#and finally. finally. I can hear her. I can hear thunder rolling in across the city

[occamstfs]

Marichismo

Allen, a smug engineering student, finds himself seeking shelter from the storm in a museum for Latin American art. By the time it clears up it's safe to say he'll have a more than healthy appreciation for the arts.

Might've gotten away from me a tad but I think it turned out quite well! Latino Race and Cultural change, MG and language change ahead. Also a couple more people have hopped onto my Challenge since I last mentioned it! Otherwise, espero que disfrutes! -Occam

Allen was on a side of the campus he’s never quite made it a point to explore. In undergrad and in his Masters of Engineering program so far there has simply never been a need for him to venture too far from the engineering building or the architecture library. That is until his partner on a superfluous project requested he venture into the no man’s land that holds the campus’ main library, one that runs absolutely rampant with students he sees as far beneath him.

Even worse than simply venturing beyond his comfort zone, as soon as the pair have wrapped up their progress for the day, heading off on their less than merry ways, it begins to rain. As the first raindrops begin to fall, Allen scoffs at himself for being anything less than optimally prepared. Before he’s able to reflect too deeply, the snobbish student clenches his tech-filled book bag to his chest and sprints into the nearest building, apathetic to whatever space he noisily barges into.

Before his eyes can adjust to the dim light of the new space he finds himself in, Allen hears a crack of thunder as the heavens open up behind him. Sighing in relief at successfully staying dry, Allen keeps his guard up, eying the lobby of whatever building this is that he’s never deigned to step into before now. He grimaces as he finds himself in an art museum. He does not like art museums. It’s not so much that Allen sees himself as above fine art, it’s- well no it is that. Immediately, he begins scanning the lobby for a power outlet so he may continue working while he waits out the downpour.

Head shoved under a lobby bench Allen ignores a caution sign as he forces his charger in, causing an inevitable shock that forces out a less than respectful expletive in this place of introspection. He eyes the empty room around him, slightly grinning at just how barren the lobby is. Clearly he’s not the only one apathetic to this nonsense. Shaking his hand to reawaken its nerves, he hears the clicking of footsteps against the gallery floor as a small woman walks around the corner carrying a stack of books that block her view. Allen eyes a handful of escape routes to hide from the older woman before lightning strikes once more and she trips over in shock, dropping her small stack of books, “¡Dios Mio!”

Judgemental asshole Allen may be but heartless he is not. Setting down his bag with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, the student walks over to help the older woman gather herself. Barely avoiding reflexively chiding his elder as he offers her a hand, he helps her up. The attendant pushes a large pair of glasses up her nose and squints at him with a kind smile, “Ah! Gracias, gracias mijo.” She pulls herself up on Allen’s hand and he cringes back as some kind of aftershock of static goes up his arm. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to affect her. Dusting herself off, she does a double take at Allen and adjusts her glasses, “¿Qué te trae aqui hoy, mijo? (What brings you in today dear?)

Allen hesitates, blowing air as he tries to understand why this woman thinks he knows spanish. Scratching the back of his head he finally looks to see the text blazoned across the front desk, El Gustavo Ramirez Museo De Arte Latinoamericano. Putting two and two together as he is ever so proud of doing, Allen immediately apologizes for intruding. “So sorry uh, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to wander into your, uh, space.” gesturing to the woman and the building around him in a manner to distinguish it not so much as beneath him but as an other. Something that is simply a bridge too far for him to gap. “This place isn’t for me so I think I’ll go ahead and step out.” Thunder peels before he can start to gather his things, immediately reminding him why he is in here at all. 

The older woman also relents, switching to English since, despite some instinct saying otherwise, the man before her clearly speaks only english. “Ah don’t you worry yourself mijo. The museum is for all, para todos. Free with your student ID,” she tacks on with a wink. Allen smiles uncomfortably, baring teeth enough that it could be mistaken as a grimace. 

He can’t just tell this old lady that he hasn’t a thought to spare, in his mind: waste, on the collections behind her. Still he doesn’t want to make conversation indefinitely waiting for the storm to clear either. Fearful of the outlet he’s used thus far he convinces himself there must be one hiding somewhere in the exhibition hall. He’ll just pacify her with entry and go find some place in between ostentatious paintings and droll statues to insert himself and get some actual work done.

Producing his ID wordlessly, he hands it to the elderly woman and she quickly shuffles behind her desk to type his name into some registry. Handing it back with a smile she leaves her hand hanging for a shake, “Wonderful to meet you Allan! Soy Lupe Carvajal. But you can call me abuelita, mijo!” Pocketing his ID with a dismissive laugh he notices not that his name is apparently misspelled on his ID card, instead he packs his charger up and shakes Lupe’s hand. “Hah. Uhm, whatever you say Mrs. Carvajal.” Her hand is wrinkled and frail but surprisingly warm, as if his hand were receiving the full body experience of a hug in but a single shake. 

“You know Allan, I must have thought you know spanish because you look quite like my nieto, my grandson.” Allan puffs his cheeks to bite his tongue, holding a picture in his mind of what this granny’s descendants must look like and knowing there’s simply no permutation that lands at himself. She continues, “Es un joven fuerte! Haha!” She does a little bicep pose which allows Allan to understand exactly what she means without her translating. He shyly smiles looking down at his own thin arms and wondering why this lady seems to be mocking him. After doing her bit, Lupe moves to sit at the desk and pulls a book off her stack, “You just let me know if you need anything mijo, si?” Allan nods and reflexively responds, “Si ab- Mrs. Carvajal.”

Odd taste in his mouth at almost calling this random woman grandmas she asked, he shakes it off and wanders into the exhibit hall, decidedly less worried about using her museum’s resources to his own ends. It has probably been over a decade since anyone was able to drag him into an art museum. Even then was he vehemently against wasting his time visiting. He just didn’t get art, and not for not trying. It’s just, aggravating that some people can get so much from some splotches of paint and he just sees a picture on some paper. Feeling himself get riled up he turns to the exhibit hoping for some distraction, which he finds in an elaborate statue of some dog. himself. 

Allan stands beside a huichol coyote covered in beads about two feet high. Spotlighted in the dim gallery he circles it like a predator, inspecting the bright beaded beast from every angle. See this he gets. This took time, this took care. Leaning in close the warmth of the overhead light pleasantly burns the top of his head. Absorbed by the shimmering light off the beads, Allan is unaware as his hair suddenly begins to lengthen. The buzz he has always kept short for sheer manageability begins to curl over his ears, growing warm even quicker as it tints darker. Not quite black but certainly not the blonde shade he was always happy to keep despite his spending as few hours outside as possible.

Before curls can begin to crest over his forehead, his face is not spared the glare of the spotlight. Immediately as his olive eyes glaze over, absorbed into the intricate stitched patterns they begin to stain darker. The jade he has always seen in his own reflection shades darker ever so slightly. Not brown. No he doesn’t have brown eyes, they’re just hazel? His eyebrows match the suddenly darkened hair on his head as he stands staring at the beast. Not expanding to cover more of his face but growing thicker, denser. Almost as if to shade his eyes from the light. His lips thicken as a grin begins to tinge his face. Reaching up Allan feels stubble begin to prickle his chin and upper lip, as if he spent time shaving this morning. 

Allan moans contentedly as he gives in and reaches fully into the spotlight to touch the coyote. Rules and codes of propriety fall to the wayside as he reaches beyond the realm of rationality to touch the statue of the trickster. His hands burn as they tint ever so slightly darker under the glare of the spotlight. As soon as his middle finger feels the warmth of the first bead he recoils in shock. “Q- What?!” He falls onto his ass, no time to inspect his decidedly browner hands as the commotion made immediately summons Abuelita Lupe. The elderly attendant meanders as quickly as she can into the showroom, “¿Qué pasó Alan?” Alan flexes his hand in shock. Whatever just happened it can’t be his fault.  Surely he didn’t just unprompted mess with some artifact on display. “I, um? No sé?” He pauses, unsure of what he just said, nonsense he thinks. “I mean um, I’m not sure?”

Lupe goes to help him up with what little strength she can muster only for him to wave her off, sure that she would only get in the way. He finds standing takes more effort than usual as he does so with a grunt. Nervously patting him on the back, Lupe asks him if he’s alright after the spill, buzzing around him with concerned pleasantries. Alan doesn't quite hear her as he instead inspects his own body. His clothes are tighter. He stretches and pulls at them, presuming them to just be falling weird on him after the fall. But close inspection shows otherwise. Looking at his cardigan it is clearly strained by his chest and stomach. Blushing at the idea he’s put on weight, Alan crosses his arms and notices how snugly his arms fill the sleeves, how his wrists hang out further than they should, not only that but they are unmistakably darker. Not brown, but without a doubt a few shades darker than his usual porcelain tone.

Recovering from being lost in his thoughts he looks to find Lupe staring, “Oh! Lo, uh sorry. Did you uh, ask me something Senora Carvajal?” Looking down at a sharper angle than he did earlier, he sees the abuela looking at his head with a tilt. “Did you do something different with your hair mijo?” eyes narrowing with concern and suspicion he thrusts his hair into his new curls. He immediately gasps in shock before reconsidering. This is how he’s always looked right? 

Thank god his hair is naturally curly so he can just leave them as they fall without much ado. He smiles and shakes his head at Lupe and she nods happily in return. Reaching up she puts her small hand on his bicep and squeezes it, Alan can barely hear her as he is struck with just how powerful his arm seems next to her small hand as she continues, “Well I like it mijo.” With that she aways and leaves Alan be. Having the floor to himself his expression grims as he pulls out his phone to look for a picture of himself. Something is off. His mind tells him everything is normal. When he looks at his hands he sees them as they have always been right? Why would he have a buzz cut when his hair is so naturally nice? Something in his gut screams out that something unnatural is going on. His camera roll should hold proof. Going through his phone he barely holds back a gasp that would surely summon the docent back as he is immediately greeted by a folder of his own nudes.

“Que chingado…” He whispers under his breath as his face burns redder than the scarlet beads on the coyote. He didn’t take these did he? Zooming in he is once more floored to see tattoos on his body. Looking down at his arm he sharply inhales as there's a sting and suddenly his wrist matches the image on his phone. Or no. He’s had that tattoo for years?

 Aghast at himself he still feels he wouldn’t have taken these photos of himself. Vain in many ways, his appearance is not one of them. He wonders if he’s been set up or hacked or something before he reminds himself no one would be able to do so without his knowledge. He’s a pro after all. Mind going to his technical skills, his chest puffs with pride as it grows to match the one he finds in the nudes soft-core and otherwise on his phone. Alan quickly shoves it in his pocket, finding it a much tighter fit than when he retrieved it. 

Looking around nervously, he walks close to the coyote once more. Narrowing his eyes he feels new memories come to mind from his childhood. Memories of hearing story after story of the trickster, he tilts his head as the slightest whiff of something amiss hides behind them. Staring into the eyes of the beast with suspicion the image of reading Greek mythologies by himself fades away to be replaced by his mother telling him stories from her own childhood. The coyote playing tricks and la Llorona terrorizing their little town just to make sure he stays in line. Alan smiles as he shakes out of the reverie, my mom wasn't morena was she? Headache rising as seconds pass standing near the beast he wanders away, muttering to himself without awareness, “didn’t want him in the main hall anyway.”

His hair continues to thicken and curl darker as he moves deeper into the exhibition space. Scratching at his stubble lost in thought he finds it defining itself into a goatee with a matching mustache. His phone still unlocked in his pocket shifts displays his form as he continues to change unawares. He feels himself begin to sweat intensely as his cardigan grows even tighter. His body decides to ramp up his masculinity as he starts to outright swell with muscle. His whole body twitches larger as he briefly recalls Lupe playfully flexing, “un joven fuerte!” He clicks his tongue and grins as he sees his biceps strain his sweater, almost enough to see his button up through the threads. He fights back a smirk feeling his shirt underneath hug the sides of his chest as his soldiers expand. Feeling his thicker pits start to sweat through said shirt and into the jacket he resolves to remove the cardigan.

His struggled grunts echo through the museum space as he struggles to get the cardigan off over his chest. The sound of fabric tearing rips through the room as stitches finally give way down the whole front of the garment, his pecs bursting larger into the open air. The top few buttons of his dress shirt also explode open as he is finally freed from the constricting sweater, “ayy dios- fuck…” He whispers to himself as he appreciates the ice cold air of the museum on his sweaty skin. The white dress shirt may as well be sheer with his sweat soaking it, allowing any gawkers to easily see tattoos running down his arm and the nipples almost poking through the shirt.

Only briefly does he wonder why he’s not self conscious about being exposed in the gallery before he notices a side-exhibition hall. “Ah si, uh. The temporary exhibit,” he whispers dreamily. Keeping quiet as any respectful museum-goer does. Though he doesn’t quite have the bodily awareness to mute his increasingly loud footsteps, each one growing louder as his upper body expands. He looks up to read the title of the exhibit as the sound of his shoulders widen enough to tear the back of his button up. Marichismo: Taking Back Latino Masculinity. He smirks as he finds the idea compelling, he’s uh, not hispanic of course. Nor has he ever been intrigued by ‘art’ in the slightest, he thinks. But something draws him deeper. Something pulls him further. Something in him begs for more.

His pants creak as he crosses the threshold into the new space, his ass expanding beyond the pale. Similarly does his crotch demand both more room and his attention as Arlad is immediately face to face with a deliberately provocative statue. The blush burning his face is just as soon hidden as his tan grows darker as he’s overwhelmed by everything in front of him. It’s as if Tom of Finland were Chicano. Bulges beyond belief force their way out at every angle. Rigid thick mustaches hang stoic on every face as Arlad feels his own stubble grow darker, thicker, itchier.

The student is torn between instincts, just as he feels increasingly torn between two worlds. His body continues ballooning and his shirt bursts clean off, buttons scatter to the floor and sharp tears launch down his arms. He can’t help but hungrily scan the floorspace as the bright lights bore into him, exposing him as if he were a piece of art on display. He looks down just in time to see his cock burst large enough to blow his zipper out which only addles his mind further, “Tal vez, just a minute…” He wanders into the exhibit hall proper as his eyes finally make the jump into a rich chocolate brown. He trips over his feet, gasping as he feels them stuffed uncomfortably tight in his oxfords before kicking off the shoes altogether. Just as soon do his pants rip off and he is left almost entirely nude in this exhibit hall.

His mouth hangs open as his cock acts almost like a dowsing rod in between pieces. The language in which Arcad thinks rapidly begins to change altogether, already a bilingual medley, with each starved look at photographed vaqueros or bulge forward paintings does English drift farther away. Maintaining fluency in both of course, the man would never let that tongue take predominance over that of his madre y su madre before her. His pecs pump even larger with pride as thick curls begin itching up from his crotch. He scratches at his stomach as he smirks at his body finally getting on brand. This whole show is about displaying masculinity and he needs to be the apex. He needs…

Arcad twitches as these definitive thoughts cut through the fog in which he has been going about. Why does he care so much about this place? He doesn’t like art. Certainly not this uh smut. He twitches as he argues that being provocative is the point, sexualization of the male form is the point. Why could he know that? How does he know anything about this exhibit? Looking around at the photographs he sees men who are almost a parody of masculinity. Fighting back the overwhelming pervasive horniness issuing forth from balls bulging larger he takes a deep breath and ignores the temple to the male form around him. 

It’s impossible for him to notice as his thoughts crest fully into español. After all it simply is the language in which he has always thought, no matter what his teachers demand of him. Back to the matter at hand he is struck with the urge to create. Mierda- this exhibition really inspired him, he should really write an essay about this. Or, no. He moans and clutches at his temples as the shining lights out of sight gleam even brighter, sparkling off his sweaty muscled form as he’s racked with the pain of opposing realities. No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t do essays anymore. That’s not how he creates. 

Memories of long hours at the lab and in dark rooms sitting at a keyboard dissipate. Haughty superiority over fields and forms he deems insignificant thankfully blast away as images of the photographs and artworks around him come to mind with an ease that makes him uneasy. Creeping in from the edges of his lived memory are other exhibits, many that he has visited, some that he has put on of his own accord. 

Tattoos continue to drip down his arm as his treasure trail rushes onto his chest, blooming out to cover his pecs. The space in between his mustache and goatee is quickly filled, as are the entirety of his cheeks as his eyes shut even tighter. Independent muscle groups twitch as his body struggles to forge him even larger, to be more. The lengthy curls on his head fall away as his head returns to a buzz cut, this time black as the night. This time impossibly deliberate. 

Arcadio buzzed it himself, he loved his curls. But he knew for this exhibition he had to sacrifice. Anything for his art. The phrase burns across his mind, Marichismo. It, it was his exhibition. Arcadio opens his eyes to find himself standing across from an oppressive statue staring down at him in disdain. His blood boils as his fight or flight activates. Though staying strong he just clenches his fist as his body bulges larger one last time. “Papa.” He made that statue, he isn’t about to be shoved around by his own art. The feeling of confidence filling him at standing up against the domineering statue is more than he could have held within him as Allan. Reverbs of confidence go through his psyche as he finally gets it. Turning around the confidence that fills him rapidly dissipates as he sees a man posing like a dog.

He exercised complete creative control of the exhibition, but did he take this? Memories of being behind the lens of the camera dance through his mind for most of the images, this one seems obscured. He ignores the cold sudden sting of a nose ring as he leans in close to inspect it, smirking all the while. Who’d he get to model this? Looking at the jockstrap he nods approvingly, mierda it is certainly hot though. His underwear stretches to its absolute limit as he forces his large hand down to paw his cock at the image. Looking down at his hairy forearm he gasps as he sees the tattoo on his forearm perfectly matches that of the model. 

At that moment his underwear burst free from his body and he suddenly realizes that being nude in this space is far worse a breach of etiquette than touching that coyote. Arcadio sprints to his bag and digs around for anything he could possibly use to hide his still bulging cock at half mast. “¡Gracias a dios!” he whispers under his breath as he wraps a towel around his waist, perfectly mimicking a photograph behind him. He smirks at the man thinking how proud Jose will be when he gets to see himself on a gallery wall. Arcadio grunts and clenches his head as memories of the man ahead of him fill his mind. Lightheaded he leans against the wall grimacing as he leads a sweaty handprint on the pristine white wall.

Turning around seeing the exhibit hall as a whole he almost falls over with a rush of memories. Advanced math and the life he once lived as Allan are dust in the wind as his childhood growing up the son of first generation immigrants in San Antonio rises to take their place. Living alone with his mother before his abuela moved up from Mexico to help raise him as if he were her son. Understanding himself and the world around him as he discovered who he was and what he had to do. Finally achieving success, winning grants, booking galleries as an artist. Not too bad for a maricon eh? He winks at the statue of his father, smirking as he feels his power as a man and artist grow.

Looking down at some engineering homework scattered from his bag the last pangs of a headache buzzes through him before he shakes his head and the work is gone. The last shreds of a life he once lived dissipate. Walking out into the lobby he sees his abuelita. She smiles at the massive man before adjusting her glasses and shouting out, “¡Ay! ¿Qué estás haciendo? ¡Ponte algo de ropa! (What are you doing! Put some clothes on!)” Arcadio laughs and waves her off, knowing the museum is closed while he preps his exhibition for opening tomorrow. 

His new voice is rich on his tongue as he speaks up, “Espero que les guste. La universidad no sabe lo que pagaron ¡ja! (Hope they like it. The uni doesn’t know what they paid for ha!)” His abuelita clicks her tongue, she loves her grandson more than the world but boy if he hasn’t made her old beyond her years. She digs through the lost and found next to her for something that might fit her larger than life grandson and throws it at him. The man laughs and his abuelita can’t help but join in the reverie. She wouldn’t dream of going through his exhibit- que obsceno, que cachondo! But he could do no real wrong in her eyes. So far he’s blown her expectations out of the water with his success and she can’t wait to see what Arcadio gets up to next.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 11)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 10, Part 12

summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)

a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3

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

cracks in clay, poured over

Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room. 

She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans. 

There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe. 

Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.

It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand. 

Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.

The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say. 

He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue. 

He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…

Cold.

You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.

“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.

He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours. 

“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”

When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.

“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.

“Nothin’” 

His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.

“You're a fat fucking liar.” 

Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it. 

There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…? 

Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.

Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.

He frowns. 

“I think I'm happy.” 

…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.

“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.

“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead. 

“Different?”

You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth. 

In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.

“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–

“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.

His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances. 

He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.

You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.

“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.” 

Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.

Maybe we could've been more.

~~~

He’s an idiot, you think.

“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples. 

“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”

For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up. 

“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.

“You look like shit–”

You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”

“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”

“I do not.”

“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”

You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.

Wait. How did he know you had—

“Took you long enough.” 

He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.

Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely. 

There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.

[Sent: 15:32]

Are you guys still on for tonight?

[Received: 15:32]

👍👍

[Sent: 15:3]

Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?

[Sent: 15:32]

👍👍

“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”

You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.

His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.

“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”

When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile. 

“You hungry?” He asks.

“Starving.” You say with a grin.

~~~

You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.

Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?

You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.

“It’s– Pete, it’s–”

More jumbled words from the phone.

“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”

He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood  after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet? 

A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun. 

You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door. 

“Come in!”

Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.

“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”

You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.

“Did you want something?”

When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.

“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”

“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.

“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”

“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile

“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.” 

Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...” 

“But?”

“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”

“I can keep you company.”

“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”

“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”

He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw - 

“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.

“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.

With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over. 

“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”

~~~

The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…

The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.

The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.

“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”

Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights. 

“It's okay, Em.” 

Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname. 

“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”

Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.

“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.

“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.

“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.

“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour. 

Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think. 

She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.

“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”

“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.

She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.

“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.

“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl. 

You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”

“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?

“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”

And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere. 

There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.

She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again. 

Clatter.

“One more time, sweetheart,”

Clang. 

“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”

Thunk. You've got an idea.

“She’s not going to eat, Mig.” 

He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater. 

“Let’s go for a walk.”

~~~

It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.

“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.

“What do you mean, you know a place?”

You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.

“The park on 10th?”

“Nope.”

“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”

“Nope.”

“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.

“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”

Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.

“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”

“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”

~~~ 

The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.

But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub. 

He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint. 

There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big. 

Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.

“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed. 

May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.

You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.

The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.

May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.

He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.

“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck. 

“How do you have access to this place?”

“I know a guy.”

“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?

“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”

Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.

You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket. 

We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own. 

“Mig?” 

Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes. 

“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.

“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.

“Just fine, sweetheart.”

“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”

You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.

“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”

Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.

Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines. 

“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”

Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.

“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.

“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.

“I was only a janitor, Mig.”

“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”

You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look. 

“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires. 

“Her name's May.” He grunts.

“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”

“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”

Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.

A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?” 

She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.

“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”

“Sure, but what about–”

“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”

Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.

But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore. 

“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”

He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.

The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.

“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.

“I… I know.”

“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”

He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”

“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”

“Something like that.” He grunts.

“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.

“I was 17 - so, no.”

“Ouch.”

Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.

“Do you still work with them?”

“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”

“I meant Alchemax.”

They snort. “We went our separate ways.” 

Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…

Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.

Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.

“What exactly do you do?”

“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”

Liv gives him a blank expression.

“So you're young.”

“I guess.”

“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”

His jaw shifts.

“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.” 

They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.

“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”

Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on. 

“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights. 

“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”

“I–We are saving the world.”

He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.

He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.

Hypothesis.

“If this a personal gripe–” 

“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”

“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis. 

Observation.

A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.

“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”

And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.

Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.

Analysis.

He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones: 

Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara. 

Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara. 

We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.  

But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?

A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.

And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?

You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.

“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.

“Come look, come look!”

He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.

“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”

“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”

He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.

Pity.

_

_

_

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[danikamariewrites]

Watch Your Step

Feysand x reader

A/n: happy day 2 and another Feysand fic! Comfort fics are some of my favorites especially for Rhys. Some of my favorite moments with him and Feyre are in ACOWAR and he’s just doting on her. @polyacotarweek

Warnings: descriptions on injuries and comfort

“Nyx, slow down!” You yelled over the little boy's screeches and giggles as he ran through the upstairs hall. You held your dress above your calves, feet carrying you quickly.

You jumped toys littered across the carpet. Sighing mentally you make a note to have the boy clean up his toys. “Bet ya can’t catch me mom!” He giggled, disappearing around the corner. “No running on the stairs young man!” He giggled again as you heard the sound of winnowing. You came to a halt. The three of you knew Nyx’s powers were developing. He could finally hide his wings on command like Rhys. But winnowing was very new.

The first time he winnowed he had taken Rhys with him. Ending up outside the Winter Court palace wanting to see his friend, the Princess of Winter. To know he could winnow so far at such a young age was impressive but terrifying.

Your thoughts raced you began sprinting for the stairs. Praying to the Cauldron your little boy was only downstairs and not somewhere unknown.

Not keeping your eyes on the ground you completely missed the pair of toy swords in a small wagon on the first step. Your bare foot landed right on the center of the wooden toys, splintering them in half. Not even getting a chance to right yourself your other foot stays suspended in midair as the wagon moves across the stair.

Your ankle turns and you feel something pop. Falling down the stairs backwards you let out a scream. You try to grab hold of the banister to slow down, your fingers screaming in protest. You hit the curved landing hard. Rolling to a stop thanks to the wall.

Thanks to the pain numbing your body and ringing ears you didn’t hear Nyx scream for you. Or the multiple pairs of feet thundering to get to you as quickly as possible.

Groaning, you roll over onto your back, trying to keep your breathing steady. You keep your eyes screwed shut at the pain still coursing through your bones.

Nyx was now sitting next to you. A little hand on your face to comfort you. “Like mommy and daddy do for you,” he said once.

“I’m ok buddy, I’m ok.” You manage through gritted teeth. Opening your eyes you smile up at him. Panic on his little features. “See, mom’s ok. Just a little fall.”

Nesta and Azriel are first to arrive, Rhys and Feyre looking destressed right behind them. Nesta quickly gathers Nyx in her arms much to the boys dismay. He starts fidgeting wildly in his aunts arms fighting to get back to you.

Before he can be told to Az winnows away to get Madja. Rhys scoops you into his arms making his way to the bedroom quickly. Feyre prepares you a spot, fluffing your pillow as Rhys set you down gently.

“Questions later. I don’t want stress her out and add to her pain.” Rhys says into Feyre’s mind. He looks back at his mate to see silver lining her eyes. Her hand in yours, rubbing soothing circles with her thumb. “It’s ok angel, we’re here.” Feyre whispered softly. You squeezed her hand in response. The both of them could feel your pain through the bond and it was breaking their hearts.

Madja came bustling in as quickly as possible leaving Azriel to linger in the doorway. The old healer shoos your mates away, “I can’t work with you two breathing down my neck. Go with the Shadowsinger. I’ll come get you once she’s patched up.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. They’re hesitant to leave you but know it’s for the best.

An hour later Madja had left you with your ankle wrapped and strict bed rest orders which Feyre and Rhys took very seriously. For the next week your mates kept a close eye on you, not letting you move an inch.

“I still think you should keep your ankle elevated, my love.” Feyre sweetly chastises you a few days later. You roll your eyes as she puts the lunch tray down to fluff the throw pillow you abandoned a half hour ago.

“I’m fine, Fey. Besides, it’s practically healed.” She hummed, raising a brow at you, gently placing your foot on the pillow. “You want to tell Rhys that?” You sigh, dropping your head against the headboard.

Rhys has been worse than normal. Maybe because it was the worst at home injury any of you had sustained. He wouldn’t even let you sleep in the middle of the bed like usual. Rhys insisted you take his side while he slept in the middle so it would be easier to carry you out of bed.

Feyre placed the tray on your lap as she settled next to you, brushing a strand of hair behind your delicately pointed ear. “How are you feeling?” She asks softly.

“Better. The pain in my side is gone and my head is fine, the only problem is the pain in my ankle.” Feyre hums looking back at your bandaged ankle. You start to pick at your food when you notice a card under the plate. Picking it up you smile. Nyx had drawn you many get well soon cards over the last few days. “Good.”

In the middle of your meal and chat with Feyre, Rhys made his way into the bedroom taking the other spot next to you in bed. He takes your chin gently in his fingers, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. As if he was afraid of causing you more pain. “Hi angel, how are you feeling?” You smile against his lips, “Good.” He lets out a content hum leaning away from you.

As the week went on your mates let up on their hovering. When the bandage came off Rhys would massage your ankle every night, rubbing a special salve Madja gave you. While their overbearing nature at times can be aggravating, you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’d never stop being thankful to have mates and a family that cares so much about you.

[crownofgildedlilies]

oh, don't let your sunshine burn me!

in which: a son of hephaestus discovers a problem he can't solve. mainly, a daughter apollo who doesn't realize just how much her smiles hurt him.

pairing: leo valdez x daughter of apollo!reader

warnings: not proof read, slight cursing (otherwise, n/a)

tropes: friends to lovers, fluff, pining

word count: 3k

notes: my inaugural fic post on this blog. how special. plz enjoy. feedback is much appreciated.

Leo Valdez was going to lose his mind.

Or maybe a limb. Maybe that would get your attention. He wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't that desperate for you to turn your focus to him.

Stupid Garrett from stupid Ares. Why did he have to go and nearly get his head chopped off by Clarisse while sparring, stealing his thunder?

He should have done more than let his finger slip while hammering away in bunker nine. An exciting injury would have earned the most prized reward of your attention, for sure.

"Are you sure she's too busy?" Leo asked Will for probably four times too many to be considered casual. The blond only rolled his eyes and shoved an icepack into Leo's chest, nearly knocking him back a step, snapping him from his far too obvious admiring of you.

Even from across the infirmary, three hours into your shift, you stole the wind from his lungs. He was convinced you were a favorite of Apollo's, what with the way you glowed and lit up every room you were in.

Which is how he ended up in his current predicament. Absolutely desperate for any hint of your sunshine smile sent in his direction.

"Positive. Now, get out." Will confirmed, checking things off on his clipboard. Leo figured he was probably recording basic information like the patient—himself—had all his limbs, both eyes, ten fingers, and was practically drooling at his half-sister. Leo darted another glance across the room to you, still diligently assessing moronic Garrett from Ares who had been brain dead enough to accept Clarisse's offer of sparring.

Why were you blushing so much?

Something awful and too familiar twisted in his stomach, and all Leo could hear was Piper's voice telling him that he better make his move on you soon, because you were too sweet and too pretty to remain single much longer.

"When's her break again?" Leo asked, ignoring the way Will tipped his head back and closed his eyes, like he was praying for the strength to not hit his patient while under his care.

"And you can't ask her yourself because...?" Will prompted, dragging out the final word and forcing Leo to snap his attention towards the son of Apollo, his jaw practically open in shock.

"Because then she'll know I'm totally into her!" Leo whisper-shouted, waving his hands around as if to emphasize his point.

"You come in here everyday with a new injury asking for her to fix you up." Will pointed out, voice flat. "If she hasn't figured it out yet, I'm not sure she will. You should probably just be direct and ask her out."

Leo narrowed his eyes at Will, but on a rare miracle, he was at a loss for words. Maybe Will had a point. Leo was never exactly good at being subtle about his many, many, crushes, and if you hadn't realized he was hopelessly in love with you yet, then maybe he was safe from feeling the sting of your rejection.

"You're not going to talk to her, are you?" Will sighed, tilting his head slightly as he studied Leo, who, despite having already been given the magic remedy of an ice pack, remained perched on the side of a cot used as a medic's bed.

Leo shook his head side-to-side so quickly Will was a blur of blond hair and orange t-shirt in front of him.

"No can do." Leo said solemnly. "She's miles out of my league. Not even I'm stupid enough to think I have a shot with her."

"Well, at least Garrett isn't as oblivious as you," Will shrugged, shooting Leo a pointed look he didn't understand. The ugly feeling was back in Leo's stomach as he darted his attention towards you and the gods-damned son of Ares.

You were laughing, and Leo wasn't the cause.

Jealousy flared up in him.

You, on the other hand, were completely ignorant to the conversation occurring on the opposite side of the infirmary, far too engrossed in charismatic Garrett from Ares who was retelling the story of how Clarisse had knocked him on his ass and sent him to get bandaged up.

For a child of the war god, he was surprisingly graceful in his defeat.

"Next time, at least bring a shield with you." You smiled at Garrett, checking off the final few items on your clipboard. No major injuries towards his limbs, nor his ten fingers, neither of his eyes had been affected, and he was able to hold a proper conversation with you. "Otherwise I've got nothing else for you. Just an order to take the rest of the day easy."

"I can manage that," Garrett relented, which, for a demigod, was a pretty big ask. Taking it easy was never really an option when one of your parents was a god or goddess. "Hey, any particular reason Valdez is looking at me like he's going to send one of his inventions after me?"

Your heart skipped a beat, but you forced yourself to act casual as you turned around slightly, finding that Leo had in fact found his way into the infirmary and in fact was staring at Garrett like he might make a good snack for Festus.

You had been starting to worry, thinking that maybe he wasn't going to show up that day.

"Dunno," You shrugged, ducking your face into your clipboard so you didn't have to look at Leo, or Garrett, or Will—who was sending you a look that was both pointed and annoyed at the same time. "But you're set to go."

"Perfect," Garrett jumped off of the examination bed, acting like he hadn't been carried in by two of his half-brothers, a sly grin on his face. "You sure that's not jealousy on Valdez's face?"

"What? Why would Leo be jealous?" You were ashamed to admit you stumbled over your words, your face turning a vibrant shade of red, as you considered the implication of Garrett's words. That Leo might have been into you, enough that just the sight of you talking to Garrett might have been enough to turn his mood sour. "We're just friends."

"Sure," Garrett grinned wickedly, the kind of grin only children of Ares could ever create. The kind that told he totally didn't believe her rushed dismissal of his words. "All I want is an invitation to the wedding. Talk to you later!"

Garrett darted off before you could swat at him with your clipboard, your face flushed with embarrassment. Gods, were you really that obvious in your crush on Leo?

Sure, he came into the infirmary just about every day you were working, with some minor injury or another for you to tend to. And maybe you took a little longer to heal him than you did when Percy or the Stolls came in, were a little sweeter, but were you so transparent that even Garrett from Ares knew what you felt?

"For the love of all the gods and goddesses, would you please just go talk to him?" Will grumbled, borderline exhausted, as he appeared at your side. You jumped, nearly lost in thought, and narrowed your sunshine stare at your half-brother. "He won't leave until he gets the chance to brag to you about his latest made-up injury."

You didn't have to ask who Will was talking about. Leo was still watching you from across the room, rather impatiently. He'd managed to find a few loose bolts and washers and was currently inventing something you couldn't comprehend while he stared very pointedly at the ground by your feet, having averted his stare the moment you darted yours in his direction.

"Shut up," You mumbled to Will, but regardless you dashed off across the room with what felt like permission to engage in your favorite part of the day.

You had received Apollo's gifts of healing, not his poetic words. And every day you cursed that fact, because never could you put into words just how much being around Leo Valdez made you feel centered within yourself. It was like his very personality gave you permission to the version of you that was nearly lost to time and circumstance and the tragedy of being a Greek hero.

"What's the problem today?" You grinned, the smile your half-siblings claimed shined brightest in the camp plastered on your face almost of its own accord as you stood before Leo.

"My hand, Doc." He sighed, playing along and holding up his left hand while the right shoved the ice pack Will had already given him behind his back. You snorted a laugh, and Leo's grin broke out from the solemn facade he had attempted. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to work again if you don't help me."

"Well there's only one solution," You nodded, pretending to read something off of your clipboard—which was still filled out with Garrett's information.

"Anything you recommend is good with me," Leo leaned closer, trying to read over the edge of your clipboard, which you quickly tugged close to your body.

"Right, I've got it." You grinned, dropping your face closer to his, almost like your heart was in control of your body instead of your mind. Leo nodded, and you would have sworn you saw his gaze shoot to your lips for the briefest of seconds. "Amputation. Mr. Valdez, I'm afraid we're going to have to take your hand off."

"But, that's my pretty hand!" Leo protested, playing into your joke quickly. You couldn't even pretend to hide your smile, laughter falling past your lips just as easily as breathing.

"Then I'm afraid there's nothing else we can do for you." You shook your head, grinning widely at Leo, who was—for a guy with ADHD as severe as him—giving you his full attention. "You're free to go. I'll see you and your pretty hand at the bonfire tonight."

"Glad to hear you agree that my hand is pretty." Leo slid off of the examination bed with a grin that had you flushing and looking over the contents of your clipboard simply for something to do with your eyes. "See you later, Doc."

Waving, you sent Leo off.

Over the course of the following week, Leo had found himself at the infirmary—during your shifts only—six more times.

Three smashed fingers from equipment you knew for a fact he knew how to handle properly. One cut to his arm from a piece of scrap metal. A paper cut.

On Thursday, he came in complaining of a serious burn.

"Doc, you'll never believe it. My whole arm caught on fire."

Will hadn't let him into the infirmary, claiming that Leo needed a better lie than that to come visit, since everyone already knew he was fireproof.

Leo came back fifteen minutes later with a second paper cut. Will took his break an hour early, claiming he needed to for his sanity.

But then you didn't so much as catch a glimpse of Leo for four straight days.

You felt more than a little pathetic, jumping every time the door to the infirmary opened, hoping against hope that it would be the curly haired son of Hephaestus you so adored.

On the afternoon of the fifth day, the door opened and you couldn't stop the way your body instinctively twisted around from where you words repacking first aide kits that were left in various locations around camp.

But it wasn't Leo standing at the door, but Piper.

You weren't the closest with her, but you were friendly. So you didn't think she was there for you, at first, until you saw her talking to your half-sister Stella and pointing towards you.

"Hey," Piper's voice had an edge of seriousness to it that snagged your attention, halting your efforts of resupplying. "I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you."

"Okay...?" You trailed off, not sure what she could have needed from you.

"Would you be willing to talk to Leo for me? He's in Bunker Nine, convinced he's going to make some big breakthrough on whatever machine he's currently working on." Piper explained and you nodded slowly, not seeing the problem. From your conversations with Leo, he always seemed to be in the middle of some big breakthrough. "He hadn't come out in four days. It's not healthy."

You frowned, trying to recall the last time you'd seen Leo at any of the meals. And when your mind came up blank, you settled on your answer to Piper's request.

"I'll talk to him."

You had never been to Bunker Nine.

As much as you talked to Leo, pretty much everyday, it was always in yours and shared spaces. The infirmary, mainly, but every once in a while at the dining pavilion or at the camp bonfires.

But you could barely focus on any one thing in the bunker. Half-finished projects littered the space, along with countless tools, scraps, and blueprints tacked haphazardly against walls and bulletin boards.

Since it was nearly dinner, the bunker had cleared out of all but one of its occupants. Perched over a table, working so diligently he didn't hear you approach, was none other than Leo Valdez.

Without thinking of the consequences, you dropped the canvas bag you had brought with you on his worktable, startling him so much he jumped in surprise and nearly sent his latest project clattering to the floor.

"Gods!" He shouted, wide eyed and hand pressed to his chest as if he could physically calm his racing heart. You couldn't help the way you grinned, a little lopsided, wholly endeared by him. "Sorry, were you trying to kill me? Because, if so, mission almost accomplished!"

"Actually, the opposite." With a confidence you didn't really possess, you leaned against the worktable next to him and started pulling tinfoil wrapped sandwiches out of the bag. "Everyone's convinced I'm your appointed caretaker, since you don't seem to do it yourself."

Leo had the good sense to seem chastised by the glare you sent him following your words. It wasn't like he could deny it, anyways. How many times had he ended up on your patient list?

"Did Jason put you up to this?"

"Piper," You confirmed, pushing a wrapped sandwich across the table towards him. Next out of the bag was a metal bowl, the bottom slightly charred and filled with paper scraps and twigs. "Light this for me, will you, please?"

"Well, when you ask so nicely," Leo grinned, a ball of flame forming in his palm and igniting the twigs in the bowl. Without needing to be told, Leo unwrapped his sandwich and ripped off a chunk to throw into the flames.

You copied his actions. And if you made a wordless prayer to Aphrodite to ask for a little assistance, that was no one's business but your own.

"I've..." You hesitated, darting a glance to Leo before focusing on your sandwich, biting down your declaration that you've missed him in the infirmary. He had already started eating, only further proof that he had been skipping meals while holed up in the bunker. "How come you're always getting hurt, Mr. Clumsy? I thought children of Hephaestus are supposed to be good in the forges."

You would have sworn you saw Leo blush, but your attention quickly darted away from him the moment he lifted his eyes to yours.

"You sure you wanna know the truth?" Leo asked his voice a kind of serious that was almost out of character for him. You nodded, slowly, and forced yourself to meet his eye. "I've been getting hurt on purpose."

"Leo Valdez!"

"Wait, let me finish!" Leo held up his hands to defend himself from your words and your glare, the healer in your absolutely hated the fact that Leo would have done anything to intentionally cause himself harm. "I did it because I got an excuse to see you."

"What?" For a child of Apollo, you sure didn't have a way with words. Distantly, you cursed the fact that you were a gifted healer and not a poet, because you knew what Leo's words meant and yet you couldn't get your own to function. "Wait—"

"I know this sounds stupid," Leo dragged a hand through the dark, disheveled curls atop his head. "But Will wouldn't let me in to see you if I wasn't hurt! So I... maybe... lied, a little bit."

You frowned, in thought. Thinking back, you couldn't remember Leo ever actually being hurt beyond the occasional cut or scrap. You'd always been so caught up in him and his visits to notice.

"I swear I'm not weird. I just really like you." Leo winced, no doubt taking your silence in a bad way.

And you weren't one of Apollo's poetically gifted children, so you simply pressed your lips against his and hoped he got the message.

It was a short kiss, a good first kiss, you noted with no small satisfaction. Your lips tingled and your fingertips were buzzing��and Leo looked like he had just won the lottery.

"You're sweet," You smiled, a thousand watt one that maybe Leo adored as much as your half-siblings did, and nudged his sandwich closer to him. "But you're banned from the infirmary unless you're actively dying. And for real!"

Leo paused, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to create a scenario that would get him past the barrier of your totally official and absolutely within rules ban.

"I can make that happen,"

"No, you can't," You tried to shoot him a discouraging look, but your smile was far too wide to deal any real damage. "Or else I'll go to tonight's bonfire with someone else."

"Nope!" He shook his head quickly, hair bouncing with the movement and expression light with an impish grin. "You kissed me, Doc. You're stuck with me, now."

You smiled, silently deciding you wouldn't mind being stuck with him.

"That's what I thought."

Leaning over to press a second kiss to the corner of his lips, you pretended not to notice the sparks dancing in his curls.

[macfrog]

if patrick bateman were a woman

cowboy like me [bonus chapter]

surprise!! happy halloween!!!! may your day be spooky and your sex be filthy. here's a bonus chapter of clm to celebrate. love y'all !!! despite being cowboy joel and his reader, this is not canon. does not happen in the cowboy like me series. i wish. it's just a little bit of spooky szn fun with my two favorite star-crossed lovers. !!!

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: sarah throws a halloween party. you and joel have a little too much fun.

warnings: as pwp as a macfrog fic can get, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), lil bit titty appreciation, a singular daddy mention, a single slice of degradation, but also praise kink, unprotected piv sex, creampie, it's set on halloween, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 4k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡

Ice, pretzels, lime juice. Ice, pretzels, lime juice.

I’m giving you one job. Ice, pretzels, lime juice. That’s it.

That sounds like three jobs, you’d said.

Sarah ignored you. Be here at seven, alright? Ice – pretzels – lime juice!

It’s seven thirty. You’re finally on her front porch. The tiny section of bare skin between your stockings and black skirt is pimpled with goosebumps. With each inhale you suck in the sickly-sweet scent of fake blood, splattered across your face. You have a bag of ice slung over one arm, a bag of pretzels balanced on top, a bottle of juice hanging from your fingers and an axe under your elbow.

Only – it’s not lime juice. And the axe is plastic.

Sarah opens the door and spots your blunder instantly. “That’s lemon.”

“I know. They didn’t have any lime.”

“They didn’t have any lime? Where the hell did you go?”

“It’s Halloween, Sarah. Everybody and their fucking grandma is drinking tonight. Lemon tastes the exact –”

“Ah!” She holds a finger up. Her red cape flutters in the breeze. “It does not taste the same. Otherwise, why would it be two separate things?”

“Hey, Wonder Woman,” you drone, “mind letting me in? I’m fucking freezing.”

She scoffs, and steps aside. Mutters, “’s not the same thing,” as you pass.

You click down the hall, head rolling to check out her decorating. The living room and kitchen are lit by constellations of tiny tealights, flickering and blinking and casting tall, warped shadows across the walls. There’s a purple neon sign sat against the wall that reads Spooky. By the fireplace sit the two pumpkins she and her boyfriend carved last night; she’d sent you photos and asked you to pick a winner. When you chose the Iron Man head over the silhouette of Tinkerbell, she sent back a middle finger emoji.

Y: It’s cleaner cut. What do you expect? Shoddy work, Miller.

S: asshole.

Sarah’s slotting the ice into the freezer. Struggling, by the sound of it. You swing back into the kitchen to find Wonder Woman on her ass, hammering her fist against the frozen pack to fit it in.

You’re about to offer help, when someone else does it for you. Someone lower, gravellier. A voice like thunder in the distance, a storm approaching.

“You need a hand?” he asks, and when you turn, you almost drop your fucking axe.

He glances to you as he emerges from the dark hallway, the warm glow licking at his graying flicks of hair, nestling in the deep-set lines on his face. His eyes dart down to where your fingers now clutch the plastic handle, holding it against the hem of your skirt like it’ll do anything to cover your modesty.

Your modesty, meaning – the line of sexy black lace curling around your thighs, snug against the supple skin.

What the fuck are you doing here? you mouth, as Joel paces across the kitchen towards his daughter.

He shrugs, palms outstretched. It’s my house?

You roll your eyes, run your tongue like lightning across your scarlet lips. Sarah straightens up, huffs hair from her face and stares blankly at Joel.

He bends, takes the entire bag in one huge palm, and reorganizes the drawer with the other. Your eye drifts to his bicep, flexing under the tight seam of a dark tee. The bag of ice cradled in his arm leaves weak little droplets, running down the tan skin to the crook of his elbow. You want to fucking lick them up, gather the frozen beads on your tongue, hike up up up to the curve of his shoulder, the crook of his neck, the –

“Hey.” Sarah clicks her fingers in front of your face. “You hearin’ me?”

“Huh? No, yeah. No. I wasn’t lis– What did you say?”

She sighs again. Joel groans as he pushes off his knee and stands tall behind her. Wipes the water from his arm with one swipe of his palm.

“Would you put these in a bowl?” his daughter asks, shoving the bag of pretzels into your suited chest. She shuffles off, announcing she’s going to pick a playlist for the night.

Suited is perhaps giving you too much credit. You’re in a mini skirt and waistcoat, a red tie slung loose around your neck. You’ve a clear poncho draped over your shoulders, but with the heat from the million and one fucking candles – and the flush that the forty-something-year-old with his wide frame and fitted sweatpants and toned chest and his big fucking hands has cast over you – it’ll soon be discarded to the newel post.

But when you reach up for the bowl on the top shelf of the cabinet, pushing forward with a palm on the countertop, the marble digging into your pelvis and forcing your ass to jut out – you think yourself pretty fucking smug to be in a skirt that hugs your cheeks and not much else.

You turn, the lip of the bowl in your fingers, and smile sweetly at Joel, whose gaze returns north as you approach him.

“You got nothin’ better to do with your night than babysit a bunch of twenty-five-year-olds?” you murmur, spilling the bag into the blue bowl. You place a pretzel on your tongue, humming at the taste.

Joel smiles, popping the cap off his beer. He spills the amber liquid into his mouth. “I’ll be in my room.”

Your eyebrows lift. “That so? You need any company in there?”

“Nope. Rangers game is on. I’ll be busy.”

The words ghost across your lips. You’ll be busy, you breathe. Joel nods. Then looks you up and down.

“American Psycho?”

“What?”

He flicks his wrist up and down your figure. “What’s his name, again? Pat–”

“Patrick Bateman,” you say together. You nod.

“That’s the one.” Then he turns, leans his jaw nearer until his lips line with your ear. Your eyes shoot across to the empty doorway. Sarah’s skipping song after song in the living room.

Joel’s finger slips beneath the lace trim of your stockings, tugging gently. “I don’t remember ‘im in these, though,” he says, voice low.

You gulp. Swallow to push your heart back into place. “Well,” you glance down, lifting your thigh closer to him, “if he were a woman, he woulda dressed like this.”

“That’s somethin’ I’d like to see,” Joel murmurs, eyes locked on the place where lace separates from skin.

“Yeah?”

He nods. Growls, “Yeah.”

And then he’s walking away.

Within an hour, the house is jumping. Literally. Almost.

You sit at the kitchen island, sipping on a beer, staring down the hall at the sea of bodies – of nylon and polyester, of purples and oranges, of headbands and props and cloaks and hats. There are a lot more than forty people here – a lot more than Sarah intended to turn up.

A lot more than you know, too. She’s barely even four years younger than you, but most of these kids look like they just walked out of middle school. Of the handful of faces you recognize, one is sat opposite you, his arm draped over Sarah’s shoulder, her hand locked in his. She and Ty have been dating for a year now, surviving long-distance when she jets back off to school every few months.

The other you know, unfortunately for you, is swaying by your side. Leaning a little too heavily into you. Asking you questions about college, and then talking over your answers to tell you stories about his college. Asking you questions about films you like, and then interrupting to gawk at the titles you reel off. The only times he doesn’t jump in over your answer, are the times he’s asking who you think might win in a fight between prime Mike Tyson and prime Muhammad Ali. And that’s only because you don’t have an answer to give him.

Jace. Ty’s best friend. Fucking – loser.

“And who the fuck are you s’posed to be, anyways?” he asks, slinging a heavy arm over your shoulder. He reeks of beer, warm and stale. His jaw’s swinging, cheeks popping and suckling on a shriveled piece of gum.

You scowl, shrugging the uncomfortable weight from the nape of your neck. “Patrick Bateman,” you mutter.

“Who?”

“Christian Bale. You know, when he –” Sarah mimes lifting an axe over her shoulder, takes a swing through the air, across the island to Jace.

“No fucking idea,” he says, shaking his head. You’re not surprised.

“Where’s your axe?” Ty asks, as Sarah nuzzles back into his side.

You shrug. “Saw someone using it to stir the punch earlier. ‘s probably in the toilet or something.”

He laughs, flashing his dimpled cheeks. He’s got glistening eyes beneath long, black eyelashes. He’s handsome. Sharp jaw, full lips. Sarah links her fingers at his side, plants her cheek against his shoulder. She’s comfortable. She’s safe. Your chest warms at the sight.

He squeezes her arm, and they share a meaningful glance before there’s a yell from across the kitchen, and their attention is diverted.

When they turn to watch two of Sarah’s high school friends sword-fighting, wielding a plastic lightsaber and your axe, you slink off, swiping two beers from the fridge. Swift and silent, you scale the stairs and fade into the darkened hallway at the top, in pursuit of your own dark-eyed, sharp-jawed comfort.

The sliver of light at the end of the hall draws you in, footsteps silent along the soft carpet. Up here, tucked away in the corner of the house, far from the rattling music and rumble of boisterous chatter – you can hear the soft roar of a crowd, the crack of ball against bat.

Your hip nudges the door open, trickle of condensation running over your knuckles. Joel’s eyes are already on you. He’s laying on his bed, legs outstretched, knee cocked. One arm lies idly on his thigh. You get the feeling he shifted it quickly when he saw the door move.

He balances his chin on the end of the remote, purses his lips and lifts his head. “Now,” he mumbles, “you’re s’posed to be downstairs.”

You shrug, holding the bottles up. “Thought you might need a top-up.”

His eyes thin. He sits up straight, swings his legs over the edge of the bed. You come to a stop between his knees, holding the beer down to him. He hums, taking it with his eyes locked on yours.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he says, and his eyes begin to drift down.

You tilt your head back at the same time he does, lifting the lip of your own bottle. The cold drink washes over your tongue, bitter and blunt in its taste, leaving a furry feeling on your gums. When your chin lowers again, Joel’s hand is on the back of your thigh.

He’s staring at the two knolls between you – your breasts round, nipples peaking under the tight waistcoat.

“Welcome,” you reply, swirling the liquid around in the curved glass. Your voice is barely there. But he hears you, and he must hear the want laced deep through that one quiet word, because he instantly slides his beer onto his nightstand.

He curves both hands around your thighs, fingers lifting higher and higher between your legs until they’re crossing over lace and onto bare skin.

You shuffle forward, leaning your arms on his shoulders and propping your knees on the bed either side of his body. Your skirt rides up, exposing the shard of shocking red lace beneath the pinstripe material.

Joel sees it. Like it’s a rag and he’s a bull. It charges something deep inside him. Something that awakens beneath the thin line of fabric between your legs.

You can feel your pulse in your clit. Fluttering, fucking – hammering. Your cunt feels painfully empty, clenching around nothing. Joel’s palms surf across the tops of your thighs until his fingers are teetering along the hem of your skirt.

“Off,” he instructs, swatting the poncho away.

You shake it from your shoulders the same way you shook the blond downstairs off. Joel nods as the material crumples to the floor. He hooks a hand under your knee and yanks your body closer to his. You almost throw the beer bottle across his bed.

“J– fucking hell, my –”

“Shut up,” he clips, and grabs the beer from your grasp to deposit it alongside his own.

His hands find the tiny buttons of your waistcoat, fingers slip through the gaps between them where your skin peeks through. You can feel his hot breath on your chest. A wave of need washes over you, a desire from deep within your marrow to feel him everywhere. His breath, his tongue, his hands. All of him.

Your entire body weight rests on his shoulders, your fingers locking his shirt in two tight fists. Joel doesn’t seem to mind. Barely seems to notice. He pulls apart the first button, watches with a dark gaze as your breasts spill over. The second button pops open easily, and they bounce lower. When he unhooks the third, they drop into place, nipples pointed, welcoming him in between them.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he whispers as he leans in, mouth flattening against the smooth skin between them. “No bra or nothin’.”

“Knew you’d be here,” you reply, head rolling back as he licks a trail across to the darker flesh of your nipple. His lips close around it and he suckles gently. Your nails dig into his scalp.

He pushes the waistcoat over your shoulders and it drops to the carpet, pooled inside the shell of poncho. As soon as it falls, his hands begin the climb up the seam of your thigh, resting on the brush of red – where he feels the quickly dampening mark on the fabric.

“Thought as much,” he says, head cocking to watch your expression warp as he rubs slow circles into your clit. His voice is as soft as his touch, innocent almost, when he asks, “She like that?”

“Ye-ah,” you choke, leaning back.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and uses his other hand to fish beneath his sweatpants. He rubs himself under the gray cotton, watches as your fingers clutch at the waistband to tug it down, releasing him.

His heavy cock springs up between your bodies, dabs precome on the pointed tail of your tie. You giggle, loosening the knot and pulling the thin silk over your head. Your hands wrap around him, twisting and pumping and dragging the milky arousal from his slit down the smooth, warm skin. Joel’s breath catches when your thumbs swipe across his head.

His fingers slip behind your knees and pull them apart, pull them wider on the mattress. You lean forward, chest brushing against his parted lips, taking your panties in one hand and guiding him along your slit with the other.

You cover him in your arousal, the veined skin soon slick and pearlescent. His wide head slips between your opening, notching against your entrance and forcing the breath from your lungs.

His hands sit firmly on your waist, pushing down on your hips, pushing and pushing until he sinks snug into your cunt. When he pauses, his mouth agape and eyes stuck on the sight of his body connecting to yours, you whine.

“More,” you mewl, voice dripping with need, drizzling all over him.

“We gotta –”

“More.”

“Baby,” Joel says, voice flat but crumbling. “We gotta go slow. I’m gonna – You’re gonna make me come, dressed like that, if we go too quick.”

But fuck, you want to feel him. Want him to buck his hips and fill you in one go – fuck the pain. Fuck the discomfort, fuck the way your walls would clamp in a vice grip around him. You want him to fuck you. Want to be fucked so good that you have to time your moaning with the bassline of the music downstairs, unable to contain the sounds in your throat. Fucked so good that you waddle out of the room, that you fling yourself back onto the couch and wince in pain, a sharp memory of the breadth of him shooting between your legs.

Your hips circle, the heat of your cunt swirling around and around on his tip. He groans, hands tightening on your waist to hold you still.

“Stop it, darlin’,” he growls, the words clawing from between his teeth.

“F-fuck me, then,” you moan, curling your back to slowly edge down on him.

“Ask nicer.”

You smile, heavy lids falling closed. “Please?”

His hands roam around the curve of your ass. He starts to push again. “Nicer.”

Your mouth opens wider the further he slides into you. The more he claims of your body, the further you open for him, the warmer your welcome. Your head tips back, eyes tighten until you see stars. When you feel a weight around your neck, you flutter your lashes open, blink the cyan-colored sparkles from your vision.

Joel pulls your jaw back down to face him. Squeezes on your pulse, holding you between his middle finger and thumb.

“Nicer,” he demands.

You lean in, small hands linking around his thick wrist. “Fuck me, please, daddy,” you whisper.

And he smiles like a fucking devil. Eyes drawn black like ink. He pulls you in until your chin brushes against the rough bristle of his own, lines his bottom lip with yours.

Into your mouth, he asks, “You think you can take it, babygirl? Think it’ll fit?”

You nod desperately, anchoring yourself on his wrist. “Know it will.”

He’s only halfway in. Your heartbeat is thudding around your body, focusing hardest on your clit. Your hips move again, and Joel allows it, sitting back to watch as you sink down further.

“Go on,” he says, watching your body slowly attach to his, “’f you think you can do it. Be a big girl ‘n take it. Slow.”

Something caught between a laugh and a whimper drags between your painted lips – something dripping in desire, built from a need to prove yourself to him, to take all of him inside your body, to feel him in the deepest parts of yourself. You push on him, loosen his grip around your neck and flatten your palms on his chest. And you curve your back, pushing him deeper.

“’s my girl,” Joel says, quietly, as if to himself. “This what you wanted? Comin’ up here, dressed like that?”

Your teeth hold onto your bottom lip. “Like what?” you purr, leaning forward until your noses brush.

Joel tips his chin up, lips flush against yours. “Like a little fuckin’ slut.”

You laugh weakly, feeling him finally in his entirety. “Fuck.”

Joel’s hands take your waist, pushing you down until the pain sends bolts of lightning across your vision. The bruising feeling of his head against your cervix. The sweet stretch of your skin opening around his.

“Beggin’ for it, weren’t ya? ‘n now look, you can’t hardly take it.”

“I can take it,” you hiss back, bracing yourself on the mattress. Your hips lift, holding onto him, bouncing up and down steadily. “I can take it,” you repeat, like a mantra, like the only thing keeping you in the room still. The only thing reminding your body to keep moving.

Joel holds a palm steady against the bottom of your stomach, rubs his thumb delicately against your skin. “So deep, baby. ‘m so fuckin’ deep inside you. That feel nice?”

The meat of your ass slaps against the tops of his thighs. You’re quickening, eyes screwing shut. He feels so good. Fills you up so fucking good. Your legs start to loosen, knees weakening the more you fuck yourself on him. Your head drops between your shoulders when his thumb lowers, circles gently at your clit.

“Keep – keep doing that. Fuck, Joel – touch me. Keep touching me.”

“’boutta come, ain’t you?”

“Sh-shut up.”

“Yeah,” he says, “she’s about to come.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, hips rolling now, losing rhythm between the split of his cock inside you and the lull of his thumb on your clit. Your back arches, vision begins to blur. Your lungs close in on themselves as you give one final gasp to the ceiling, and let go.

Your walls clamp hard around him, and in one swift movement, your bodies are flipped. When you open your eyes again, you’re on your back, Joel’s figure towering over you.

“’attagirl,” he mutters, palms flat against the underside of your thighs. He pushes them flat, folding you in two, your knees resting by your shoulders. “So close, darlin’. Ain’t gonna last.”

You’re shaking your head, holding onto his neck, thighs trembling. “I – can’t, Joel.”

“Yeah, you can. You can,” he assures, dipping his head to place his lips on yours. Your mouth opens up for him, tongue falls against his own. It’s barely a kiss – you’re licking at one another, sure, but there’s nothing tender or gentle about it. Joel pulls away only to glance down and guide himself back inside you. “Gonna be my good girl, aren’t you? Gonna make me come.”

With one seamless thrust, he’s back inside you, pressing your legs harder against your torso. You whine, a blur of pain and pleasure mixing where he fucks you.

“Good girl,” he says, tongue skimming along his top lip. “Nice ‘n wide, that’s it.”

Your back arches into him, arms tighten around his neck, lips settle curved around his own. You’re moaning, his name releasing itself from your mouth in shots of breath. Joel takes your knee and hooks it over his shoulder, letting the other fall to his hip. The angle forces him deeper. Deeper and harder.

But he’s starting to jump. Bucking randomly. He’s panting your name, teeth grazing against your neck in attempt to hold on just a little longer, feel you squeeze him a little more.

“You’re close,” you slur.

“’m close,” he says.

“Gonna come in me –?”

“Baby –”

“– ’n send me – ah – back downstairs full of you? Runnin’ outta me?”

Joel’s head shakes. His eyes tighten. “Fuck, darlin’. Dirty fuckin’ mouth.”

“C’mon,” you beg, “give it to – m-me.”

His hips hammer against yours, punching against the edge of your cunt harshly. You sob out, nails digging into his shoulders, until he halts, and you feel the warmth of him spurting deep inside your body. Feel the way he tenses, empties, and stills.

Your head falls back against the mattress. Joel’s still nuzzled against your neck, breathing labored, lips soaking wet against your skin. You sift your fingers through his hair, combing through it as he comes to.

His chest rocks against yours. Feeling starts to sharpen again, the orgasmic haze starting to bleed into the past. The walls of the house thud with the music from downstairs. You feel the weight of his body on top of yours again.

“Up,” you groan, pushing on his shoulders.

Joel scoffs, pushing against the mattress and rolling over beside you. He slips out, his spend seeping out and spilling onto your thigh.

Your fingers intertwine with his by your side, your nails scrawling into his knuckles.

“I miss you, when you ain’t around,” Joel whispers, glossy eyes blinking at the ceiling. “I’m bored up here.”

You roll onto your side, run your fingers over the halo of sweat around the collar of his shirt. “Good think I ain’t far, then. ‘m only downstairs.”

He smiles. “Downstairs is too far.”

You lean over him and place a soft kiss on his rough cheek. “Just have to keep you at my hip then, don’t I?”

His head turns and his lips find yours. He cups the globe of your head, pulls you harder against his jaw, runs his tongue along your teeth. When you pull away, you shift the damp hair from his glistening forehead.

“You ruined my tie, by the way,” you tell him. “The hell am I supposed to say that is?”

Joel shrugs. “If Patrick Bateman were a woman, ‘n all that.”

[604to647]

Scherzo (a Barón Tovar Takes a Wife one-shot)

3.1K / Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader

Scherzo - a short composition – sometimes a movement from a larger work such as a symphony or a sonata

Summary: Your husband takes care of you when you get hurt during your travels.

Warnings: None! All fluff, though reader gets cheeky with her husband cause I mean, it's Pero? Protective!Pero, Soft Husband!Pero (I NEED HIM). A little bit of violence is described where reader gets physically hurt, nothing graphic.

A/N: This was written for @morallyinept's Flora & Fauna challenge; please see #jettsflora&faunachallenge for all the other amazing works by some wonderful authors (I didn't do much with the meanings of the flowers, was just going for ✨vibes✨ - hope it's okay!). I tend to always miss my babies after I complete their series, and can't help but write little one-shots for them to see what they're up to. This is our Regency couple from Barón Tovar Takes a Wife, but you don't need to read it (although it would be cool if you did - I'm kind of proud of this one 😭) - just know our happy Barón and Baronesa are doing what they love the most, which is travelling on the high seas together.

Beautiful Bridgerton inspired dividers by @saradika-graphics 🥰

Truth be told, Naples is not one of Pero’s favourite places to visit in Italy; the Barón much preferred the rolling vineyards of Tuscany or the cultural diversity of Milan.  At least it will be a short stay, too short to even arrange for lodging in the city; it was much easier for everyone on the ship to remain staying in their onboard quarters while he oversaw some Royal fleet business with the Italians.  It would be just three short weeks before they're set to raise the sails again, this time charting a course up the western Italian coast to the Civitavecchia Port of Rome.  He realizes the last time the two of you were in Rome had been when you said your final goodbyes in his youth, parting ways and not meeting again for over ten years; Pero looks forward to strolling the cobblestone streets together once more, this time with you as his bride.

In the meantime, he would try to expedite the matter before him – if the Italian dignitary sitting across from him would acquiesce, perhaps he can still save enough of the day to take you to do some sightseeing before nightfall.  Just as the stout man’s mustache twitches at something he’s read on the document Pero gave him, someone bursts into the office, violently banging open the door.

Recognizing one of his trusted footmen, Pero exclaims, “Miguel, could this wait?  Signor Romano and I are in the middle of something.”

“No!” cries Miguel, alarmingly, “My apologies, Barón!  It is the Baronesa...”

Pero reacts with blinding speed, his chair knocked to the ground from the force with which he stands, “What has happened?!”

“There was a commotion in the square, my lord.  Your wife was hur-”

Pero is already out the door, running as fast as he can towards the city square where he knows you and your lady's maid, Lucia, had planned to do some exploring while he was away at meetings.  Wind rushing past his ears, he can hear behind him the faint thundering footsteps of Miguel the footman trying to keep up with his master.

When he gets to the square, Pero is stunned to find it in a mild state of chaos – several shops have been vandalized and an overwhelming number people seem to be in a state of mild panic, crying.  He scans the crowd and when he finally spots you, he nearly falls to his knees.  You’re sitting on the ground next to Lucia who is crying loudly, comforting her the best you can; and while Lucia is clearly emotionally distraught, she appears to be physically unharmed - the same cannot be said for you.  Your dress is torn in several places and covered in blood; whose blood Pero does not know, but he realizes, stomach dropping, that some of it at least must be yours when he sees the long bleeding cut down your left forearm.  Your beautiful face has at least one messy scrape across your cheek that he can see even at this distance and your lip looks like it’s starting to discolour and swell.

You spot Pero when he is a but few steps away and instantly feel a wave of relief wash over you at the sight of your strong, handsome husband (though you do hate to see the look of panic and terror on his face).  Dropping down to your side, Pero immediately cups your face in his warm, bear paw hands, careful not to disturb any of your injuries, “Dulce!  How are you?”

You don’t want to tell Pero that your heart is still beating fast from how scared you had felt during the stampede, or how the cuts on your arm and face sting and that your sides and back have started to ache.  You know that doing so will only make him feel worse - but you’ve never lied to your husband in all the years you’ve known him so you simply say, truthfully, “Better now that you’re here, Pero.”  Melting into the soft tender kiss he presses to your mouth, you try not wince when his soft lips meet your bruised ones but fail miserably.  Trying not to shatter in front of you when he hears your pained whimper, Pero wills himself to pull back with a silent reminder to handle you with more care; as he starts to check over your injuries, he asks delicately, “What happened, mi amor?”

One of the sailors who had joined the footmen in accompanying you and Lucia starts to explain before he’s silenced by a glowering look from your husband; Baronesa Tovar is not a woman who needs others to speak for her.

You give the poor sailor a reassuring smile before drawing Pero’s attention back to you and recount for him what happened in the square earlier.  Noticing that the Barón's hands have been cold in the mornings as of late, you had headed out today with a mission to purchase your husband some gloves made with the fine leather craftsmanship that the Italians are known for.  While admiring the buttery softness of a pair of large leather gloves handed to you by a lovely stall merchant, a fight had broken out across the square between a mob of over twenty large and angry Italian men.  The fighting horde continued their bout while moving across the square, barreling into families and unsuspecting people just trying to go about their day.  Caught unawares, the pedestrians scattered and ran panicked in an effort to get out the way of the oncoming melee.  The fleeing crowd had ran in your direction and you and Lucia could not get out of the way fast enough – pushed down to the ground, in your attempt to shield Lucia as the two of you tried to crawl to the side of the street and away from the mob, your dress had been torn by the flurry of feet as runners stampeded, your body kicked more than once.  At one point, someone had produced a pistol and shot at several buildings; and while that effectively ended the fight, several windows had shattered and some of the errant glass had fallen and cut your arm.

Pero feels absolutely sick at the picture his mind conjures of you being physically pushed and kicked, imagining how scared you must have been; he wants nothing more than to sweep you into his arms and comfort you, but without knowing the extent of your injuries, he settles for pressing his forehead to yours and whispering that everything will be okay now.  You believe him.

With some difficulty, Pero helps you stand and brings you back to the ship; both of you agreeing that when the doctor is called, it should be to the safety and comfort of your own quarters.  Though ever gentle with you, the fearsome scowl on Pero’s face clears a path from the square down to the docks – the deep furrow of his brow accentuating the faded scar over his left eye, as if to challenge anyone who would get between his wife and her safe haven.  Calling out for medical supplies and hot water as soon as he’s onboard, Pero leads you to your chambers and sits you on your shared bed before falling to his knees in front of you.  Slumping, tension in his strong frame finally dissolving, Pero lays his head in your lap and lets a few tears fall at the relief of finally getting you back home, safe.  You stroke your husband’s soft curls lovingly, understanding all of him and letting his devotion wash over you - it brings you a calm that you haven’t felt for several hours now.

In silence, you let Pero tend to your cuts and scrapes, eyes never leaving his handsome face as you watch him concentrate on being gentle with his big, sometimes clumsy hands.  Pero washes your face and hands, wiping away all evidence of the time you spent on the hard stone streets of the square, then takes care to thoroughly clean your injuries.  When you hiss at the sting from the salve he applies to the cut on your arm, Pero murmurs, “Be good for me, Baronesa,” and distracts you momentarily from the pain with that sweet smile of his that he knows makes you melt.

Finally comes the point that Pero has been dreading; he undresses you carefully to tend to the injuries on your body, hoping none will be too serious.  Once he has you stripped to the barest of your undergarments, he takes in the bruising that’s starting to show on your legs, hips and back and thinks he might cry again; his beautiful wife, so brave and strong – he cannot believe you sustained these injuries and still allowed him to move you about as he has without complaint.  As if reading his mind, you run a finger through your husband’s scruff that you love so much and try to lighten his mood; nodding towards your discarded dress on the floor, you joke, “I do not think I will be wearing that dress again.”

Half serious, Pero replies, “I think I will bring it to the Polizia tomorrow, when I demand answers for how they allowed what happened in the square to transpire.”

“Pero.”

“Or we throw it over the side of the ship,” he shrugs, a little bit a light returning back to his eyes when he sees your good humour is unscathed; permitting himself to hold you close, Pero breathes his first calm breath since Miguel interrupted his meeting, inhaling your soft perfume.  Seeing Pero in a better mood instantly lifts your spirits, and while in the safety of his loving arms, you give him a playful little wiggle and press your barely clad body to his. 

“Dulce,” he warns, voice dipping low at your giggles.  To show him it’s just a little bit of teasing, you straighten up immediately and allow Pero to run the warm cloth over your body and finish cleaning you up before dressing in your most modest nightgown without any more shenanigans. 

The doctor who is called leaves a short while later, declaring that both you and Lucia will be fine and that a few weeks of lightened activity and rest should heal your injuries without issue.  It’s not something you’re looking forward to, but you agree with Pero that for the remainder of your time in Naples, it would be better if you recovered from the safety of the ship.

For the first few days, you enjoy the calm and quiet of your vessel, many of the sailors and staff taking the opportunity to enjoy some leave while docked.  But as the days go on, with Pero away for most of the day on business, you find yourself getting restless.  You read your books and write your letters.  You play your piano and even entreat Lucia and whomever remains onboard to play cards with you.  From the ship’s deck you can still see much of the city, and even though you have no particular wish to return on this trip (your experience in the square still too fresh), it unfairly beckons to you like a siren.  You’re bored.  And despite loving your ship, you’re starting to feel cooped up.

Pero does his best each day to finish up his work as quickly as possible so he can return to you, enjoying the warmth of your company and checking for himself that you’re recovering properly.  The Barón brings home delicious treats and pretty trinkets for his wife everyday, leaving no doubt that you’re ever on his mind even when apart.  And while you love your husband dearly for his thoughtfulness, you cannot help, while enjoying his gifts from within the boundaries of a ship that once represented freedom to you, feeling a bit envious at being unable to go out and procure them for yourself.  Pero can tell that you’re feeling a bit out of sorts, not your usual cheerful self; he so hates to see the wings of his pretty dove clipped – it saddens him just as much to see you try to hide your melancholy from him.  And although he cannot agree to lift the current restrictions on your movements, he deeply wishes for a way to make your so-called confinement as pleasant as possible.

The morning that marks the start of your last week in Naples, you wake to an absolute ruckus coming from the ship deck; for a moment you feel a stab of fear, unused to such loud noises and voices without having been given some forewarning.  You must still be feeling some effects of your recent scare, you think; upon listening a bit more carefully, you relax to the realization that the voices are primarily instructive and even calm.  But it’s still much too early for this level of activity from the deck – the footsteps and voices you hear must be from at least double the amount of people you would normally expect to be up at this time of day.  Also unusual is that you’ve woken up to an empty bed; every day following the incident in the square, you’ve woken up to your husband curled around you, arms and legs thrown over your body like protective amour.  You don’t think you particularly like today’s change, but it makes sense – you can’t imagine whatever is going on outside to be taking place without your Pero’s permission.  Not especially looking forward to another day of doing the same things again within the same confines of the ship, you lay in bed for a while longer, at least until the noises start to die down and your curiosity gets the better of you.

The sight that greets you as you open the door to the deck nearly knocks you off your feet.  Somehow, it’s not a wooden ship’s deck that you’re now gazing upon, but a colourful and enchantingly idyllic scene, something that could have been painted by a great master of the arts.  For a moment, you have to pinch yourself, is this a dream? 

You step through the doorway from the ship’s hold into an ethereal garden – blooming flowers have overtaken every inch of the ship’s deck: thick braided garlands of roses, violets, and peonies wrap wondrously around every one of the ship’s railings, big bright pots of lilacs, azaleas and irises line the sides of the ship and surround a makeshift sitting area where some garden furniture you’ve never seen before has been arranged.  Even the mast has been decorated to look like a spring maypole, intertwining vines of clematis and jasmine crisscross all the way down from the crow’s nest so tightly you can barely see any of the dark wood that normally centres your great vessel.  Every bow is positively dripping with wisterias, reminding you for a moment of your beloved Bridgerton House.  You walk slowly through the dreamlike scene, weaving between the lush plants and the fresh, bold flowers.   Brushing your hand over the railing as you meander, your fingertips flutter at the soft feel of the blooming petals and your eyes brighten at the rainbow hues that paint every perimeter inch of the ship.  Your nose breathes in the sweet and intoxicating floral scent that now dances lightly in the air.  You close your eyes and inhale.  Your eyes open again with a soft exhale.  Repeat.

You’re turning around slowly, trying to take in the entirety of your magical surroundings when your eyes land on your beaming husband, standing like a handsome faerie king holding an exquisite bouquet of your favourite peonies in his hand, waiting for his pretty queen to take in all his hard work.  Despite the residual pain you still feel a bit in your sides, you launch yourself into Pero’s arms, throwing your own around his neck and passionately press your lips to his.  Mouth opening, you let Pero lick in and explore, before pulling yourself up onto your toes and suck on his tongue eagerly.  Pero pulls you in tightly and when he feels your tongue stroke behind his teeth, lets loose a deep vibrating hum of want that reverberates through you, straight to your core.  With a quick nibble to your bottom lip and a few chasing flutter kisses, Pero reluctantly pulls away; he’s sure there are curious eyes all over the ship deck, even if they are currently concealed by the splendid greenery that’s overtaken the space.

When he steps back look at you, the expression on your face almost gives Pero enough reason to throw modesty and decorum out the window, grab at your enticing curves and throw you down amidst the lush fauna he’s brought onto the ship to have his way with you.  Almost.  Your eyes shine bright and twinkle, there’s a fresh glow to your cheeks, and your smile is the widest that he’s seen in weeks: you’re alive again.

“Pero,” you cry in bliss, “what is all this?”

The Barón gently cradles your head in his hand and reverently strokes the soft hair of his beloved Baronesa, “Mi amor, I could tell that staying confined to the ship has not been agreeing with you.  If you cannot go out to explore and play in the wide world, then I will do my best to bring the wide world to you.  Now, instead of a cold, dreary ship deck, I hope you will enjoy the remainder of the week before we set sail in your own private garden.”

You could cry – what did you ever do to deserve the love and devotion of your perfect husband?  He forever thinks of your comfort and the wellness of your heart – but he does so much more than just take care of you or do things that make you happy, he’s the reason for your joy, for your very being.  You cannot stop murmuring, Thank you thank you thank you, into his chest as he holds you close, not only to him but for him.

The flowers last a week which is precisely how long you need them to last.  During those final days before your fleet sets sail, you find yourself soothed every time you enter or sit in your personal secret garden; second, by the tranquility and peacefulness of your botanical hideaway, and first, by the knowledge that you have the love of the kindest, sweetest man on earth.

Leaning now along the once again bare wood railing, with the salty sea wind blowing through your hair, you feel a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist.  The patchy facial hair of your husband tickles your cheek as he presses a sweet kiss to your temple and whispers in your ear, “Happy to be on our way, Dulce?”

Turning in his arms, you snuggle into his safe hold; tucking yourself under his chin, you sigh into Pero’s neck, “Just happy, mi amor.”

[glittervame]

𝕆𝕙, 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕪? ♥

Theodore's heart hammered in his chest as he lay on the cool sheets, eyes locked on the door. He could hear her footsteps approaching, each step heavier than the last, like she was dragging her feet across the floor. His breathing became shallower, his palms sweaty as anticipation coursed through him. Theodore was in trouble, and tonight, he was all hers.

She finally entered the room, her features cast in shadow. Her hands rested on her hips as she surveyed the scene before her, taking in the mess they had made. Theodore swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze away from her. She was breathtaking, even now, when she was angry. Her long, dark hair tumbled down her back, curling at the ends, and her lips were pursed in a tight line.

"Well, look at that," she purred, her voice low and dangerous. "It seems our little Theodore has been a very bad boy." She stepped closer, the smell of her perfume filling his nostrils, making him lightheaded. "And what do you think happens to naughty boys like you?"

Theodore's heart thundered in his chest as he struggled to find the courage to speak. "Please, Y/n," he managed to choke out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

Y/n paused, her eyes narrowing. "Oh, you're sorry?" she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's all it takes for you to get out of trouble? An apology?" She took another step closer, her body looming over him. "I think I deserve better than that."

Theodore whimpered, his heart pounding even harder. He wanted nothing more than to make it better, to make her understand that he truly was sorry. But he didn't know what else to do.

Y/n considered him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she crouched down beside the bed, her face mere inches from his. Theodore couldn't help but shiver at her closeness. "Very well," she murmured, her voice softening. "If you're truly sorry, you'll prove it to me."

She placed a hand on his chest, her touch sending shockwaves of desire through him. He arched his back instinctively, wanting more of her touch. She smiled, a wicked glint in her eye. "That's it," she purred. "I want you to beg for it."

Theodore swallowed hard, feeling the heat of her touch spread throughout his body. He couldn't believe she was giving him this chance. "Please, Y/n," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Please, I'll do anything."

Her eyes flashed with amusement. "Oh, you'll do anything, will you?" she teased, running a finger down his chest. "We'll see about that." She leaned in closer, her breath hot against his ear. "I want you to beg for me to touch you. Beg for me to make you feel good."

Theodore's entire body tensed, his cock straining against his pajama pants. "Please, Y/n," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Please, I need you to touch me. I've been thinking about it all day."

She smiled, her fingers tracing circles around his navel. "Oh, have you now?" She leaned forward, her breath hot against his neck. "And what have you been thinking about, exactly?"

Theodore arched his back, his hips bucking off the bed in response to the sensation of her fingers circling his hardness through his pajamas. "I've been thinking about how good it feels when you touch me," he moaned. "I can't stop thinking about it."

She chuckled softly, her fingers finding the hem of his pajama pants and pushing them down, finally revealing his aching cock. "Well, I can help you with that," she purred, wrapping her hand around him. His skin felt like fire under her touch, and he let out a shuddering breath as she began to stroke him in a slow, rhythmic motion. "Just tell me what you want," she whispered in his ear.

Theodore arched his back, his eyes rolling back in his head as she expertly worked him. "I want you to touch me," he moaned. "I want you to make me feel good." He reached down, grasping at her hair, pulling her closer as she continued to stroke him. "Please, Y/n," he begged. "I need you to make me come."

Y/n hummed in response, her free hand finding its way to his other nipple, pinching gently. He cried out, his hips bucking violently against her hand. "That's it," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "Let go."

She continued to stroke him, faster and faster, her other hand moving to match the rhythm as she pinched and teased his sensitive flesh. Theodore's world narrowed to nothing but the sensation of her touch, the feel of her skin against his, the taste of her breath on his neck. Just as he was about to release she stopped.

"No," she whispered, her voice rough with desire. "You haven't begged enough." She moved her hand back down to his cock, slowly stroking him again as she leaned forward, her lips hovering mere inches from his ear. "Tell me how much you need this," she breathed. "Tell me what you'd do to have me touch you like this."

Theodore felt a wave of desperation wash over him as he struggled to catch his breath. His hips bucked against her hand, his cock twitching with each stroke. "I'd do anything," he moaned. "I'd give you anything you wanted. Just please, Y/n, please make me feel good."

She smiled against his neck, her breath hot and steady as it caressed his skin. "You'd give me anything?" she purred, her fingers moving faster on his cock. "You'd let me control you completely?"

Theodore arched his back, moaning loudly as her words sent a shiver of desire down his spine. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, please, Y/n."

She chuckled softly, her fingers moving faster still, her grip almost painful as it held him in place. "Mmm, I like the sound of that," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. "You know what would feel really good right now?"

He arched his back, moaning her name as her words sent a jolt of pleasure straight to his core. "What?"

She smiled against his neck, her fingers curling almost possessively around his cock. "I think you're ready to cum," she purred, her thumb brushing against the sensitive ridge of his head. Her grip tightened, and he cried out, his body tensing as the familiar sensation of release washed over him and she wrapped her lips around him.

Y/n moaned around him, sucking him deeper as she took him into her mouth, her tongue dancing against him, her hand still stroking him in time with her movements. She looked up at him through her lashes, her expression unreadable. He arched his back, gripping at the sheets as his orgasm built, building, building, until it exploded through him in a shuddering wave of pleasure.

She swallowed every drop, her hand continuing to stroke him even as his hips fell limp. She leaned back, licking her lips as she met his gaze. "That was quite the performance," she purred. "I bet you feel a lot better now."

Theodore lay there, panting heavily, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. He could feel the warmth of her body against his as she leaned in close, her hand still moving slowly over his cock. "So," she whispered, her voice husky with desire. "What else would you do for me?"

He turned his head to look at her, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure. "Anything," he breathed. "You know that."

"That I do," She whispers against his lips, as she lines herself up with his cock.. She leans forward, taking him inside her, slowly, inch by delicious inch. He gasps, feeling her warmth envelop him, feeling full once more. She moans softly, her hips moving in a slow, sensual grind that has him arching off the bed.

Y/n's breasts brush against his chest as she moves, her nipples hard and peaked, begging for his touch. He reaches up, cupping one in his palm, rolling it between his fingers, feeling the soft, warm flesh against his skin. She closes her eyes, tossing her head back with a moan, her movements growing more urgent.

Their hips meet in a frenzied rhythm, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony. He can feel the heat between them, the desire that burns bright and unyielding, binding them together in this moment. He kisses her neck, sucking gently on the tender skin, feeling her shudder beneath him.

Her nails scrape down his back, drawing tiny circles around the dips and ridges of his spine. "Oh God," she whispers, her voice strained. "I'm so close."

Theodore tightens his grip on her, feeling her wet heat around him as she moves against him with increasing urgency. He looks down at her, watching her face as she loses herself in the sensation of their bodies moving together in this forbidden dance. Her lips are parted, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. He leans down, capturing one of her lips with his, tongue darting out to tease and explore her mouth.

Their hips meet in a frantic rhythm, his cock stretching her, filling her completely. She arches her back, her nails raking down his back, leaving trails of pleasure and pain. He can feel her orgasm building, tightening around him, and with a low growl, he lets go, thrusting deeply into her one last time as his own release overtakes him.

He can feel her muscles contracting, milking him, as she comes apart beneath him, her cries of pleasure filling the room. He groans, his hips meeting hers in a final, pulsing thrust as his seed spills deep inside her. They are left panting, their bodies entwined, sweat-slicked and sticky.

[seramilla]

So in the Emily stays in Hell au…

Who would find Sera first and when?

I assume Sera’s fall is like a meteor crashing down and cratering the ground on impact, the vestiges of divinity gone, everything holy burnt away allowing hell to sink its claws and warp yet another ex-heavenly host. A primal scream of agonizing pain leaves her parched throat and cracked lips. Is that her voice? It doesn’t sound like her voice…

She manages to get to her feet when the pain suddenly hits her full force and she screams again. It feels like something is tearing through her flesh. Her head throbs when a pair of pronghorns burst through her skin. She’s still screaming as her tailbone grows into something long and serpentine seemingly ending with a stinger. Her legs contort and twist into something feline. Sera sobs as claws break through her nail-beds of her charred black forearms. Her sclera blacken as her glowing white irises lose their luster when she spies the remains of her shattered halo in the dirt. There’s so much of her golden blood pooling around her but she doesn’t regret it. She’s so tired and everything hurts but…she has to find Emily, she HAS to find her sister and let her know…but a familiar voice catches her attention…

“…Sera…?”

Then everything goes dark.

Whether divine intervention or sheer luck allowed Carmilla Carmine to find Sera that day, the overlord isn't certain. One moment, she and her girls are scrounging around an old battlefield, looking for weaponry and any other spare mechanical parts they can find, and the next, the sky quite literally opens up above them.

A loud BOOM and a roll of thunder can be heard across the Pentagram, and what sounds like a meteor falling out of the sky. Then, like some sick joke, a deathly sounding hymn follows the cacophony in its wake, and something shatters against the ground, not even half a mile from where they'd been standing.

Carmilla might have turned away. Very nearly does, except she recognizes that particular type of Heavenly body. Not many meteors make their way to Hell; there is no universe or outer space around them to make that possible (generally speaking). No, that sound had been one of an angel falling. In a particularly violent, intentional sort of way; one being forced down, with nothing to break its fall.

She tells her girls to go home. The last time this had happened, Emily had reappeared with Charlie; thankfully, the younger Seraphim hadn't been quite as badly injured as she could have been. Charlie had helped in her descent, but it still wasn't a gentle landing. This person, however...she imagines they are in pain. Quite a lot of pain. And with Lucifer nowhere in sight, she takes it upon herself to be the one to greet this unfortunate soul.

As soon as Carmilla sees the person lying there, however, she knows something isn't right. She's seen angels fall before; it's always a messy ordeal. This one, though...appears to be in mid-transformation. She tries to push herself up, and cries out under the weight of her own pain, and the agony of her twisting, mutating body fighting against her every movement.

Wings are charred. Blackened, with holes and entire feathers missing, having been incinerated up from the fall. They all look different -- some batlike, some like charred bird wings. Horns have already begun sprouting from her head, a tail slashes back and forth in irritation at its new existence, and screaming can be heard as the woman's form contorts and bends upon itself to accommodate these startling new features.

It's the voice that finally tells Carmilla why her gut feeling had been firing off. The closer she gets to this person, the more she recognizes the horrified pitch and timbre of that scream. It's one she had never dared hope to hear again. And witnessing it now, in this circumstance, fills Carmilla Carmine with so much pain, agony, and sorrow, she almost falls onto the ground under the weight of her own grief. She is weeping right along with the woman.

“…Sera…?” Carmilla cries, barely able to keep it together when the person in question looks up at her.

Those eyes. The horns. The wings. All of it is foreign. Twisted and grotesque. A horrific approximation of the woman she had once loved, even at this moment, continuing to reshape and reform in that unfortunate and inevitable change that every Fallen must succumb to. The process is happening much faster with Sera than it had with her, and listening to Sera's screams quite literally makes Carmilla want to die. She is sick to her stomach, and almost empties the contents of her breakfast onto the ground.

"Car---aaaggghhh!" Scales are forming on the tale, while it thrashes around and smacks against the woman's kneeling legs. The horns are becoming less like little pinpricks and more like curved spikes on her forehead, poking through her disheveled, singed hair. Fur is sprouting from her lower limbs, and her eyes are changing color, swirling and twisting in a whirlpool of fire that hasn't quite settled into its new normal yet.

Her wings...oh Fucking Hell, her wings...Carmilla doesn't even want to comprehend what's happening there.

"Carmilla!" Sera screeches, reaching for her with a clawed hand that is still elongating and changing to an onyx black right before her very eyes. "Carmilla, please...! Oh please, god, help me!"

Carmilla rushes to Sera's side. She moves like in a dream. Like time isn't real, and everything is in slow motion. She wants to believe this is only a nightmare she will wake from. She's had several like it before, of Sera eventually falling. But the sight before her is too vile, too horrible, too grotesque to be anything conjured from her mind. Her imagination would never hurt Sera this much.

"Sera! Sera, mi amor, breathe! Just breathe! Take my hand! It will be over soon!"

"Carmilla, what are you even doing here?! I ca-I can't! It hurts! Carmilla, it hurts so much!"

"I know! I know, mi querida. Take my hand! It will be over soon!"

Sera takes Carmilla's large claw in her own, squeezing hard and piercing the skin. Carmilla flinches, but it's nothing compared to the pain that Sera is going through. Carmilla squeezes Sera's hand back, even though her palms are soaked in her own golden blood from where Sera's nicked her skin, and it's trailing down her arm, soaking into her sleeve.

But she doesn't care. It's the absolute last fucking thing on her mind right now.

She can be here with Sera for this. If she can't outright stop the pain, she can guide her through it, at the very least. Be present during the most agonizing thing Sera will ever have to go through. Unlike the last several thousands of years, she won't let Sera be alone in this. No. Never again.

Eventually, things on Sera's body stop shifting and twisting. They settle into a more or less final amalgamation of varying features, which may eventually change or morph even more as Sera settles into her new body. All new Fallen angels must go through something of this sort. Eventually, Sera will learn to control how she looks, and hide some of these features. Just as Carmilla once did. Carmila looks more or less "human" now, for lack of a better comparison. At least more than she did when she first fell.

She'd learned to control it and hide most of what she doesn't like. Now her true form mostly comes out when she is angry, and or when she needs it. Sera will learn her own abilities and limitations, as well. But as things settle down, Sera collapses, overspent and tired from the entire ordeal. Carmilla is grateful that, at least for now, the worst of it is over.

She picks up Sera in her large claws. Sera has always been tall. This manticore-esque creature is no different. But to Carmilla, she weighs like nothing. She never has. Carmilla will always carry her. So she does... carries her back to her compound, so she can call Belphegor. And let Emily know what's happened...that her sister is hurt, but safe.

Sera's world is about to change. Much more than it already has. And this time, Carmilla will be there when she awakens. And for every day and moment and second after that. She will never leave this woman's side again. Ever. She swears it on her life.

[inknopewetrust]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 [𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮] [𝒔𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌]

summary: the colors of life change with time, but the music that narrates it lives on forever in one, standstill moment of the 1990s where success and passion came tumbling down. Years later, the story is declassified.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: minors dni (18+), this is based off of fleetwood mac/daisy jones and the six so imagine mid-80s and 90s rock scene, language, lil bit a spice, a whole lotta angst, enemies to lovers to enemies to…

In a world where words meant so much, it was difficult to find them at a time where they were needed.

The cool wire weaved against your skin. Its path crawling like a snake of retrospection from the bottom of your chair to your chest. There was a pebble of sweat threatening to spill from the top of your hairline in the hot California sun which made you think:

"Why the fuck did I ever move out of Indiana?"

But if you closed your eyes, you could recall why. A sickening, thunderous roar of the crowd–you could still hear it now. Somewhere, thumping in the back of your mind as their chants filled a space that breathed a new life within you as the another was dying.

An echo chamber of the taste of metal against lips; the white knuckle grip that still threatened to slip from your grasp.

The woman who sat across from you had a plastic smile on her lips. For her, it was nothing more than a job. An exploitive adventure where you'd be sticking headlines and messages across platforms for weeks to come because of this tell-all documentary.

"When did you know?"

Against cynicism the inevitable hardness of the culture you had immersed yourself in at one time had risen again and the attitude that rose promised a truthful reflection of your experience.

On the floor beside the mics battery pack, a half smoked carton of cigarettes met a glazed palm and the woman watched as a perfectly rolled stick land between two mauve lips. As the flame sparked, your eyes darted to hers.

"Know what?" you muttered between the smoke.

“When it was finally over?”

You could feel the breath being sucked out of your soul. The shudder radiating like a shutter letting rain inside of the home in the canyon; kissing the very center of a heartbeat that stopped at the sight of a pair of eyes, shoes peaking through a doorway.

The cigarette burned between your fingers. Ticking away like a bomb with scorching red embers fighting its casing.

“The Album was the best and worst thing to ever happen to any of us… that sounds ridiculous,” you scoffed, shaking your head and the woman quirked her head.

“It sounds ridiculous that something so magical, something so brilliant, can make those who built it feel small. It put us in a fishbowl and it took every last drop from our cup before it dried up and cracked under the heat… that's when I knew it was over."

She shifted in her seat, readjusting the papers to organize her thoughts. You imagined there was no sounder way of stating it. It was the truth, frank, and to the point but something the rest of them negated to realize or speak into words.

But she shook her head. “Yes, the band… but what of the relationships?”

“None of us had known about Steve and Nancy, Robin and Vickie had barely interacted until their writing began and by the end… well you can read plenty of articles about the end of it all.”

You drew from the cigarette again. Smoke filling the air around you like a mist; the woman kept digging.

“And Eddie and yourself?”

“Well…”

That heart-skipping beat never left. Laurel Canyon was so far away, the studio was a memory, and the stage was a phantom piece of your imagination yet the simple mention of a name so far removed was enough to make time stand still.

Somewhere, a young woman frozen and left wondering the "what if" of a life not shrouded by fanatics and the thrumming of a guitar. Somewhere, lost in the violence of a summer and the shattered glass of a heart left on a stoop, that girl remained inside.

“It was always complicated.”

“So,” she shrugged at you as if the conversation was nothing more than such. It wasn’t as though she was here to get all the details of every part of a life that had already played out in public if people had only been paying attention.

It wasn’t as though she was cracking open a mountain full of jeweled memories that had crystalized themselves in the past.

“When did it all go wrong?”

Feeling the sting of the camera focus on your face, there were two responses to this question that many had already answered before you:

"When did it all go wrong?" You lamented to yourself.

When did you know it was over? When did it all go wrong?

The woman's eyes glistened in excitement. Her story was unraveling before her. You took a drag again.

Fuck. You thought to yourself.

And the film began to play.

A/n: I'm excited to get back in the writing game - especially with Eddie. Let me know your early thoughts! Yay, nay, slay?

[junkdrawerfics]

Hello! love your stories so much.

May I please request Jasper and the reader kissing in the rain?

Thank you!

Reunion in the Rain

Summary: Takes place when the Cullens come back at the end of New Moon. After six months of being separated from your love, Jasper, he finally comes back, and you have a sweet reunion in the rain.

Words: 746

Note: I'm glad you like my writing! I had a lot of fun writing this. Hope it fits what you wanted!

---

It’s raining in Forks the day they come back. The sound of it pounding against your roof almost drowns out the thundering of your heart as you sit at the front window, eyes narrowed to try and see through the blur of the rain.

You’re waiting. Waiting for Jasper.

They were gone for half a year. Six months. And each day of it was like hell. 

You missed him. His touch. His voice. His smile. The way he would sit with you on the nights you couldn’t fall asleep, and how he would hold every door for you. You’d talk on the phone practically every night, but that only seemed to make the ache worse.

And Bella. You had to watch your best friend turn into a shell of herself. You tried everything you could to help, but nothing did. Your pain felt like nothing compared to hers and the guilt almost broke you. She didn’t know. She didn’t know and it killed you that you couldn’t tell her.

But now they’re coming back.

And the moment you catch the blurry shape of Jasper’s Ducatti pulling up the driveway, you’re shooting out the door.

You barely notice the rain soaking your clothes, or how the cold concrete bites into your bare feet. It all fades away as you launch yourself at Jasper and he practically drops his bike in his haste to catch you.

The second you feel his arms wrap around you, the dam bursts.

A soft sob tears from your chest. It’s desperate, the way you hold on to each other, your fingers fisting in the soaked fabric of his sweater, his hands in your hair, on your waist, splaying across your back. Desperate and cold and perfect. He smells like rain, books, and old caramels - like home. 

You missed this so much.

Jasper draws you back, just enough to see your face, his cold fingers brushing over your cheek. You’re both a mess, hair dripping, rain - and tears in your case - trailing down your faces, clothes soaked. And he still looks beautiful. 

“I missed you,” you croak, voice barely above a whisper, “I missed you so much, Jazz.”

Jasper can hear the ache in your voice, can feel it - the loss, the loneliness of the past several months. The same things he’s felt since he was forced to leave. But now you’re here, in his arms, and he never plans to let you go.

In the blink of an eye, Jasper surges forward, drawing you into a bruising kiss. His lips press against yours, tender and desperate all at once, like he’s drowning and you’re his air, and you love it. Love the way his hands cup your jaw, pull you closer, closer, until you’re leaning into his chest, arms curling over his shoulders, fingers threading through the gold strands at the base of his neck. You all but forget the rain and the cold, too caught up in the feeling of his body pressed against yours. 

You missed this too.

You only break away when the burning in your lungs becomes too much to bear. Your chest stutters as you tuck your face against his neck to hide your smile, your cheeks flushed. Jasper chuckles, wrapping his arms back around you. The two of you stay like that for what feels like forever, soaking in each other's touch, until Jasper feels you start to shiver.

The vampire leans back, brows furrowing with a familiar look of concern, “You’re goin’ to catch a cold, darlin’.”

“It’ll be worth it,” you laugh, teeth chattering.

Jasper rolls his eyes, but a fond smile pulls at the corners of his lips. Without a word, he turns you around, ushering you back into the warmth of your house. You both change - he “accidentally” left some comfy clothes with you - and end up cuddling on your bed. 

You curl into his side, breathing out a soft sigh as you rest your head on his chest. It’s almost like he never left, if you don’t think about it hard enough at least. Which you are more than happy to do.

He’s back now, after all. That’s all you could ever ask for.

“I love you, Jasper,” you whisper, tilting your face to look up at him adoringly.

Jasper’s eyes glow with warmth and he traces his thumb over your cheek, “I love you too, darlin’, more than you’ll ever know. And I’m never leavin’ you again.”

“You better not.”

---

Sometimes it's nice to just write something short and sweet. I hope you guys liked it!

[pinky27freak]

~°¶_Idia x Yuu_¶°~

~°¶_Promise_¶°~

*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ

(Yuu has a sibling that came to twisted wonderland with them in this one)

*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ

Rumble, Crash!!

Are heroine,, Yuu, jumped nearly a foot as the storm worsened outside. Though the defening thunder and lightning didn’t seem to bother her boyfriend, who was busy trying to save Zelda. She sighed and scruntch up her face as she cuddled deeper into the blankets on Idia’s bed. She absolutely adored him to a t, but she really wanted attention and cuddles, especially since today was their one year anniversary of dating. Then again, she also liked watching him get all worked up about the game.

“Why do you have to be so cute when you're mad!” She thought, grabbing a blanket and rapping it around her like a hooded cloke. She then stood up and walked over to him and put her face into his shoulder. Idia stiffened a bit before relaxing into her touch. A soft smile grew on her face. “Is my gamer fustrated at the big boss?”

“Yes! Why can’t this old bisket die already!!” He furiously smashed his fingers in the controller as he jumped to dodged another attack. Yuu watched until he finally won the level, then she drug back his seat and sat on his lap. Idia's eyes widened. “Y-yuu?!”

“I want cuddles. I also want to watch you kick some butt. So this is the perfect combination!” She smiled and snuggled her head into his chest as he made a small shy noise.

“Why is she so freaking cute! My heart feels like it’s going to burst!” He internally screamed before relaxing back into his previous position and continuing the game.

Rumble, rumble, rumble. CRASH!!!

The lights flickered and then completely went out. The two sat in silence for a minute, each contemplating what had just happened.

“You did save your game right?”

“......... shit no!” Idia threw down his controller onto the desktop, signing in frustration.

“Awww! My poor little baby!!” Yuu Snuggle her boyfriend harder, hoping to somewhat comforter him in the fact that he was going to have to rematch with the boss that took him almost an hour to defeat. His arms wound their way across her back as he pulled her in a bit more and buried his face in her bobbed hair.

“You smell good.” He muttered, nuzzling his nose deep into her neck. Yuu squirmed. “Dose that tickle, sweetheart?” Yuu's eyes widened at his tone.

“Oh no.”

With that, her boyfriend started to mercsessly tickle her. Causing her to screech.

“I feel a disturbance in the force…….” Yuu's sibling muttered, perking up as they sat in Ramshackle, being single, unlike their younger sister.

“Oh shush.” Grim said, rolling his eyes. “Your just being paranoid.”

"Grim can just not talk sometime?" She growled, going back to reading as she thought about what her sibling and future brother in law were up to.

Back at the currently non electric Ignihyde, Yuu had somehow managed to escape her boyfriend’s grasp and was hiding. Idia was currently trying to find her.

“Yuu! Come on, it was just getting fun!” He said before tripping over some clothes on the floor. Yuu stiffeled a laugh as she squeezed further under the bed. Haha! No way he was going to find her!

“Ah! Here’s my flashlight.”

“……. Oh crap.”

The beam sweeped across the floor, before turning to the closet. She used this chance to wiggle further back under the bed. Though her attaition was caught by a rumging sound coming from the closet and a small.

“There it is!” by her boy. She was curious of what “There it is!” ment, and what “There it is!” was. The light then turned towards the bed and she stiffened seeing his socked feet walking towards her. They turned towards the nightstand and she could hear a small box being sat down on it. The light then clicked off and the only light left was from the soft glow of his hair. He then bent down and crouched on to the floor and poked his head under the bed.

“hi.” A small smile formed on his face causing Yuu’s heart to melted at the sight.

“hi.” Was her shy reply. He then reached out his hand as a offering, she took hold of it, and he slowly pulled her out into the open.

“How about we have a proper cuddle time.” He said bring her in for a hug.

“That would be worth more than gold to me.” Yuu snuggled into his neck as he picked her up and flopped onto the bed. They emidetly entangled their limbs together and buried their heads in each other’s necks. Within a few minutes, I had fallen asleep. Two hours later, Ortho made his way into the room and found them all curled up and sleeping peacefully. His regular smile grew almost to twise it’s size seeing his big brother and his lover all cozy and warm in each other’s embrace.

He quickly grabbed Idia’s phone and punched in the code to unlock it and then took several pictures of the sleeping pair, then sent them to both himself and Yuu's siblings.

Idia: (sent with attachment)

Hey Sis-chan! It’s Ortho! I’m sending this evidence so there are extra files! (Read)

Sis:

>:) I fore see a wedding ring in the future!! LOL!!

Thank you, Ortho!! You're such a sweetheart!

(Read) I’ll be sure to print them out!l

Ortho stopped as something pinged in his head. He scanned the room before his eyes finally rested on a small box on the night stand. He silently walked over to it and opened the lid and smiled. He then turned around to his brother and gently shook him awake.

“Big brother!” He excitedly whispered as Idia opened his eyes. “I think now would be the perfect time!” He said, handing him the box. Idia’s eyes snapped open as he eyed the box that was now in his hand. Ortho gave a double thumbs up and whispered. “You can do it!!” He then exits the room, leaving a sleeping Yuu and a very flustered Idia behind him.

Idia swallowed as he looked at the box and then at his girlfriend. She looked so peaceful and beautiful it was almost like someone had put a spell on her.

“I’ll wait until she wakes up…..” He turned to put the box back onto the nightstand.

“I’m already awake, silly.” A small groggy voice sounded off. Idia snapped his head round to see two sleepy hazel eyes softly studying him as a smile tugged at the full soft lips of hers. “What does “I’ll wait until she wakes up” mean baby?” She said, rapping her arms around his waist and snuggling her head into his tummy. Idia stuttered, not knowing how to answer her exactly.

“I-I, uh, I-THISISFORYOU!” He blurted and shoved the box into her hands before quickly hiding his face into a pilow, making small noises of embarrassment while doing so. Yuu raised an eyebrow, not really knowing what he was doing, though it was just so adorable that she didn’t really care. Humming, she retangled their legs and pulled him closer. A small squeek sounded from Idia as she did so, causing her to lose it for a minute.

After her myboyfriendistocute attack she opened the box and peered inside. Idia watch her from a breathing hole he’d created. Her eyes widened as she took out the two silver rings inside and stared at them. One was more slender and had a dark blue stone in it, while the other was more wide and had a ice blue stone in it. She carefully turned each of them over in her hand, studding every part of them.

“Look on the inside of the band.” Idia’s shy muffled voice spoke, though the boy himself was still hidden. Yuu reached over, turning on the lamp stand, then remembering the power was out, snuggled closer to her boy, and used the soft glow from his hair to read the inscription on the ring.

Your Wonderlust lead to my Forelsket and our redamancy.

Yuu felt her heart ach at each word. But not a ach of pain, more of love and eumoirous. She loved this man. Nothing was ever going to change that or sway her love for him. Nothing was ever going to come between them. She’d had already made up her mind. She slid the slender ring onto her ring finger and then grabbed Idia’s and did the same with the wider one. She knew exactly what the rings meant for them both. Idia breathed a sigh of relief when he felt her slide the ring onto his finger. He then grabbed her and held her flush to himself, and closed his eyes.

“I love you, Idia, from storge to eros.” Yuu said, looking up at her boy. Idia opened his eyes and gazed down at her as she gazed up at him, his glowing yellow eyes as soft as the boy himself.

“I’ll never know how I got you, but I’m happy I did.” He said intertwining their hands together, feeling her ring on her hand, as she felt his. He tucked his head into her and they both closed their eyes.

Why did they close their eyes you ask? Well why do we close are eyes when we pray, when we cry, when we kiss, when we dream; because the most beautiful things in our lives are not seen but felt only by the heart.

*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ*:・ﾟ

(fancy and unusual words definitions)

Wonderlust (?.) A deep desire to explore

Forelsket (n.) the euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.

Redamancy (n.) the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.

Eumoirous (?.) Happiness due to being honest and wholesome

Storge (?.) One of the six types of love, an affectionate love that slowly develops from friendship, based on similarity.

Eros (?.) One of the six types of love, a passionate physical and emotional love based on aesthetic enjoyment, is a stereotype of romance.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Part three of Lilia having Crewel daughter as she learning about her face heritage

Liked he did try keeping her longer till one day she asked to be returned home so she can get ready for school, even to the point that her school Messenger bird that she bonded came with a letter of reminder of her to get ready for school coming soon

Bonus that Silver and Sebek over hear their conversation

Coming home | Yandere Crewel's Daughter Reader

By the terms of Lilia and Crewel’s previous wager

you remember home and begin packing to return when you find that the time hadn’t passed as slow as you thought

You don’t get an owl Harry Potter

But you do get a worried message from your fairy godmother who is having a hard time teleporting to you 

For some strange reason Lilia

Silver watches with an unreadable face as you rush across the room you were given

“Sevens! Sevens! I can’t believe I let it get this bad…I-i thought I had more time. Oooh! Whatever! When I get back I’ll have to apologize, then I have to plant the well, and–ugh! There’s so much I have to do!”

“...Do you have to leave?”

“Well yeah Silvy! My dad is probably sick with worry and both our schools will be starting again soon.”

He sulks begrudgingly helping you continue to pack

“I FOR ONE BELIEVE IT IS FOOLISH TO RETURN TO THAT MAN! WITHIN DAYS WE WILL BE CARRIED OFF TO OUR SCHOOLS AND I BELIEVE IT BE MOST BENEFICIAL TO STAY WITH US UNTIL THAT TIME COMES.”

Sebek gave his two cents standing in your door way

You roll your eyes as you explain the holes in that statement

Bringing up how you haven’t been getting service or receiving letters like you want to

He continues to whine? shout about how dumb he thinks it is that you want to leave

Malleus will hum as he realizes you don’t realize this is subsequently through Lilia’s doing

“She really is completely unaware…”

“As I told you she’d stay! But unfortunately I did bate Crewel about her coming back. It would be cruel to stop her now besides this will be far from the last time we do this. I will guarantee that”

“Hmmm.”

Malleus attempts to calm himself but the rumbling thunder says that was failing

And Silver who went to speak with his father has heard it all

When the time comes Silver volunteers to return you 

Sebek greatly implies he’d like to as well but since his prince isn’t going he cannot even if he really really wants to+ 

Malleus is too busy pouting ruminating about how to keep you with them longer

Lilia apologizes if you discover sending you back with a hug and gift of your own

“Here! It is a gift from your fae family so even as we grow apart in distance we are but a single call a way!”

“Awww thank you Lilia! I’m never taking it off.”

When you finally come out of the Draconia carriage 

You are glomped by your father who let’s his makeup run…only a little

You also hug him back as you missed him just as much

Pulling away he smiles at the sight of the pendant but that turns into disgust as he spots the green and magenta pendant that hangs on its chain

“Evening Professor, I’ve come to apologize on behalf of my master. For keeping your daughter for so long.”

“As you should! If we were in school I wouldn’t even accept any work for a penalty…but as long as my pup is safe thats all I can ask for.”

You smile as you watch two sides of your new family seem to get along

Giving you a ray of hope for the future 

Unbeknownst to you a storm was brewing and the fae behind it isn’t happy

[bunk-bed-blorbos]

1, 2, 6, 9, and 17 (Also don't worry about forgetting to turn on asks, I've had moments like that too ;) )

(lol thank you)

Fluff: 1. What are things they both find funny?

Hilariously wrong tabloids. Even better now that they're public figures, so sometimes they'll get a wildly incorrect article written about Them, and it's always a riot Zuke: So, Who am I cheating on you with this week? Mayday: Apparently, you were caught last night sneaking out of... Oh My God, Club Planetarium! Zuke, scandalized: No... Mayday: Zuke, how could you? Zuke: I'm sorry Mayday, you know how attracted I am to humility! Zuke & Mayday: ....Pffft, HAHAHAHA- They will also laugh at harmless, petty celebrity drama, dumb internet memes, and terrible, terrible puns

2. If they could each describe each other in one sentence, what would it be?

"Whenever Mayday needs to make a decision between what her brain and her heart are telling her, she will pick her heart every time, and she's usually right." "A lot of people think Zuke is dumb 'cause he's quiet, but he just spends a lot of time in his head, thinkin' about stuff like music, art... the people he cares about..."

6. What is/are their love language(s)?

Mayday is a very Physically Touchy person. If Zuke is in one place for too long she will lay across him. It doesn't matter if he's sitting down at his drums to practice, it's canoodling time. She reacts very strongly to Words of Affirmation (See the 1010 fight), and will frequently give Gifts to Zuke of anything that reminds her of him, and squeals like a schoolgirl whenever she receives a gift in turn Zuke not only picked up on Mayday's Words of Affirmation response, but he also has that love language, and puts a lot of thought into what he says (He may not be the talkative one of the duo, but he makes his words count). He values Quality Time, and wants to spend all of it with May. But most of all, his love comes through in Acts of Service.

Angst: 9. Have they made each other cry?

Ah yes, Mayday, known the city over for taking rejection well. I buy into the common headcanon that May has some form of ADHD, and I also sprinkle in that she experiences Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. Because of this, she can feel a disproportionate amount of emotional pain if she feels like she's getting the cold shoulder from Zuke, which sucks because she knows that she's probably overreacting, which just makes her feel worse... As for Zuke, he's only ever cried because of May once... after the argument where she broke his sticks. Both of them agree that incident was the worst argument of their relationship, and both of them feel awful about it. May especially. She regretted it as soon as the structural integrity of the sticks failed. It was the first night since before they bunked their beds where they slept in separate rooms...

Depth: 17. What senses (sights, smells, feelings, etc). remind them of each other?

Zuke thinks of Mayday every time he sees a warm sunrise, vibrant flowers as pink as her eyes. He thinks of her whenever he smells or tastes sweet, tangy fruit and fresh cinnamon. He feels her in campfire and candle flames, in thick leather and the groove of old vinyls Mayday thinks of Zuke every time she sees the ocean, or a crystal clear stream. She smells him in delicate mints and earthy teas, and feels him running her hands through tall weeds or cool, running water. And of course, they hear each other. Whenever Zuke hears the hum of electricity, the crackle of a campfire, or the roar of a great predator, he hears her. Whenever Mayday hears the rain pelting against the city street, the thunder rolling through the sky, or the rumble of the City's districts moving, she hears him And finally, when the guitar reaches its climax.... when the drums kick in and make the song its own.... whenever they discover a new rock album, or listen back on what they've created.... They envision their partner, wielding their instrument with pride and passion, and themselves up on stage with them.

[sierracolorstheworldofwords]

The kitten-- Jareth x reader

Like a pouting child, the Goblin King sat on his throne. Outside, the thunder growled, the sky threatening to unleash his fury upon the inhabitants of the labyrinth. To drown all who stood within the storm's path! To diminish everything and everyone! 

Or at least, to make them feel as sour as he did.

His mood soured even more as he watched the source of his woe– a naughty kitten the color of ashes, chasing after a ribbon. Meanwhile, you, his love, his stars and moon entertained the damned horrid beast who knocked over his crystals and ran amuck! The monster who clawed his curtains and dipped her footprints into his ink, coating his desk in little paw prints. 

Really, he could handle that if you weren’t so busy cooing over the charming beastie. 

Finally, like the sun peeking through the clouds, you set your gaze on him. Smiling from your seat on the floor. He frowned. You were getting your pretty clothes dirty! 

“Jareth!” you called, waving him over, “Come play with me and the kitten!” 

He shifted, crossing one leg over the other, and the few goblins in the throne room watched, sensing the displeasure within their king. 

“Jareth!” You called again.

With a huff, he waved you off.

In response, your shoulders slumped, a frown forming on your lips, before you scowled, wagging a finger, “You better not be brooding!”

He sent you his own scowl in response. 

“That's the fifth time today!” You cried, shaking your head, before returning your attention to the kitten, “At least you don't brood!” 

“I heard that.”

 “Serves you right.” you put the ribbon aside now, offering her a finger to sniff, before she led your touch to underneath her chin, “he's no better than you! At least you purr, my sweet Eloise.”

“And that!” 

“And,” you continued, “At least you have cute little paws. What's he got? Hm? What does my little Jareth have?”

“Stop babying the kitten! And I'll tell you what I have, darling, class! At least I don't lick my ass in public–”

You turned to him, “So do you lick it in private then?”

Jareth shook like an overheated tea kettle as he glared at you. The splotching started at his neck, before slowly ascending, turning his cheeks and ears a bright, cherry red. In response, you snickered and grabbed the ribbon again. A smirk coated your lips as you swung it. Eloise scrunched herself into position, wiggling a bit before pouncing on her target. Or, at least, she tried to. Letting out a noise, she landed on her stomach, before determinedly chasing after the ribbon again. 

“Don't think I don’t hear you snickering over there.” He muttered, “honestly, how can you torture me so, dearest? Do you detest me?”

You continued playing with the kitten. The goblins watched, some fascinated, but others clearly disgusted. You couldn't ignore him! He was the Goblin King!

“Well?” he demanded.

You continued your fun.

“You're horrible!” He wailed, “Terrible! Atrocious! You're torturing me, darling! Tearing me apart, limb by limb!”

He now lay himself over the throne, his legs draped  over one arm. He threw a hand across his head, and the goblins around him chittered, clamoring to comfort him. To them, he looked like a martyr, or a sacrificial lamb being sacrificed to the gods. 

“What’s the matter, your majesty?” one asked. 

“Yeah, sire, what can we do?” 

Another held back sobs, “S-sire, what’s the matter?” 

“Yes! Whatever the matter, your majesty?” 

“Oh how you wound me my love!” Jareth pretended to close his eyes, only to look at you through little slits as he continued with his caterwauling, “Oh my love, how you torture me! How you pain me!”

You rolled your eyes at his theatrics.

“It feels as if you have taken a knife and stabbed me, twisting it within my chest!” 

The goblins gasped, some now huddling around the throne while shedding tears, their poor lips warbling as they looked at their luxurious, glorious, king. 

“Oh, darling!” Jareth cried. 

Finally, you turned to him with a glare, “Yes dear?”

He glared back, sitting up, “Get away from that horrid creature and pay attention to me!” “I asked you to come and play with–” “And get my clothes dirty on that floor?!” 

You sighed softly, shaking your head. 

To think, the being who always thought of himself as a gothic byronic hero couldn’t get along with a cat. Yet, you figured it’d be lovely to get one– since he had the temperament of one, and you thought it’d be nice to see your gargoyle of a king play with a kitten. Said king didn’t even notice you frowning, or if he did, he was too caught up in the performance to comfort you. 

“How you must detest me! Torturing me with such ideas!” His voice was smooth and hazy like wine, and the goblins drank it in, “And you pain me, darling– scolding me whenever I scold that kitten.”

You glared at him, causing him to gasp, laying a hand upon his chest.

“What a horrid creature you are, precious!”

Now, the goblins glared at you. They were stupidly overprotective of him, and even worse, stupidly overindulgent. Perhaps, you should’ve indulged him more, and even went to him, and sat upon his lap, but you quite liked where you were. Gathering Eloise in your arms, you cradled her to your chest, gently kissing her forehead. She protested a moment, before settling into your arms. 

“We’ll get rid of that beast, your majesty!” a goblin bayed. 

The small crowd nodded. 

“And we’ll make that human pay!” another yowled. 

“Pay! Pay!” the goblins cheered, “Make the human pay for upsetting the king!” 

Outside, the once howling wind stilled. The thunder stopped, even the clouds froze. Jareth grew still now, his hands now clenching the sides of the throne. His jaw clenched, and he turned towards the goblin who tried to rally the crowd. Standing, he loomed over the tiny creature, and you couldn’t distinguish where his long, black cape ended, and where the darkness began. His features elongated, sprouting, sharpening– ears turning into sharp arrows that jutted from his wild mane of blond hair. 

“What did you say?” 

The sky outside broke, thunder cracking it in half, followed by a lighting flash that slashed the air. Eloise let out a whimper, burrowing into your neck, but you didn’t cower. Just like Jareth, you couldn’t help but love what you loved, and love it wholeheartedly. Though, unlike your darling, you weren’t loath to admit it. 

The goblin was pinned into place by the king’s dark, deep gaze, and the fool looked at you, but you simply turned away to coo at Eloise. The creature was at the king’s mercy,now. 

“B-but your majesty–”  the goblin squeaked out, shaking in fear.

“But? But what?” He asked.

Jareth didn’t need to yell– his voice was all encompassing, sticking like snowflakes onto frostbitten skin. It sent a shiver down your spine, but still, to spite him, you continued to pet the kitten. Someone was clearly jealous. 

“Y-you said– y-you–”

“I said? I said? You ought to focus on your own words, you spineless fool! You threatened my love. You were tempted to make my darling pay– for what? Hasn't my heart always been merciful to insignificant specks like you?”

His heels clacked against the chilled silence of the room as he descended, stopping in front of the small group. They looked towards you again. Jareth leaned down, grabbing the nearest one by the throat.

“Do not look at my love.” he seethed, “Look at your King. Look at me.” 

You sighed, “Jareth.”

He turned towards you, a sneer on his lips. You simply blinked at him. The poor goblin didn't know who to be more afraid of. The Goblin King, or You, the one who didn't, couldn't, and wouldn't back down from him.

“You’ve been glowering all day.” you said, “And specifically, you’ve been glowering at your love all day, along with our kitten.” 

His stiffness melted. He looked at you. 

“Our kitten?” he murmured, edges melting, eyes widening. 

“Our kitten,” you insisted, meeting his gaze. 

The goblin was dropped like an old doll, and he tilted his head, finally noticing the frown on your lips. 

“Darling,” he murmured, “Why on earth are you frowning?” “Do you want to get rid of Eloise?” 

He looked at you for a moment, eyes wide, and his gaze ventured towards the kitten who now looked at him in return.

“As much as I love her, I love you too,” you said, biting down your lip, “and I want you to be happy. Not to mope all day because of a kitten.” 

His heart squeezed at the sight of you. Misty eyed and so connected to the little black cloud in your arms. It’s why he loved you, really, because your love was all encompassing, because it ate him alive, and he was scared that if you loved anything else, he’d lose it. 

“Oh darling,” he murmured, before coming towards you, and dropping to his knees, cradling your face, “No. You love that funny thing. And..” 

“Yes?” He lowered his voice, “I have been a bit jealous.” 

“Of a kitten?”

His cheeks flared. He looked away. Outside, the rumbling lowered its volume, undecided. 

“Yes.”

“Jareth–”

“Please don't scold me.”

You sighed, “She's not going to replace you–”

“You did say that you'd take her over me.”

“That's true,” you said, “especially if you keep being jealous of a kitten! Or keep trying to push her away! She's our kitten, Jareth, but I wanted us to both love her, to take care of her.” 

“Why?”

“Because I love you, and I wanted to share our love.” 

Jareth stared at you, lips parted, revealing his sharp teeth. They caused the goblins to shudder in horror, but you simply smiled at him, reveling in his surprise. Then, his cheeks turned a pale pink, and the goblins watched in a mixture of horror and awe as Goblin King melted before you, turning into a man who sheepishly rubbed at the back of his neck. 

“I think she hates me,” he admitted.

“She doesn’t hate you. She just glares at you when you glare at her. It’s what cats do!” He pouted, “You’ve been neglecting me–” 

“She’s a kitten! You’re a man! I’m your lover! Or are you into incest?” 

He let out a disgusted noise, “Of course not!”

“Then I'm not going to baby you like I’m your mother, Jareth! I'll take care of you like a lover. And we'll take care of Eloise together! Now hold the kitten and do some magic and give her some treats.” 

“Am I doing the magic for you, or her?” 

“Both.” 

With that, he took the kitten into his arms, and she whined as she was separated from you. Eloise looked up at Jareth through narrowed, displeased eyes. Her tail swished angrily behind her. 

“Blink slowly at her.” you whispered, now scooting beside him, and leaning onto his shoulder. 

“What?” “Just do it.” 

He sighed, and did as he was told. 

The kitten froze, and you shifted Jareth’s arms, so she was cradled against his chest.. 

“Do it again.”

He did it again. 

This time, Eloise settled against him, still a bit miffed, but otherwise, doing alright. Grabbing his freehand, you stripped off his glove and guided his fingers to the spot behind her ears. A grin spread across your face as she began to close her eyes. 

“See?” you cooed, “You’re both exactly the same. Charming.” 

His lips curled, and his smile spread as you kissed his cheek, before settling back onto his shoulder. Outside, the thunder lessened to a purr, and Eloise joined the noise, closing her eyes in contentment. You poked his side. 

“Are you still jealous?”

“Me? Jealous? Of a kitten? That’s quite silly, darling.” 

You raised a brow, “You’re right. You’re lucky I like silly things, aren’t you?” 

“And you’re lucky I like silly things like you. Imagine babying a kitten.” 

“Imagine being jealous of one and wallowing in self pity.” 

He sent you a glare, making you giggle. 

Finally, he did sigh, “Will you ever forgive me for being so foolish?” 

Your eyebrows raised in surprise, and you smiled, “If you’ll never be so foolish again. Save your jealousy for more practical occasions. Although, you won’t need to worry about anyone taking me away from you. I have everything I have here.” 

You settled by his side, and he continued petting little Eloise, before kissing your forehead. Outside, the thunder finally faded, revealing the pale hazy blue of the sky. He sighed in content, and the residents of the labyrinth exhaled in relief, all except a group of goblins, who, with a snap of his fingers, were sent to live within the bog of stench. Honestly, their screams were music to his ears. 

[wild-karrde]

hi Karrde!!! Congratulations on 800, you deserve every single one and more 🤩 you’re so talented and a bright, bold member of our community. The way you care for your characters, and how amazing your OCs are just blows me away!

If I’ve made it in before 20, can I request a ficlet please?

Fox + “what did you think was going to happen?”

Congratulations again 💙💙

AHHHHH THANK YOU SEV!!! YOU ARE TOO KIND AND I AM JUST GRINNING LIKE A FIEND!! Seriously, thank you SO MUCH for the kind words! I'm glad I can make some positive contributions!

I struggled with this one for a bit, but had a sudden idea that I wound up liking A LOT. I hope you do too!

Pairing: Commander Fox x gn!Reader

Rating: T

Warnings: language, some suggestive themes, Fox telling jokes

Word Count: 1.5k words

Your heart thunders in your ears as you race down the alley, already leaping for the chain link fence that blocks off the end of it, fingers digging into the metal to pull yourself up and over. Heavy footfalls slap the pavement behind you, and you tuck and roll as the duracrete on the other side of the fence breaks your fall. You slam into a trash bin, skinning your knees and bruising your shoulders. You’re already pushing yourself to your feet when you see a switch just to the left of the fence. 

Bingo. 

You scramble over to it, slapping on the power, and you hear the electricity in the links hum to life, making them glow and effectively cutting off your pursuers. A red light comes on at the top of the fence, warning anyone around that it’s electrified now, and that they should only touch the fence at their own peril. You kick a half-eaten fruit that had tumbled from the trash bin at it, and it sizzles satisfyingly when it makes contact with the fence. You grin as the familiar voice of a Coruscant Guard echoes down the alley from the direction you came from.

“STOP!” 

Three Corries skid to a halt on the opposite side of the fence. 

“I think she’s activated it sir,” one of the troopers states. 

He’s new.

“Oh, are you sure, Brick? Was the big fucking red light your first clue?” snarls the commander sarcastically, the telltale wings on his helmet glinting in the glow of the fence. 

You extend your middle finger haughtily as you back away from the fence. “Eat shit, Thorn!” You can’t help but grin to yourself as you round the corner. You hear him swear through his vocoder as you trot out of view. 

The bracelet that you’ve swiped off of one of the senators jingles in your pocket as you pull out the credit pouch you snatched off of her husband and begin tallying your score. You’re so absorbed in counting your credits that you don’t even notice the wall of red and white plastoid standing in front of you until you slam face-first into it. You fall backwards onto your ass, the credits bouncing across the pavement with a light tinkling noise as you stare up into the familiar visor of Commander Fox. His arms are crossed over his chest. 

He sighs, muttering your name under his breath. You grin. 

“Fancy meeting you here, Commander,” you tease. 

“Not as fancy as that jewelry poking out of your pocket,” he growls. 

“Oh this? I just picked this up for my uhhh grandmother. It’s her birthday tomorrow, and you know, she just loves her jewels," you lie, shoving the bracelet back in your pocket. He doesn’t move as he watches you clumsily try to scoop some of the credits back into the pouch.

“Am I to assume that credit pouch is for your grandmother also?”

“Yup. You know. In case she wants to get something else if the bracelet isn’t her style.”

“How nice of you to get it monogrammed for her with Senator Siil’s husband’s initials,” he says flatly. 

You wince as you finally note the flowery Aurebesh branded into the leather. “Grandma’s a uh… big fan of his work. As a senator's husband.” 

Fox leans down and offers you a hand, which you take. Like an idiot. He pulls you up before spinning you and pushing you against the wall, slapping a pair of binders on you. You tug at the restraints behind your back, shooting a glare over your shoulder.

“Oh, come on, Fox!” 

He spins you around. “What did you think was going to happen? That I was going to pat you on the ass and let you wander off to shake more people down?” 

You shrug, tongue poking between your teeth. “I mean, if you want to pat my ass, I wouldn’t be that opposed.” 

You can’t see his eyes, but you can practically hear them rolling in their sockets beneath his bucket. 

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you find it endearing.” 

He scoffs. “Not the word I’d choose.” His hand clamps around your forearm as he starts to guide you out of the winding network of alleys. You walk slowly, dragging your last moments of freedom out. You’ve always enjoyed your chats with Fox on the way back to the station anyway, at least before he books you on a petty crime and sends you to lockup for a week or two. You’re pretty sure he likes your interactions too, as much as he’ll deny it. But he isn’t rough with you, and he's not making any effort to rush your pace. That’s all just you speculating though; his bucket does a good job of hiding what he’s actually thinking, which you suspect is the point.

You walk in silence for a few minutes, and you feel his grip on your arm loosen slightly. He knows you won’t run; you know when you’re caught. 

“So, Thorn’s gotten slower,” you note casually. 

He huffs what you think might be a laugh. Hard to tell with the way the helmet's vocoder alters his voice. 

“I’m serious," you insist. "Maybe tell him to lay off the beer and work more cardio into his routine.” 

“I’ll be sure to pass your feedback along.”

“Was that a joke, Commander?”

“Been trying them out every now and then.” 

You can’t help but snicker at that.

The silence resumes for a few more minutes, but this time, he’s the one to break it. 

“Why do you always come here to pickpocket? You know we’re all over the place with all of the rich assholes walking around. The marks may be high-reward, but you can find plenty of Coruscant’s most wealthy in the lower levels, sleazing it up with less savory types. You'd probably have a better shot at getting away too.” 

“Thanks for the tip,” you snipe. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind for my future criminal endeavors.” 

His grip on your arm tightens enough to stop you. “I’m serious,” he says, the exasperation in his voice clear. He shakes his head before raising his visor to look at you. “Look, things are starting to get a little more harsh up here. With the level of petty crime increasing as the war goes on and who it's impacting the most, there’s a push to start doling out harsher punishments. You’re going to land yourself more than a week in lock-up if you keep adding to your record. I’m talking years in prison.” 

You wish you could see under his helmet right now. You’re studying his visor carefully, looking for any sign as to what’s led to this concern for your well-being. 

“I like it up here,” you reply. 

“Why?” 

You shrug, trying to hide the heat in your cheeks. “I don’t know. Maybe I hope I’ll get to see more of a certain commander when he arrests me.” 

“Thorn hates you, just so you know.”

“I’m not talking about–”

“I know. That was another joke.” 

You stare at him blankly for a moment before you burst out laughing loudly. You could swear some of the tension leaves Fox’s shoulders as he watches you, his helmet tilting to one side. 

“That’s good. You’re getting good, Fox.” 

He nods, and you think he might be a little proud. His fingers flex nervously at his sides. “You said it was Thorn that lost you?”

“Yeah him and a couple of shinies. Why?”

You can see Fox considering something, something that makes him nervous, something wildly out of character for him. He reaches forward, spinning you to face away from him, and you feel the binders click loose. You bring your hands to your front, rubbing your wrists as you whirl to face the commander of the Coruscant Guard, who’s tucking his binders back on his belt. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you ask, completely gobsmacked. 

He shrugs. “Thorn cheated at sabacc last week and still won’t own up to it. I like the idea of being able to hold this over his head and give him shit about it.” 

“Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Only if you keep standing here talking to me.” 

You grin, stepping forward and standing on tiptoe so that you can boldly place a kiss on his bucket. You pat the side of it as though it were his cheek. “Thanks, Fox.” 

His hand catches yours as you step away. “If you really want to see more of me,” he says quietly, “just come to the 79s and ask me on a date. Less paperwork and binders involved that way.” 

"But what if I like the binders?"

"I save those for at least the second date," he deadpans.

Heat flushes across your face at his offer. You poke a finger into his chest plate, trying to recover your footing with him. “Fine, but you’re buying.” 

He tosses you the credit pouch, which you clumsily catch. “Nope. The Senator’s husband is. But I’d get rid of that monogrammed pouch.” 

You playfully salute him. “Yes, sir.” 

He nods again before turning on his heel, disappearing into Coruscant’s fading light. 

Thanks for participating in my 800 Follower Celebration!

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[zablife]

The Changretta Calls-2

Aurora & Darby Sabini

Summary: Luca and Aurora arrive in England. Aurora calls Darby to see how their plans have progressed. Luca confronts Aurora about things that have been kept from him.

Author's Note: We're still not into the proper fic just yet. So this is the prequel Part 2 for My Sun My Moon and All My Stars.

Read the First call between Tommy & Ada here.

Aurora kicked off her heels, massaging her feet as she asked the operator to connect her to a number across town. Her eyes darted to the closed door momentarily as she waited to hear her cousin’s voice.

“Pronto,” came the sudden reply, a nasal voice unmistakably familiar.

“Darby, it’s Aurora,” she stated quickly.

“Mia bella cugina!” Darby purred.

“Have our plans succeeded?” Aurora asked impatiently.

“You don’t have time to say hello? Make polite conversation? How’s your father, piccolina?” Darby chided her.

“We’ve only just arrived and I’m exhausted. So I need to know. Is Tommy Shelby dead?” Aurora asked again, more forcefully. She held her breath as she awaited an answer, fearing the worst. She knew Darby wouldn’t be stalling with small talk if he had more important news to give her. 

The line was silent for a moment, Darby shifting uncomfortably in his leather chair. “No, the plan failed,” Daby finally confessed.

“Cazzo!” Aurora nearly shouted before remembering she needed to be quiet. 

“So vulgar, Aurora! What would your father say?” Darby asked.

“He would tell you that he spared Mr. Vitale and Antonio from San Marcos three months ago for one specific reason, the death of our enemy! And now you’ve fucked it up!"

"It wasn't our fault, cugina! Tommy Shelby is paranoid and crazy! He was waiting for this if you ask me." Darby stumbled over his words in his haste to explain the predicament they faced.

Aurora pitched forward, rubbing a hand across her forehead as she allowed him to continue speaking, though she wasn't really listening. It was more excuses that were useless to her. She had hoped this would all be finished and she and Luca would arrive as conquering heroes, ready to have the remaining Shelbys sign over their business interests immediately.

She felt sick as she realized a new strategy would be needed and that would take more time. Time they didn't have.

"I'm tired, Darby. I need rest and time to think," Aurora said, excusing herself from the call.

"Of course, let me know how we can be of help," her cousin answered, all too glad to be ending the disastrous call.

Aurora dropped the receiver with a heavy hand as the bedroom door slowly opened toward her. Luca loomed large in the doorway, an obvious look of disapproval on his face.

"Who was that, amore?" he asked with more than a hint of jealousy.

"I rang Darby to let him know we arrived," Aurora answered, attempting not to lie. Luca always knew when she held something back though.

"I heard you say Tommy Shelby's name," Luca pressed and it came out as a threat without any effort on his part. His large frame towered over Aurora easily, a thunderous expression and clenched fists enough to do the job.

"We were discussing him, yes," Aurora conceded.

"Discussing my family's vendetta without your husband?" Luca asked with disgust.

Aurora stood to face him, unafraid of his intimidation. "It's our vendetta, Luca. My family is backing you, remember?"

Luca gave a smug smile as he retorted, "Oh, so you and daddy thought you'd solve my problem for me. Is that it?"

Aurora rolled her eyes, "You're twisting my words."

Luca shook his head and raised a finger, "Don't play dumb, Aurora. It doesn't suit you." He took a step closer and raked his fingers through her hair tugging at the ends forcefully until she looked up at him. His voice lowered an octave as he revealed, "I heard every word you said."

"And?" Aurora said tauntingly, refusing to give him an inch.

Tired of her games, Luca snapped, yelling in her face, "You sent an assasin to do my job!" He tilted his head to study his wife's face before jerking his chin at her angrily. "Vaffanculo! You don't do anything without my say so!"

Aurora scoffed, "Is that right? Let me tell you something, Luca, without me, you wouldn't stand a chance here! It's the Sabini name that means something!" she asserted, pushing her chest to his with such force she could feel his heart rate accelerating.

"Fuck the Sabinis!" Luca shouted.

Aurora lashed out suddenly, scratching Luca with her sharp nails, digging into the flesh of his cheek. He emitted a hiss of pain as he relinquished his hold on her and Giovanni came running to see what the shouting was about.

"Boss?" he called as he looked at the large man doubled over, clutching his face.

Aurora pushed past her husband as she spat on him, "Don't ever say anything against my family again, stronzo!" She padded down the hall quickly, bare feet thrumming against the carpet in haste as Giovanni watched in shock. It was only his first few days with the couple and he didn't yet understand their ways.

"Let her go," Luca commanded as his bodyguard looked to him. Luca reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to stop the bleeding as Giovanni stepped back into the hall where Matteo stood.

"Did you hear that?" Giovanni asked his colleague.

"Yeah, they always do this. Sometimes she wins, sometimes he wins. I guess it was her tonight," Matteo shrugged. "She'll pay for it later though, I know that much," he said ominously.

Continue reading the fic here.

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Tag list:

@runnning-outof-time, @evita-shelby, @call-sign-shark, @brummiereader, @cillmequick, @peakyswritings, @peakyltd, @look-at-the-soul, @shelbydelrey, @solomons-finest-rum, @raincoffeeandfandoms