from her slumber. She hops off to nap in her own bed after a grumpy growl, leaving Wade alone on the mattress. He attempts to swallow the sudden lump in his throat before clearing it with a cough.

“S’four in the afternoon,” Logan mumbles. Pinching his lips into a flat line, he awkwardly sits next to Wade rustling around in the sheets. His eyes catch the flannel falling open to reveal that Wade is also wearing one of his tank tops.

Logan takes a deep, stuttering breath.

Eyes still closed, Wade blindly flaps his hand around until finding purchase on Logan’s shirt. He tugs Logan back down, and Logan curls over to kiss him softly.

“Welcome home, peanut,” Wade breathes onto his lips. “Missed you.”

He touches his nose to Wade’s. “Missed ya too, bub.”

Wade’s face splits into a slow, easy grin, pulling Logan into laying down. Logan follows him without a thought, gathering Wade into his arms.

“You’re wearin’ my clothes again,” he whispers.

Wade hums, nuzzling into his chest. “S’cold, and it smells like you.”

A pleased purr escapes Logan before he has a chance to stop it, and Wade giggles at him, kissing his collarbone before falling right back to sleep.

They don’t talk about what they are after that, but it’s at that moment when Logan finally realizes that maybe, somehow, Wade feels the same way about him too.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Wearing Wade’s Clothes (Again) ]

The TVA brings them in because they need help with some lady going after Deadpool variants. It would be a fruitless endeavour since Deadpools can’t die (well, except Nicepool) if it weren’t for the fact that the fucker apparently stole a weapon that disintegrates things to oblivion.

“Shouldn’t the law of physics stop that from happening?” Wade asks, gesturing at the screen when B-15 presents the mission to them. “‘Matter can’t be created or destroyed’ or something like that?”

“That’s energy, idiot,” Logan corrects him.

Wade just shrugs. “Hey, don’t blame me for failing physics twice!”

He turns to Wade with a confused grimace. “Who else would I blame then?”

“The teachers, duh!”

“Anyway,” B-15 interrupts, hitting a button to show another slide, “this variant’s got a fascination for destroying the indestructible, but she’s going after Deadpools because she has tritanopia, or blue-yellow colour blindness. She can see shades of red the easiest, hence, sticking with Deadpools as her target.”

“That’s so stupid,” Wade says and Logan can only agree. “There are, like, dozens immortal superheroes in red and she chooses li’l ole me? Seems like the writer copping out of coming up with a better plot, I-M-O.”

“We also believe Mary was double-crossed by the Deadpool in her timeline, giving further motive to go after his variants.”

“Hmph! Now isn’t that just convenient?” He crosses his arms. “Wait, ‘Mary’?”

“Yes.” B-15 shows another slide, this one a close-up of the woman—Mary’s—face. “She’s a Typhoid Mary variant. Have either of you encountered her before?”

“Not in my world,” Logan answers.

“I admittedly did not keep up with Netflix’s Daredevil long enough to meet Bloody Mary, no,” Wade says.

B-15 presents them with further details: Typhoid Mary’s known abilities and weaknesses; how she has dissociative identity disorder on top of her colour blindness; how she managed to acquire the worst weapon available from the arms dealers she was supposed to take down; how her alter apparently took over and decided to go after invincible mutants until she finally got even with her world’s Deadpool. The TVA did try to intervene, but she ended up killing every agent that went after her before stealing one of their TemPads and consequently going on her multiversal manhunt. B-15 makes it absolutely clear how imperative it is that they do not kill Mary or destroy the weapon so the TVA can keep them both under tabs.

Then, she reveals the TVA’s plan to capture her: They want Logan to pose as a Deadpool variant in the timeline they believe she’s going to strike next. Typhoid Mary’s current M.O. doesn’t account for superstrength so he should be able to break out of anything she traps him in. Meanwhile, Wade will be in the shadows, using a tranquillizer gun to incapacitate her once she’s busy with Logan.

Logan groans internally while Wade claps his hands in delight.

“Ooh!” he practically squeals, patting Logan on the shoulder with unrestrained excitement. “Finally, it’s my turn on the other side of this trope!”

B-15 shakes her head and sends them on their way.

The suit the TVA provides him fits perfectly, and he notes Wade’s heated, lingering gaze on him once he steps out of the dressing room. Luckily, another agent gets them through a portal before Wade starts on a tirade that would no doubt be filled with inappropriate innuendoes about Logan.

The mission is executed almost laughably easy. Typhoid Mary’s telekinetic and telepathic abilities are so low-level Logan’s shocked that the others she went after were able to be taken down so quickly.

(“Plot armour, peanut,” Wade said when Logan had asked B-15 about this. “She needed to last long enough to meet us!” As usual, Logan had chosen to ignore him.)

Like the TVA discovered, she lures Deadpools by spreading rumours he can’t ignore, adding a honeypot stash filled with weapons he loves. Geared up in Wade’s suit, Logan “falls” for her trap: entering an abandoned warehouse meant to shelter an upcoming gang targeting Deadpool, but secretly only houses her. Once Logan finds the crate of weapons meant to entice Wade, Typhoid Mary wastes no time in capturing him. She points a giant ray-gun of sorts at his face after wrapping him in the warehouse’s chains with her telekinesis.

He feels the faintest compulsion to stay still, which is probably her telepathy trying to subdue him. But she’s nowhere near the level of other telepaths Logan’s encountered, like Jean or Cassandra Nova, and the compulsion is easy to ignore. The chains are slightly harder to deal with in comparison, but he’s certain he can get out of them without too much trouble. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Wade moving into place.

During Logan’s silent assessment of the situation, Typhoid Mary apparently began monologuing. He doesn’t let her get a chance to finish though, breaking out of the bonds around his torso with sheer force and grunting at the exertion. He slices the chains around his ankles with his claws, the metal cutting like butter against the adamantium.

“What?!” she screams. “A Wolverine-Deadpool variant? How?!”

Logan doesn’t even open his mouth for a reply because Wade shoots a tranq dart in her neck. She falls to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Wooh! No scope oneshot K/O, baby!” he hollers, skipping over to pick up the weapon Typhoid Mary dropped. “God, I’d love to take this home with us,” he bemoans as he assesses it, “I can finally stick it to Cable and show off my own badass, futuristic gun!”

“That won’t be necessary,” B-15 announces, suddenly next to them. A group of armed TVA agents begin to file in from the portal behind her, a few of them attempting to grab the weapon from Wade while others lift Typhoid Mary away for custody.

The aftermath of the mission would be just as easy if isn’t for Wade bitching about giving up the gun. After B-15 debriefs them, she and Logan spend entirely too long demanding that Wade hand it to her.

“I’ll give it back if we can keep this suit for pookie here,” Wade eventually offers, pointing at Logan.

“What?” Logan asks. The suit’s not bad but he has no reason to wear it again once he takes it off. “Why—?”

“Deal,” B-15 immediately agrees.

Wade begrudgingly relinquishes the gun, giving it a flying kiss goodbye before taking Logan’s hand. B-15 opens a portal to their apartment and guides them through. “Thanks for the help, gentlemen!” she says, waving a hand at them. They both wave back, and the portal closes.

Logan looks down at the Deadpool suit he’s still wearing. “Why the hell did you want—mmph!”

His lips are suddenly bombarded with hot kisses, and he growls when Wade opens his mouth his tongue. He didn’t even notice that Wade took off his mask.

“God, you look so fucking good in my colours,” Wade moans, hands roaming all over Logan’s body. “Is this how you feel whenever I wear your things?” Logan makes a noise of assent, too busy mouthing at Wade’s jaw to give a proper answer. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Logan starts moving them towards the bed—Christ, he hopes Althea is gone because there’s no way he’s stopping what Wade’s started. His cock is already taking interest, and only gets harder when Logan bumps his hips into Wade’s. They tumble onto the pull-out in a feverish heat with Logan straddling Wade’s thighs.

He’s licking at Wade’s pulse when the dumbass gasps, “Oh my god, I’m gonna fuck a variant of myself.”

Used to Wade’s non-stop yammering even during sex, Logan mindlessly replies, “‘S still me, bub, I ain’t a variant of you.” Foolishly, he adds, “Besides, that’d be weird.”

“What? Why?”

With Wade groping his ass, Logan actually has to pause getting his hands under Wade’s suit to think about an answer.

He finally lands on: “It’d be like fucking your own clone.”

Wade actually stops everything he’s doing—hands no longer kneading his cheeks, mouth pulling away from him. Logan groans, knowing his brought this on himself, and dips his forehead to rest on Wade’s shoulder.

“What? You wouldn’t?”

“No, because that’s weird.”

“I’d fuck my clone.”

“Course you would.”

“T-B-H, I’m so pro-clone fucking I’d just have an orgy with all of them. Who’d be better to fuck me than me, right?”

This, by far, is one of—if not the—stupidest conversation Logan’s ever had with a person. Somehow, his dick doesn’t flag, and he’s still irrevocably fond of Wade’s random chatter. He kisses Wade before he can start on another tangent, cupping his perfect idiot’s face softly.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, but knowing the smile he’s got on, Wade isn’t going to listen to him.

Wade’s answering smirk is a challenge. “Make me, peanut.”

——————————————

(More notes on Ao3.)

[mattserenity]

“chris, what the fuck! why are you playing s’bad today? something goin’ on?” matt shouted over the rapid gunfire sounds blasting through their game.

“s—sorry… i’m just a little distracted right now,” chris stammered into the mic, his voice wavering as he struggled to keep his cool. he glanced down, trying to stay composed, but his focus shattered when he met your gaze, filled with lust. your tongue dragged slowly along the length of his shaft, tracing the prominent vein, making it impossible for him to concentrate.

“whatever… jus’ try harder,” matt muttered, clearly unconvinced by chris’s flimsy excuse.

the moment you crawled under his desk, chris knew exactly what you had in mind—and he wasn’t about to stop you. even with thousands of viewers tuned in, none of them had any idea what was really happening beneath the desk.

he quickly muted his mic, releasing a moan he’d been desperately holding back. his head fell back in pleasure before he sat upright again, eyes flicking to the screen. hundreds of comments flooded the chat, asking if he was okay—some even saying that they could already see the edits coming.

“d-don’t stop,” he pleaded, unmuting his mic with shaky hands, his fingers tangling in your hair to create a makeshift ponytail. the mic barely missed the lewd sounds of you taking him deeper, the wet noises just out of reach but dangerously close to being heard.

"fuck!" he groaned, a bit too loud, quickly running his fingers through his hair to play it off as casual. you teased him mercilessly, flicking your tongue over his sensitive tip, sending a shudder through him. the chat immediately lit up with comments: “pause,” and “what was that noise, chris???” flooding the screen as he struggled to keep his composure.

“chris, what the fuck are you doin’?” matt asked, frustration creeping into his voice as the game slipped further out of focus.

“uh, i just hit my hand on the desk, sorry,” chris lied, his voice strained. his stomach tightened, the familiar coil of pleasure building as he edged closer and closer to his climax, trying to keep it together.

you continued your work beneath the table, determined to push him over the edge. pulling your mouth off with a soft pop, chris groaned at the sudden loss of contact. not wanting to leave him waiting too long, you wrapped your hand around him, pumping his cock a few times before focusing solely on his tip. you suckled on it, teasing your tongue over his sensitive slit, driving him closer to his breaking point.

“mmph—!” chris whimpered as warm ropes of come shot down your throat without warning, nearly making you choke. you swallowed it all, careful not to let any slip past your lips.

quietly, you crawled out from under the desk, making sure no one in the chat caught a glimpse of you.

“hi, everyone!” you said with an innocent smile, stepping into view of chris’s camera and waving. the chat immediately lit up with greetings, comments flooding in about how much they’d missed you. not a single person had any idea what had just happened moments before.

© mattserenity. please don’t repost, copy or steal my work without asking for permission or credits.

based off this post ✉️ @xxotothedeathx

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

Based on this Mafia/Hitman Au from @novankenn/ Based on this Artwork from @pilot-boi

~~~~~

Menagerie. A rather upstanding Nightclub and Burlesque show, with a rather specific ideal for clientele and workers; that is to say, it's a preferred haunt for Faunus, with what few humans joining usually being just as downtrodden and unfortunate as they are respectful.

Its owner and Manager, Kali Belladonna, was an industrious and respectable woman. she did her best to be, at least; though in these times, in these places, the dirty hands of the criminal underworld still reached out and held tight.

Thanks to her fervor and staunchness she managed to hold Menagerie as a neutral zone. Anyone may come so long as they respect the dancers and they leave their problems at the door, and not drag the 'mud' in.

And in that way it was a perfect meeting place.

The Faunus sat at a table, joined by several others. Roman Torchwick representing Miss Malachite, Someone sent from the Schnee family who gave the name "John Doe," Athena Nikos, leader of her family, and standing at the head of the table was the one that called them all together.

Prismeya Arc.

Her prosthetic whirred with each step as she paced, before she turned to the table, placed the foot of said prosthetic on it, and pulled a silenced pistol out its calf.

She inspected it, sliding it over to Kali.

"Just out of respect; I forgot it when I entered."

Kali Said nothing, sharpening her gaze at the Matri-Arc, her ears flicking in annoyance. She knew Prismeya Didn't forget, but she didn't quite understand what this play was yet.

"Now, as I'm certain you all know, I'm out of this game, out of this world. I dotted my i's, crossed my t's, and payed every debt I owed of both Blood and Money."

She pressed leaned over the table, glowering at the members of it.

"So I wish to know why my dear, Sweet Jaune, my Precious Baby-Boy Has such a Large BOUNTY ON HIS HEAD."

Her teeth were grit, clearly restraining herself from shouting.

Everyone looked to one another, offering no information.

Prismeya glared at each of them individually.

"Prismeya, you know I wouldn't have anyone- I'm in too deep as it is! It's hard enough to stay neutral, I wouldn't go after anyone on my call!" Kali retorted, clearly concerned that she was being threatened.

Prismeya pushed off the table and stood tall, taking a deep breath. "Then pray tell-" she focused on Kali "Why Jaune mentioned making friends with a certain Black-haired cat faunus named Blake?"

Kali's eyes went wide as dinner plates. "SHE'S SAFE? BLake's okay?"

Prismeya was taken aback "You didn't know?"

"No."

"Then take this as a favor; she was last seen at a Department store in a mall in Vale proper, Retrieve her. That being said-" Prismeya ran her eyes across everyone, standing at her full height "Whoever set the Hit can call it off, and I will forgive them. No harm; No foul. But, should the Hit be fulfilled, Whoever Claims it, dies. Whoever set it Dies."

She let the words sink into the four at the.

Athena stared at her, eyes set right upon her.

Roman Put his cigar out, clearly considering her promise behind the otherwise aloof look in on his face.

Kali set her ears flat, grim knowledge sitting uncomfortably in her gut.

The Schnee's pawn had no notion of concern or care, unseen behind his sunglasses.

Athena turned slightly in her seat, her whole body now facing Prismeya.

"I assume one of mine has taken it upon themself?"

"You Daughter, Pyrrha."

Athena went rigid. One of the few things could sent chills down her spine was her daughter being in danger, and to be beholden to the Ire of Prismeya Arc was to be declared dead.

Roman slung his cane over his shoulders, rest his arms on it. "So we're here to deliver a warning, yeah? Good to know. Could've been an email though."

Prismeya walked over to the man. "An email is ephemeral; non existent. An email is not physical; It cannot hold water."

She tore the cane from him, emptying the round out, snapping it over her knee, her non-prosthetic knee.

He seemed truly taken aback by it first angered, but his rage was quickly supplanted by fear.

The Schnee Spokesman drew his own weapon, a silenced 22. pistol, and aimed it at Prismeya

Prismeya cupped Roman's chin, ignoring the burly man in the black suit, and tilted Roman's head up. "This is far more important to me than you could possibly imagine with what little grey matter exists under that mop of red hair~ I needed to have this meeting so people like you could understand that~"

And then she turned to the Schnee Representative, who hadn't lowered his weapon.

"I Suggest you put that down. It was rude enough for Mr. Torchwick to bring his weapon, but at least he had the decency to make it inconspicuous~"

The lilting of her voice was laced with a venom that could curdle the blood of any living being that understood what she was saying.

The Man, John Doe, Set his pistol shakily on the table.

Prismeya returned to her place at the head of it.

"So, I would like you all to spread the word; Should this Hit persist and come to fruition ... The Bloodmoon will rise, Drowning All in its Tide; Painting with Red, with The Blood of the Dead; For each life cut short, an Equal retort."

Prismeya smiled, the corners of her mouth wrinkled with age. In any other context it would have been warm, delightful, outright motherly. To all at the table it was deadly; The Rattle of a Snake, the fin of a circling shark, Click of a Hammer being pulled back.

Everyone there knew her Threat- nay, her promise.

Whether they comprehended the depth of it was a another matter entirely.

[swifty-fox]

Soooooo excited for more Benny and Brady heheheh

i'd show you some smut but first they're going through the Horrors

“One,” Gale murmurs under his breath, voice so absent Benny knows he doesn’t realize he’s speaking out loud, “Two, Three, Four…” 

Five, Six, Seven, Eight, come the fuck on Johnny, Nine…

Paddlefoot’s Proxy slips through the cloud cover with all the grace of a cannonball and Benny breathes exactly none because she is about as devastated as a bird could be and still soar. 

Chunks from the wings and tail sheared clean off by flak, flaps missing or only half raised, rattling with the effort, leaking fluid and debris and shuddering with the exertion of it all. There’s a hole in her belly, spilling guts across the tarmac and Gale’s shouting for an ambulance, for a fire crew, John echoing in his broader, louder voice. Benny’s not shouting, Benny’s still not breathing, he’s scared to take any air from the sky that might soften Proxy’s landing. Somehow she’s still got landing gear, somehow they spool out seamlessly and she drops down to earth with hardly more than a bounce, creaking and groaning and sobbing but coming to a graceful stop all the same. 

Benny breathes out. Feels Gale leave his side, calling for space, calling for emergency crews, the wailing sirens growing closer and closer. He won’t go, won’t risk being in the way so he’s not close enough to see the faces of the battered bloody bodies they pull from the open gut-wound of Proxy, their screams faint and tinny and smothered by the thick fog. He waits and he breathes and he listens to men die in the distance and dies exactly nothing about it because it isn’t his job to do anything about it aside from stay out of the way. 

There’s commotion up by the cockpit, human bodies crawling over the surface of her body like ants and Bennty brings the cigarette to his mouth mechanically. Smokes his way through five minutes of waiting, then fifteen, and then thirty. The ambulance leaves, laden with wounded bodies and Benny won’t go until he’s sure everyone is out but he isn’t sure who’s left at this point, if all of Proxy’s children had been chauffeured away bloody and broken.

Figures come back through the fog. Ken Lemmons, a handful of Brady’s crew, pale-faced and stricken, Major Cleven, Major Egan. Both different from Buck and Bucky, with the distinction between all in the serious set of their mouths. And then Benny stumbles, though he isn’t even walking, or maybe it’s just his heart forgetting to work for just a moment. 

John Brady, face freckled by sun and blood, hair a wet slick back from his forehead, baring every bit of the pale, blank shock written there. There’s a cut high on his cheekbone, still oozing watery blood, a bruise across the bridge of his nose like he’d adjusted the sit of his oxygen mask – a nervous habit – so many times it had left damage to the skin. But he was standing, he was walking, and had been cleared by the immediate medical crew. 

“Johnny,” Benny calls in a voice he doesn’t recognize. 

Says it again when Johnny seems to take a moment to focus on him. He leans forward and places his half-finished cigarette between the other mans lips. Johnny pauses, blinks a few times like he has to remember what to do with the tobacco, and takes it from Benny’s fingers as gently as Meatball with a treat. Normally, it would make somewhere around Benny’s hips tingle. 

“Was it bad, Jack?” he asks stupidly, like it could have been anything but bad, horrendous, soul-rotting. Just like every single time was. 

“Captian Brady’s cockpit door jammed,” Bucky says, “Flak cut comms with the crew.”

He could have been flying a graveyard, for all he knew. 

“Gotta get him to interrogation,” Bucky adds kindly. The information already given a kindness, the formality a gentle warning. 

It’s just them so Benny reaches out, takes hold of Johnny’s bloody, bird-boned wrist and squeezes once, twice, three times.

this will be out thanksgiving day!!! featuring dom bottom John Brady

[marigold-hills]

The Dark Wizard

preview! Wolfstar Howls Moving Castle AU a tiny little bit of the next work I’ll be working on. Posting will begin in December :) massive thanks to the groupchat for checking this over before I posted, you are the absolute best ❤️

✨✨✨

When Remus leaves his hometown, it’s not to seek his fortune, or adventure, or – gods forbid – love. He leaves because he’s a monster, and monsters do not belong in society. They belong in the Waste.

This is how it happens.

It’s May Day. The village of Hogsmead is abuzz with excitement. Revellers and drunks, lovely dressed up ladies and dapper gentlemen circling one another, for propriety's sake staying respectable distances away. The gentlemen whistling at the ladies, the ladies pretending to be aghast by the behaviour, covertly blushing and giggling.

It’s a perfect day. Sunny, warm, bright.

For Remus, it’s perfect for a different reason.

Everyone is too busy to notice their pockets getting lighter. Too buzzed to pay attention to the man dressed in ill-fitting clothes walking too close to others. A casual jostle is just this - casual. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to raise concern.

Remus has a few pilfered wallets in a hidden pocket he sewed into a stolen vest. It’s easy, this. He’s done it for years.

“My apologies,” he smiles at a man in a soldier’s garb, whose money pouch he just appropriated. This one feels good for more than one reason - the soldier was in the process of accosting a lady who did not seem pleased to be accosted. She takes the moment he gets distracted by Remus and ducks away. Remus would like to say that he makes sure to only steal from those who deserve it, but it wouldn’t be true.

Food is food, and money is money, and both are something he needs to live. Remus can’t get a job, on account of being a monster, on account of how many days he has to take out to recuperate and travel somewhere far enough to make sure he wouldn’t let himself loose on his quaint hometown of Hogsmeade. Since his parents’ passing, this is what he’s been reduced to. 

He’s tall but can make himself look unassuming, with hair once golden-auburn and now grey from the effect of too many full moons. It’s perfect for this job, being easy to look over and hard to describe. He’s young but looks old. Feels old, too, but that’s not something for people to see.

Remus makes mistakes in this work so rarely that he doesn’t notice he’s made one until it’s too late.

He’s following a well-dressed man, waiting for an opportunity to strike. The man is exceptionally pretty, with short black curls barely skimming the tops of his ears and a gait like royalty. Remus follows behind him at a stretch, slow and careful, until they round the back of a seedy, dark pub and the man turns around like he is the one who set the trap.

Green eyes like poison.

“Trailing the Wizard of the Waste, that’s brave of you,” the man says with a voice that freezes Remus midstep.

Because he knows better than that. He knows not to go for the people who are dressed overly expensive, with rich black fabrics and shining peacock plumes in their hats. He knows chances are somebody is watching over the really rich. That the possibility of a greater payoff doesn’t compare to the risk of being caught.

And yet here he is: caught.

“Or maybe simply foolish,” the Wizard says. “You don’t look a fool, but such things can be so deceiving, don’t you agree?”

The way his eyes pierce through Remus: all he can think is he knows. Somebody knows. Remus has been found out. 

He turns and runs, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away. Remus remembers what the townspeople did the last time someone was found out. Remembers the stench of burning flesh.

He doesn’t look back once while he flees, not even when the Wizard shouts “my regards to Sirius!”, to his retreating back. 

✨✨✨

tagging you lovely people who had previously been interested in future works - let me know if you want to be in the list for this one as well :)

@tealeavesandtrash

@moon-girl88

@hoje--aqui

@cocoabutterandbooks

@onion-sliced-apples

@prancingpony42

@digital-kam

@remoonysiriusly

@sweetstarryskies

@a-sunset-outside-my-window

@procrastinatingstuff

@annaliza999

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged!)

[o3o-lapd-o3o]

okay! here's the first poseidon 'snippet' . this takes place before and during this scene!

hope you guys enjoy! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

*a few months after poseidon had left apollo’s infirmary finally all free of holes all healed up*

*up on olympus*

zeus: *bored outta his godly mind after 20 years of entertainment (especially those last 10 years)*

zeus: *suddenly struck with an idea*

zeus: *to no one in particular* i think i’m going to go pay my brother a visit… just to check on how he is…

zeus: *disappears in a flash of lightning*

hera: *entering the room*

hera: *stares at the scorch marks on the ground where zeus just was*

hera: *to herself* as long as its nothing to do with a woman or illegitimate child… then i don’t care.

*below the sea in poseidon’s palace*

*poseidon enjoying some peace and quiet; when in a flash, zeus on one of his very rare visits, appears in front of him*

zeus: *looking around the room* so… how are things?

poseidon:

poseidon: *sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose*

poseidon: what do you want zeus?

zeus: *ignoring poseidon’s question* where’s your queen?

poseidon: amphitrite is out visiting her sisters…wait never mind that-

poseidon: what do you want?

zeus: *now looking at poseidon* can’t i come see my big brother?

poseidon: you never bother, unless you want something.

poseidon: *anger now in his voice* so out with it.

zeus: *putting his hands up in front of him* whoa! no need to get angry…

zeus: *putting his hands down and a smirk appears* ...remember how that ended for you last time?

zeus: *smirk gets bigger* how you let odysseus beat you like that, i have no idea…

poseidon: *glaring at zeus* do not speak that name in my home

zeus: why my dear brother? are you perhaps… scared?

poseidon: *falling right into zeus provocations*

poseidon: i am NOT scared of that mons- mortal!

poseidon: he merely took advantage of my state after using a lot of my power!

zeus: *under his breath to himself* that power still didn’t kill him though, did it?

zeus: *to poseidon this time* but you’re not in that state now, are you? nor have you been since you left olympus… so what’s holding you back now?

poseidon: *raising an eyebrow at zeus* holding me back from what?

zeus: *knows he has poseidon hook, line and sinker*

zeus: i understand you can no longer hurt him or his family; unless you want to incur the wrath of my daughter… and i suppose even my wife

zeus: but you can make trouble for him still, can’t you?

poseidon:

zeus: *notices the slight hesitation*

zeus: or maybe you are truly fearful of him now? the mighty god of the seas, terrified of a mortal king.

poseidon: *blinks and then goes back to glaring at zeus*

poseidon: i told you i am not sca-

zeus: -then what’s stopping you?

poseidon: NOTH- *coughs* nothing.

poseidon: *crosses his arms and looks away from zeus*

zeus: *laughs knowing he’s done what he came here to do*

zeus: well, i shouldn’t stay too long away from olympus... enjoy the rest of your day brother.

zeus: *disappears in another flash of lightning*

poseidon: *looks at the scorch marks on his floor*

poseidon: he always leaves a mess…

poseidon: *thinking over the conversation again*

poseidon: i’ll show him who’s scared.

*outside the shores of ithaca*

poseidon: *looking the nice clear weather and seeing the merchant ships coming to and from ithaca*

poseidon: it would be a shame if something disrupted this...

poseidon: *smirks* *summons his trident & lifts it to the sky*

*the wind picks up and storm clouds quickly start forming*

poseidon: *can hear distant shouts of mortals reacting to the sudden storm*

poseidon: *laughs to himself* perfect.

poseidon: well, i guess i’ll leave this to brew. i’ll check back later to see what damage has happe-

poseidon: *a full body shiver comes over him out of nowhere*

poseidon: *turns to look at the ithacan docks where he can see..a mortal?*

poseidon: why i am i bothered by that mo-

poseidon: *sees deep red eyes and realises who the mortal is*

poseidon: -oh no.

*the king of ithaca odysseus stands there, glaring into the storm*

odysseus: *in a cold voice* I am going sailing with my son. There will be no issues, is that understood?

poseidon: *even though he knows odysseus can’t hear him* aye aye captain!

poseidon: *with a whimper calls off the storm immediately and quickly dives back under the water*

poseidon: *before he can completely leave, he can hear the voice of odysseus saying “good.”*

poseidon: *about to head straight back home but pauses*

poseidon: *remembers odysseus said he was going sailing with his son*

poseidon: *knows he may be god of the sea, but he can’t always be there to control what the residents of said sea get up too*

poseidon: maybe i should just make sure there’s nothing to make him angrier at me

poseidon: *secretly follows & stays near odysseus’ and telemachus’ ship*

[sloanesallow]

Mama's Potatoes

Sebastian doesn't know how to cook. Good thing the Niffler does. Sebastian Sallow x F!MC (Siobhan Sloane) Tags: Domestic life, Peter the Niffler, pregnancy, potatoes. 1.8k words A/N: I wrote this while grieving the loss of my cat, Peter. Sloane's Niffler has always been named after him, so this was just another way for me to honor him. Thank you for reading. He loved potatoes, too. [Ao3] | [Wattpad] | [Tumblr Masterlist]

Sebastian doesn't know what he's doing.

It's a rare feeling. He's not stupid—he wouldn't be the youngest curse-breaker at the Ministry if he were—and usually knows how to handle a daunting situation. Crazed Inferi, dangerous artifacts, unusual hexes, you name it. But this...this is a new level of difficulty.

He's been standing in the kitchen since sunrise, flipping through old cookbooks and Sloane's recipe journals, looking for something—anything—within his skillset. Despite his wife's numerous demonstrations and seemingly limitless patience, he has never quite gotten the hang of cooking. If his father-in-law were there, he'd scold Sebastian. What self-respecting man can't cook for his pregnant, bedridden wife?

He hates this, hates that he isn't good at something so simple.

It should, in theory, be akin to potions, which he excels at. But alchemy isn't the same as cuisine—you can't just throw everything in a pot and hope for the best—not if you want it to taste good. Cooking is science, not magic, regardless of how easy Sloane makes it look. Maybe that's why she's so good at it, because she insists on doing it without spells. She's a natural, and Sebastian...

Well, it's a good thing he provides in other ways.

With the birth of their child imminent, however, she's resigned to the bed, on strict orders from the nurses at St. Mungos to keep off her feet. This leaves Sebastian in charge of the meals, which he knows are lackluster, even if Sloane never complains. If they were still in London, he'd pop out and grab something from the local shops, or hire one of the house elves in their old building as a cook. But they moved to the countryside in preparation for Little Sallow's arrival, settling down where he'll need to be self-sufficient.

What he wants is to prepare something hearty and healthy, something warm to lift her spirits before the baby comes. Sebastian allows himself five more minutes of wallowing in self-pity before opening another worn journal, hoping he'll see something he's helped Sloane make before. These recipes aren't in her familiar script, but he quickly finds something promising—Beef Stew.

Except...half the instructions are in Irish.

Sebastian grumbles to himself—just another thing he hasn't mastered. He's learned a few languages in his lifetime, largely due to the thirst for knowledge and travel associated with his work, but Irish isn't one of them. And while his wife is of Irish descent, she speaks it so infrequently that he never caught on.

"This must be her mum's," he says aloud, discouraged. He continues to read over the old parchment and the idea of surprising Sloane with one of her mother's recipes is too enticing to shake.

Sebastian is nothing if not ambitious.

The best-case scenario is that he manages to cook a delicious meal. Worst case, he blows up their kitchen. It wouldn't be the first time.

Emboldened, he gets to work, rolling up his sleeves and clearing off the counter so he has space to prep. Instructions in hand, he grabs everything he needs—or thinks he needs—pots and pans and cutlery, and lights the stove with the flick of his wand. Before he can do anything else, it is yanked out of his hand and he whirls around to find Peter, Sloane's beloved Niffler, already stashing the wand away in his pouch.

"Merp!"

"Hey!" Sebastian shouts before clenching his jaw, glancing toward the hallway that leads to where Sloane is still sleeping. He looks back at Peter in annoyance. The two tolerate each other, but mostly bicker about who Sloane loves more. "Give that back, Peter. I need it—"

"Merp!" he interrupts, batting Sebastian's hand away when he tries to touch his fur.

Sebastian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't have time for this."

Peter makes a series of noises that sound very much like the Niffler is mocking him as he stares at the tattered journal in Sebastian's hands.

"What?" he sarcastically laughs. "Are you going to help me?"

For a Niffler, Peter is incredibly expressive, furrowing his brow and blinking his beady little eyes. "Merp."

Sebastian can't believe he's about to have a Niffler be his sous-chef. "Fine."

"It's beef stew, at least I hope it is," he continues, reading over the recipe again. "Sloane must have it memorized because I've never seen her use this."

Peter chitters.

"Right," he mumbles, moving to the cold box where they keep their perishables. "At least this is in English. Two pounds of roast, cut into small cubes."

Sebastian places the parchment-wrapped meat on the counter before scratching at his chin. "One point of...what is...prátaí?" He frowns, reluctantly looking at Peter for guidance.

The Niffler huffs and carefully scales down the side of the counter before scurrying toward the garden door. He pushed through the little flap Sloane installed, poking his head back in a moment later to glare.

"MERP!"

Sebastian follows after the little beast until they are in the middle of Sloane's vegetable garden. There's a little bit of everything, and even though they have the space (and magic) to grow whatever her heart desires, she's kept a modest size. Peter digs at the soft soil, right beneath a small plot marker that reads Mama's Potatoes.

"Oh," Sebastian hums, feeling dumber than before. He grabs a nearby basket before crouching down to take the unearthed potatoes from Peter. "Since when do you know Irish?"

"Merp," Peter answers, as if to say 'I'm smarter than you, Sallow'.

The Niffler continues to roam the garden, bringing Sebastian the vegetables and herbs he needs for the meal. When the basket is full, the two head back inside where Peter monitors the prep work with an intimidating aura that rivals Papa Sloane.

Sebastian follows the instructions the best he can, relying on memory and Peter's so-called translations. He tenses every time routinely grabs his wrist to correct his movements, wondering if he should hand over the knife to let Peter cut the vegetables but figures. Then again, the last thing he needs right now is a knife-wielding Niffler.

He cooks the meat in a hot skillet until the cut pieces are lightly browned, before moving on to the vegetables—sauteing the diced onion, garlic, rosemary, and bay leaves until they are soft. Peter pushes over the bottle of red wine, and Sebastian carefully pours the liquid into the pan, stirring until Peter gestures to add the beef broth. Once everything is combined, he adds back in the meat and secures the lid before placing it into the hot oven.

"Should be ready in..." he reads over Mama Sloane's instructions.

"Merp," Peter chirps, tapping the counter three times.

"Three hours," Sebastian nods.

He takes some time to tidy up and quietly sneaks down the hall to see his wife still fast asleep. Too nervous to leave the food unattended again, he makes himself comfortable on the floor in front of the oven and starts counting the minutes as they pass by. Peter joins him for a little while but eventually disappears, only returning when it's time to add in the rest of the vegetables.

An hour later, Sebastian holds his breath, protective mitts trembling as he pulls the steaming pot from the oven. He prays to Merlin, and maybe a few other deities, before slowly lifting the lid to inspect the final product. Peter climbs back onto the counter to peer inside, his bill opening slightly as he sniffs the air.

"Want some?" Sebastian quips, scooping a hefty portion into a bowl.

Peter shakes his tiny head. "Merp."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Sebastian mutters, taking a bite for himself. It's not bad, though he isn't sure if that means it's good, either. It certainly tastes just about the same as when Sloane makes it, but doubt swirls in his mind. "I hope she likes it."

If he hoped for some semblance of encouragement from Peter, he doesn't receive it. Instead, the Niffler huffs and leaps from the counter before scampering away. Sebastian reminds himself to find the little troublemaker later so he can get his wand back. Good thing Peter can't perform magic—right?

Sebastian places the bowl onto a tray, along with a spoon and a cloth napkin. He tears off some bread from the loaf he (barely managed) to bake the day before and runs back out to the garden to pluck a few flowers for good measure. After steadying his nerves the best he can, he ventures back down the hall to the bedroom.

Sloane is awake now, reclining in their bed, eyes closed as she smooths her hands across her rounded belly. She glances up as Sebastian crosses the threshold, surprise lighting up her expression when she spots the tray in his hands.

"You cooked?" she asks, struggling to sit up. Sebastian quickly sets the food down on the nightstand so he can help her, softly laughing at the way she's too focused on the steam rising from the bowl to cooperate. She sniffs the air. "Is that...my mother's stew?"

He falters when he notices the shine of tears in her eyes, making sure she's comfortably leaning against the pile of pillows. Her emotions have been heightened, to put it mildly, throughout the pregnancy, but he still didn't anticipate tears.

"Hey, hey," he coos, brushing back her hair and swiping his thumbs across her cheeks. "It's alright, sweetheart. I just wanted to make sure you don't starve."

"Well I am starving," she whines and he holds back his amusement, kissing away her pout.

"Here," he says, making sure Sloane has a good handle on the bowl before leaning back. "I uhh...hope it turned out right."

Sloane takes a moment to take in the aromas, smiling at him with glossy eyes as she stirs the bowl. "Thank you."

Sebastian can't respond, not when he's still terrified that he's done something wrong. He watches her, unblinking, as she finally takes a taste. As soon as the spoon is in her mouth, her eyes go wide and she goes still. He panics, leaning forward to grasp her shoulders and tug the spoon from her hand and mouth.

"Sloane? What is it—oh fuck—" he curses, heart racing, clumsily placing the food back on the tray before fussing over her again. "Did I poison you? Are you dying?"

Sloane snaps out of the trance to shake her head, her mouth twitching into a shaky smile. She grabs one of Sebastian's hands and presses it to her enlarged abdomen. His chest tightens for a completely different reason when she finally speaks.

"I think the baby's coming."

Reblogs, comments and likes are appreciated. 💛

[insidekatmind]

The Elegance of Jealousy- Vinicius jr

Wearning: idea not mine, inspired by a story I read.

The tension in the car was palpable. Your hands were tightly gripping the bag on your lap as you stubbornly stared out the window. Vinicius, behind the wheel, nervously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, alternating glances between the road and you.

"Are you really going to keep this up?" he blurted out, breaking the silence with an irritated tone. "This is ridiculous. Why don’t we just talk about it?"

You didn’t turn, keeping your gaze fixed outside. "There’s nothing to talk about."

Vinicius sighed heavily, pulling over abruptly to the side of the road. He turned off the engine and looked at you, his dark eyes full of frustration. "You’re still upset about those pictures, aren’t you? Still? I’ve already told you—it was just work!"

"Just work," you repeated sarcastically, finally turning to face him. "Then explain to me why you had to laugh and joke with her like you were old friends. And why did you have to put your hands on her hips?"

Vinicius threw his hands up in exasperation. "It was part of the shoot! It meant nothing, nada. You’re being childish to think it was anything more."

Those words hit you like a low blow. You felt the heat of anger rising to your face. "Childish? You’re the one who doesn’t respect boundaries! Do you know how much it hurt to see those videos, and you don’t even care."

"There’s nothing to be hurt about!" he shouted, raising his voice. "I’m yours, not hers. Can’t you see how stupid this whole thing is?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The pain was too strong to come up with a response that wasn’t filled with anger. He started the car again, the silence now heavy with tension. But you’d made up your mind—if he didn’t understand how you felt, you’d play his game.

---

The dinner was at an elegant restaurant with dim lighting and an intimate atmosphere. Jude and Kylian were already seated when you and Vinicius arrived. As soon as you walked in, you masked your anger with a sweet smile. You took a seat next to Jude, leaving Vinicius across the table.

"You look stunning tonight," Jude said with a sincere smile, looking at you with admiration.

"Thank you," you replied with a touch of flirtation, tilting your head slightly. "You’re looking impeccable as always."

Vinicius visibly stiffened from across the table but said nothing, taking a sip of his water instead.

Throughout the dinner, you played your cards well. Every time Jude said something funny, you laughed a little too loudly, resting your hand on his arm in a gesture that seemed innocent but was full of intention.

"So, Jude," you began in a sweet tone, "have you ever thought about doing sponsorship photoshoots? You know, you’ve got a physique that could drive people crazy."

Jude laughed, slightly embarrassed but clearly flattered. "Maybe I should consider it. Any tips for me?"

Vinicius dropped his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter. "Jude’s a footballer, not a model," he said in a tone too sharp to be casual.

Jude raised his hands, trying to defuse the tension. "Relax, Vini. It’s just a compliment."

But you didn’t let it slide. "Oh, but Jude would do so well. Not everyone can pull off that kind of charisma in front of a camera."

Vinicius shot you a fiery look, but you just smiled innocently. The dinner continued, but Vinicius remained strangely quiet, his jaw tightening every time he noticed one of your gestures toward Jude.

---

As soon as you got back into the car, the silence was even heavier. Vinicius sped off, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. After a few minutes, he abruptly pulled over again and turned to you, his gaze full of anger.

"What the hell was that?" he yelled. "You were flirting with Jude right in front of me!"

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Oh, so now you can touch a model’s hips, but I can’t be nice to one of your friends?"

"It’s not the same thing, and you know it!" he snapped, his voice full of frustration. "I never had any intentions with that model, but you… you were doing it on purpose to drive me crazy!"

Finally, you turned to him, the anger that had been simmering beneath the surface finally boiling over. "Yes, I did it on purpose! Because I wanted you to feel what I felt. And you know what? It worked."

Vinicius stared at you, his breathing heavy, his eyes searching yours in a mix of anger and regret. After a moment, he lowered his gaze, running a hand through his hair. "I’m sorry," he said quietly. "I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. But you need to understand—she means nothing to me. You’re the only one."

You sighed, lowering your gaze. "I don’t want to be jealous, Vini. But when you do things like that, you make me feel insecure. And I hate feeling like that."

Vinicius reached out, taking your hand gently. "I promise it won’t happen again. But please, don’t ever make me see something like tonight again. I don’t know if I could handle it."

You looked at him, unsure whether to give in or not. But in his eyes, you saw sincerity. You nodded slowly, squeezing his hand. "Okay. But next time, listen to me, Vini. Because otherwise…"

He interrupted you with a faint smile. "There won’t be a next time. I promise."

You let out a small smile, still slightly upset but more willing to let the matter go. You look into his eyes—those dark eyes that always know how to soften your heart, even when you're furious with him.

"Alright," you whisper softly, leaning toward him. "But I really want you to understand how I felt."

Vinicius nods, his gaze softened by a hint of remorse. "I understand, *amor*. I never want to make you feel like that again. There's no reason for it. You're everything to me."

You can’t resist any longer. You lean closer and kiss him softly, letting the warmth of the moment wash away every trace of tension left between you. His lips respond immediately, warm and tender, as if he wants to convey through that kiss all the words he hadn’t managed to say.

His hands gently move to your face, holding you close as the kiss deepens slightly, but without haste. It was a moment of reconciliation, and you could feel it.

When you pull back, your faces are still close, and he looks at you with a faint smile. "I love you, you know?"

"I know," you reply in a lighter tone, brushing your hand against his cheek. "I love you too, but if you ever do something like that again…"

Vinicius chuckles softly, letting the tension dissolve completely. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. No more photos with models, I promise."

"It’s not that you can’t take them," you counter with a mischievous smile. "But at least keep your hands where they belong and save the smiles for me."

He shakes his head, amused, restarting the engine. "Deal. Now let’s make up for lost time."

You smile, leaning back against the seat, finally at peace. As the car starts moving again, you feel Vinicius’s hand reach for yours, intertwining your fingers. You couldn’t help but think that, despite everything, he was worth every fight, every jealous moment, every second.