#and then shower them in praise and attention and catch them in your fucking web

[cold--carnage]

and even now I'm sure you're still stalking me from an alt. because you just can't fucking let it go

[cannibal-witchh]

" What are you doing?"

Brahms Heelshire x Reader(fem)

Written by cannibal_witchh

Contains: sexual elements

Notes: Brahms finally catches you pleasuring yourself for the first time and grows curious. This was a quick story so my bad if it was poorly written!! I've been super busy.

You felt your body bead with sweat, your legs began to tremble, and constant quiet moans escaped from between your lips. You had a few moments to yourself, it had been such a long time since you touched yourself, and you needed it. You violently rubbed your pussy, feeling wet arousal make your fingers grow slick, and your clit twitching with each stroke. You bit your lip as you felt a climax begin to grow, your back arching, and your head thrown back.

A loud sound interrupted you, you immediately pulled your bed covers over yourself, and darted your head to the sound. Brahms. His head poked from behind an object in your room, his eyes wide with curiosity. Your face grew bright red from exposure of agressively masturbating. Your climax quickly fading away. " What are you doing?", Brahms voiced in his childish tone, examining you thoroughly with his dark eyes. " Brahms, would you like to be a good boy and try what I was doing? You can try doing it for me?", you were far too aroused to mind, Brahms made it clear he was attracted to you anyways. He constantly cracked your bathroom door open, spying on you shower and he also observed you through holes in the wall as you undressed. When you'd hold him, he'd "accidentally" rest his hands on your breasts or ass. So finally getting him to explore you was something you had no opposition towards. You craved Brahms and you knew he felt the same.

" Good boy..?", he confusingly repeated perking completely up and shyly shuffling towards you. " Yes, a very good boy. I was making myself feel good. You could do it for me? I'll return the favor to you. Would you like that?", you smiled watching him finally crawl into your bed. He nodded bashfully, as his loose curls sprung up and down from the motion.

" Come here, good boy, give me your hand.", he obeyed and let you hold his large hand. You pulled the covers away and guided his hand to your bare pussy. You began to instruct him to rub, his fingers began to glisten with your juices. " I'm going to let go of your hand. Just rub, go up and down or if you'd like go in a circular motion. If you keep that up, it starts to make me feel very good. ", you released his hand, and he continued to rub you. His long fingers exploring your slit, within a few minutes of massaging your pussy, his finger accidentally slipping inside. Brahms immediately jumped and attempted to remove it but you stopped him. You pushed his long boney finger deeper inside you and let out a breathy moan. " Mmm, Brahms...", you sighed as you reached your hand to brush his dark curls. Immediately, that grabbed his attention, you knew he had a praise kink, any moment he did something good, he was expecting you to praise him. This was a perfect opportunity since he had no expierence in this. He began to pump his finger in and out of you, studying your moaning to assure he was doing well. For minutes, he fingered you until your juices ran between his knuckles. Curiously, he took his finger out and brought it under his mask to taste. A sound of muffled satisfaction rumbles under his mask.

" You like my taste, my little doll face?", you winked feeling your entire body grow weak from his touch. He quietly nodded quickly making eye contact and returning his hands to your pussy. This time slipping two fingers inside and hooking them in. His opposite hand drawn to your clit to rub in a circular motion. You let out a loud gasp feeling sweat run down your body and your legs shaking. "Oh, such a fucking good boy...", you looked at him seeing his nervous eyes squint for a brief moment. He smiled. Under that porcelain mask, you could tell he flashed a hidden smile. "Good boy...", he repeatedly in a high pitch voice. He began to pick up the pace, your body quivering, your stomach tightening, and your climax about to burst. "Brahms, I'm about to cum...", you knew he wasn't entirely sure what that meant but he understood it was a good thing. His hands agressively satisfying you, his eyes fixed on your's as your hands stretched out to grip the sheets. He pushed his fingers in and out as the sound of your juices could could heard through all your heavy breathing. A loud yelp escaped your lips, your climax traveling throughout your body, webbing out, as you cried out loudly his name. " Ahhh, Brahms!!!", you moaned as you shivered. His hands stopped, his fingers exited you, and he cocked his head to the side staring at you.

You smiled, sweaty and red from all the pleasure you felt. Surprised that only his hands could control you like that. " Brahms, you did such a good job.", you giggled trying to collect yourself. Your arms spreading open trying to welcome him in. Without hesitation, he gently plopped into your arms and rested his head on you chest. His curls scattering out and brushing against your nose. His hair smelled of apples and cinnamon. After taking care of him for so long, you had managed to convince him to keep up with himself. He grew particularly fond of the smell of cinnamon and apples in his cleaning products. It reminded him of a pleasant rainy fall day.

You stretched your arms around him and gave him a kind hearted squeeze. You were absolutely exhausted yet completely satisfied. That was an incredible climax and even better to recieve it from Brahms. For minutes you held him, running your fingers through his shaggy dark hair, allowing your breathing to move along his hair. He made quiet sounds of giggling, very child like but cute. He was definitely pleased with himself.

"Good little boy, now it's my turn to make you feel good. I get to play now with my little doll finally."

Brahms muffled a wicked giggle.

[writefightandflightclub]

Halt and catch fire (Nathan Bateman x reader)

Summary: you have an... arrangement, to spend the summer with Nathan at his house. Sounds simple, yes? Nope. It’s not. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Author’s note: FIRST NATHAN FIC! I wrote this all in one go, which I never do. It came to me like lightning. Just remember that Nathan’s a bit of a dick, a’ight? Still would though.

Word count: 4k (ish).

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Explicit smut. Angst. Some dark elements. Hints of coercive control / gaslighting in parts. Swearing. Rough sex. One daddy kink moment. Dirty talk, inc. derogatory sexual language. Mild alcohol abuse. Typos.

Tagging: @dameronsgalaxygal​ @geo-winchester​ @xxidontwikeitxx​ @neverlandlibrarian​ @jennibradley​ @itsamedeemoney​ @bioticgoddess​ @spider-starry​ @yougottakeeponkeepinon​ @a-killvr-queen​ @porgiez​ @beyoncesdragon​ @damerondjarin​ @iamthe-shadow-on-the-wall​

Song mood: Pixies, Where is My Mind.

(GIF by @pariztexas)

Nathan ticks his eyes up at you, clicking on you like a cursor. You suddenly animate, placing your book down on the coffee table as you watch him dexterously unwind his hand wraps, veins and muscles standing out in relief as he does so.

You would have to work fast, you knew, while you had his fleeting attention. The gears in his brain shifted too quickly to covet his focus for long. You’d learned that it was always best to catch him in-between tasks. In fact, you can already see him start to open up multiple tabs inside his head even as he shifts from his workout space and into the kitchen, the interior / exterior perimeter almost acting as a delineating line of code, shifting his function between mind and body.

He looks good after a workout, his vest showcasing his taut, sheening muscles. Sweat pools at his chest and the damp fabric clings to his torso, highlighting the silhouette of him, sturdy and hard and strong enough to take control of you. You like to see him pumped-up and gleaming like this. It makes you think about getting his dick pumped-up and gleaming underneath you, wetness pooling everywhere. What really gets you though, is that positively primal look in his eyes which follows a bout with his punchbag. When he looks at you like you have captured his id and separated it from the rest of his consciousness, isolated his base desires.

Once, when you’d worked out together, he had pinned you while sparring, peeled your leggings down from your sweat-soaked thighs and rutted into you right there on the decking. Something in the pit of you stirs and awakens with the memory, clenching like your walls had around him as he had spilled his seed into you. He has good instincts when he’s not subject to logic and bogged down by programming.

Still, as he moves into the kitchen his eyes cool far too quickly, becoming calculating; detached again. All the same, your own body responds obediently to his entrance. You wonder, as you react, if Nathan sees the world as an interface, things only springing to life at his command. You are reticent to be so dreadfully accommodating, but the truth is  -aside from the fact you don’t have a lot else to do around here- you enjoy accommodating him.

You especially enjoy him after a workout, when he’s still in his body and not in his head. After all, he might be a genius, but you’d nominate him for the body-based equivalent of a McArthur Genius Grant, if such a thing existed. Especially those genius fingers. Those fingers, which you’ve had to watch skim deftly over his keyboard instead of over your body for far too long now, as Nathan insisted -time and time again- that he was on the brink of yet another major breakthrough.

“Baby?”, you coo at him, and his eyes land on you with casual interest as he finishes blending an iced coffee, pouring it from its jug into a tall glass set atop the kitchen counter.

You’re good for him. With you here he doesn’t need to drink all night, just to shut his mind off. Not that he finds your company mind-numbing... It’s just that you find other, mutually beneficial ways to keep him out of his head. Sometimes, you even convince him to get some sleep.

He takes a long swig of his drink before placing it down and reaching for his glasses. He slips them on to peer up at you, brow furrowed with a question, broad hands settled on his sturdy hips. That look ends you every time. “What, baby?”, he asks, the term of endearment managing to sound a little sleazy on this arrogant fucker’s lips. You’ve noticed him sweetening though, over the summer, whether he’s realised it himself or not.

Nathan looks at you sometimes as if you’re an algorithm he can’t solve, an intricate web of code which makes no sense to him- the only person he can’t figure out and manipulate within five minutes of meeting them. You don’t know why, because your call and response is fairly predictable, as if he has you programmed like everything else around him. You see him? Then you want him. There’s not a lot else to this... arrangement. At least, that’s how it had begun. There’s not anything deeper; not that he’ll admit to. Not yet.

Speaking of wanting him, your eyes wander lazily over his torso and the beading sweat on his skin, his arms defined and pumped through exertion. He looks like a machine and, yeah, you want him this minute. Nothing else will do.

“Shower. Now, strong man”, you command, with a come-hither finger.  

His espresso brown eyes harden with a quiet, lust-ridden stare as he idly strolls over the floor toward you, slinging a towel around his neck.

You always feel like he’s studying you, sometimes to the point of discomfort, and yet you can never look away from him when he does it. 

“Since when did you start tellin’ me what to do?”, he delivers in his soft Bronx-twang, his tone dark. His sweaty hand comes to grab you -securely, not harshly- by the chin. His eyes flash with challenge, which you return with equal fervour.

“Sorry, Daddy, I forgot my place.”, you purr obediently, knowing from the way his eyes blacken with lust that your words alone will have his dick half-hard for you.

“You’re learning.”, he praises, his voice honey over sandpaper, and you deliver him a wicked smile, your thighs pressing together in desperation already as you look over his bare shoulders and chest as if you’re famished.

But, contrary to your wishes, he releases your chin and you can see he’s already following some half-formed thought down a rabbit hole. “What are you reading?”, he asks, his eyes hovering over to the hardcover strewn on the table. “What made you choose that one?” Oh no he doesn’t.

“Nathan.”, you redirect, your voice throaty and brazen. “It’s nice that you’re interested in how I occupy myself, but I’m not here for Book Club.”

“That’s almost funny, sweetness.”, he chides, towelling the sweat from the back of his neck. Patronising fuck. His amused eyes meet yours, and when he finds them humourless in return, he presses on tiredly with a question. “Do I really have to ask? I know you’re about to tell me exactly why you’re here.”

Sometimes, you can understand his impatience. It must be frustrating for him to be one step ahead of everyone around him.

“To be your fuck-toy for the summer, right? That means you actually have to fuck me.”.

You wind your arms around his neck, arching your body into his, breasts pushing unsubtly up against him. “I need this. I’ve sat patiently while you worked and worked-out. It gets me hot for you. So, now that you’ve adequately displayed your prowess, I need you to fill me up, baby. And I’m not past begging.”

You watch his eyes shine with pride at your words before burying your lips into his neck. You trail your hot, wet tongue and mouth over his salty skin, your words muffling into him. “You should relax, baby. Just let me take care of you. Remember, how much you like it when I take care of you?” The contact must finally tap into something more primal and less cerebral, as he responds by circling his muscled arms around your waist and sinking his lips to yours in a crush. His prominent, wiry beard is abrasive over your skin as he opens you up, his supple tongue delving deep into the cave of your mouth.

Nathan is all or nothing. He lives by extremes. In binary. As the kiss skyrockets in intensity, his hands dragging up your back and winding into your hair, you know he’s going to give it all to you. No holds barred. He tugs on your hair, sparks like static needling over your scalp as he demonstrates his dominance. His power over you. He likes control. He requires it. And that suits you just fine.

You whimper into his mouth, the sound feeble; all of you feeling feeble against his crushing, passionate embrace. You’ve gladly gotten used to the sheer intensity of him, when his focus does land on you. But this time it feels… different. There’s a hint of desperation in it. Like he’s coming undone for you, not fully in control of himself. He breaks from you, ragged breaths heaving in the space between you. Yanking your hair back so he can look you in the eyes. But when you look at him you find him distressed; discombobulated. The way he gets when something defies explanation, when some mystery or formula or person fails to yield to him in the way he’s become accustomed to. His eyes are shadowed beneath his brows and that tell-tale vein is popping on his forehead. Something is troubling him. If you’re not wrong, that something is you.

“It shouldn’t be possible.”, he breathes, sounding uncharacteristically weak. “It shouldn’t be possible for kissin’ you to make me feel this good.”

You moan into the air for him, his sugared praise and the brokenness of his voice elevating you to another level. “Nathan Bateman, you sound weak for me.”, you tease, delighting in your newfound power, sounding almost as cocky as him. 

Turns out, that was the wrong thing to say to a man with a superiority complex. To a man on the verge of full-blown narcissism. And yet, it was the best thing to say to him, because now he feels the need to reassert himself... and, oh boy, do you like it when he does that.

“Weak for you?”, he seethes, his mouth pressing right up against your cheek, hot lips skimming your skin as he enunciates his words. He tugs hard enough on your hair that tears begin to spike at the corner of your eyes. “Weak for you? I’m gonna fucking tear you up, you hear me? I’m gonna take you apart until you can’t even remember your own name.”

“Is that what you want?”, he growls, pressing his clothed erection against your hip. “Want me to break you, fuck-toy?”

“Yes. Yes please. Fuck, Nathan.” His words crawl inside the cavern of you, filtering like lines of code to your centre. You respond to his command instantly, and you feel arousal coiling in your body.

His chest heaving, his mouth a snarl, he releases your hair and then both his hands are on the collar of your oversized shirt. He grabs and tears it away from you abruptly, and you squeal as buttons pop their way on to the hard floor, leaving your lingerie exposed to him. Clearly, Nathan wasn’t expecting that to be revealed beneath, as the sight of your body covered in this skimpy, delicate lace garment has him practically falling to his knees for you. “The fuck is this?, he asks, and you’ve never seen anyone look so annoyed whilst captivated.

“I thought I’d surprise you.”, you coo, looking up at him with doe eyes.

“Surprise me? I didn’t know you had it in you.”, he growls, still looking over you with a hunger that makes your whole body quiver. But he doesn’t have his hands on you.And you need his hands on you. Those genius fingers.

“Please. Nathan. Touch, don’t look.”, you plead, eyes roving over him and landing on the tent in his shorts.

You snake your hands out towards his waistband but he grabs your wrists firmly, preventing you. “Uh uh. Naughty naughty.”, he scolds, eyes dark like a destroyer of worlds. “The next time I touch you is gonna be in the shower, and it’s gonna be my dick in your tight cunt, understand?”

You nod in earnest, the look in his eyes demolishing you. Your thighs writhe against each other, aching for some kind of pressure at your core.

“Yes, sir.”, you comply, your voice a husk.

His eyes glow with a self-satisfied, almost cruel glint. You know it’s because you’re the broken, weak one now. You also know that he’s just getting started. Smugly, he releases your wrists, your skin still burning where his fingers dug into you. Then, Nathan inches as close as he can get to you without actually touching, whispering right up against the shell of your ear.

“Turn on the water. Take everything off that hot fuckin’ body of yours. Then face the wall, spread your palms and your legs for me, and wait there until I come and fill you. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”, you tremble, throbbing for him.

His eyes glint with promise as you sweep out, hurriedly, Nathan landing a smack to your ass as your quaking legs carry you toward the shower room. All you can think about is his promise. But you focus on his instructions, and you follow them to the letter. You know he’ll be watching you on the monitor, and if you put a foot wrong, he’ll make you pay for it.

First of all, you pad over and fiddle with the various nozzles, until warm water is cascading from various jets above your head. You let it sluice over you, soak through what remains of your shirt and your lingerie, before wiggling the sodden, torn garment off your shoulders first. As it drops onto the floor with a wet slap, you stand there in nothing but the delicate red lace coiling closely around the contours of you, a little like wires. 

You feel exposed as you think of Nathan watching you through the cameras, seeing the water slipping over the contours of you until you’re gleaming for him. You think of him palming his hardened length through his shorts as you peel away the delicate fabric from your shoulders, thumbs hooking under the straps. For his benefit, you peel it away slowly, inch-by-inch, cups popping away from your breasts, your exposed nipples pebbling under the water. You think about his eagerness growing as he watches, his thick cock twitching, the head beading with slick as the garment peels away from your stomach, clinging to the wetness of your body.

Finally, you fold it away from your hips and your buttocks. It clings to your thighs, material coiling in on itself like the knot forming at the core of you, and your fingers work it down your body until it finally drops onto the shower floor below you. You step delicately out of it, entirely exposed now, and feeling that way. Next, as instructed, you carefully shuffle your feet apart until your legs are spread for him, you palms flush against the wall in front of you. You know he wants to see your hands so he knows you’re not touching yourself. He was quite clear about what the next thing touching you would be, and you don’t think you have it in you to refuse his command. 

The waiting drives you crazy, and you slip your palms further down the wall, arching your spine to push your ass out, further up into the air, writhing it against nothing, but imagining Nathan’s substantial length sliding home into your heat. Imagining his strong arms wrapping around the front of you and dragging you into his slick chest as he pounds you.

Nathan keeps you waiting to the point of irritation. The ache in-between your legs becoming discomfort. Your body stiff from holding its position. You are so eager to press your parted legs against each other. To just reach down with your hand or a shower head and relieve yourself. But you don’t, because you know what’s coming is much too sweet to forgo. You moan on nothing but the thought of him.

When he finally enters you are so desperate, so frustrated, that tears are mingling with the rivulets of water over your face. You hear him pad in and almost turn to look at him before you hear a firm “no” in those deep, rich tones of his. You screw your eyes tightly shut so you won’t be tempted. By this point, your legs are quivering with need, your slick dripping from you. You need his touch inside of you. You bite your lip as you imagine you hear the sound of his clothes being dropped to the floor.

Nathan makes you wait a moment more for any contact, and it feels like the longest moment of your life. He’s made you think about him. Made you focus everything in your mind and your body on exactly where he’s going to touch you.

With a groan, Nathan pushes the head of his cock against your folds. Even the blunt pressure has you mewling for him, and you practically collapse up against the shower wall, wavering with need. Finally, with one swift thrust he slides all the way inside of you, as deep into you as he can possibly go, the base of him settling against you with a smack.

“Holy shit, Nathan.”, you sob, as he fits inside of you, stretching you, the size of him straining your walls, his broad hands clamping down over yours on the tiles. All of your focus is entirely on the ridges and veins and girth of him buried up in your cunt. It feels so good. He feels so fucking good.

He stills in you, simply to tease you more - to demonstrate his power. But you need him to move. You need motion. Need his friction.

“I told you I’d fucking split you open.”, Nathan growls. You try to writhe against him but he’s not allowing it. Not yet. His hands come to clamp hard on your hips. “You said you weren’t past begging, baby. Do it then. Beg me to rail you.”

Your words are sugared pleas into the air which dissolve into the water, making everything around you sweet as Nathan finally begins his ruthless thrusts. He buries himself in you over and over and over as one hand comes to your head, pressing your cheek against the cold tiled wall and pinning you in place as the other grasps the meat of your hip. “I’m gonna take you apart. I’m gonna fucking unmake you, baby.”

You believe him. You believe you are going to come apart for him. You could do so already. Could do it on command, you’re sure of it. With the number of times he’s made you come undone, you have no doubt in the sensations he’s capable of delivering.

Indeed, the way his cock slams into your heat, your walls snug around him, is like an electric current jolting through your body, sending shocks of pleasure with every drag of his contours over your sweet spot. Every time he resheaths himself in your tight cunt. His body fits you so perfectly it’s as if he’s made for you, the way he fills you is like nothing else you’ve ever had.

“Nathan.”, you plead, clutching for him, desperate for more contact. “Nathan, please. Hold me. I need you to hold me.”

There is something so soft in the way he wraps his arm around you and nestles his head over your shoulder, his chest pressing up against you. Even as he pounds into you, his pace relentless - his force punishing. Water sluices between your bodies as his wet skin slaps against yours, your moans surrounding him from all directions in the echoey room. You don’t know how it’s possible for something to feel this harsh and this soft all at once, but you guess the real world doesn’t run on binary. Not everything is an absolute.

Nathan’s groans and grunts billow over your ear as he crushes you to him, ensuring you have no escape from the brutality of his thrusts. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him so vocal. The sound of him, all his anger and arrogance humbled in the place of pleasure – all for you- has your release spilling over, that impossible knot tightening in the pit of you and flooding you with warmth.

Your proclamation comes as a silent plea into the air first of all, followed by a low, guttural moan which blooms from your chest. The sensation overcomes you, wipes everything else from your mind for a moment, as if you are a system rebooting. Feeling fresh. Remade.

“Fuck, Nathan. You make me feel so good.”, you praise into the air, and his hand digs even more harshly into the meat of your hip to pull you down on his length as he drives his own hips up in return. Your words tipping him over the edge, he shoots his seed deep into you in thick, warm ropes of cum as he finds his end too. He sounds wrecked with pleasure as he coats your walls with his release, aftershocks spasming through the both of you as his taut body presses against your back. He is perfectly, uncannily contoured to you.

For a moment then, Nathan doesn’t move. He simply holds you. It is the most still you’ve ever seen him, ever felt him. His mind and his body are always -usually- in perpetual motion. But he just stays there, holding you tight for a second as his cock softens inside you, the only sound the patterns of water slipping off your bodies, and his steady, jagged breathing against the back of your neck. The frenzied patter of your heart as you come down from your high, whole body buzzed.

Eventually, Nathan pulls out and you feel his cum slip out too, down your thighs. You feel satisfaction at having made him feel so good. He directs the shower head to clean himself and then you off, laughing half-cruelly as the water pressure finds your sensitive clit, causing you to shudder.

After a deep, gathering breath you turn to face him with a steady, even grin, and you find the hardness in Nathan’s eyes is entirely gone. Wordlessly, you bat your eyes at him and take the shower head from his grasp, reaching for some soap and, with a soft smile, lathering it over his tired muscles - all over his body. He lets you, closing his eyes against it and humming gently when your hand reaches his chest.

When he opens his eyes, he is looking at you again like you’re an algorithm he can’t solve, an intricate web of code which makes no sense to him. He’s developing a habit of this, the more time he spends with you. You counter his stare curiously, and his eyes narrow in return.

Nathan’s not usually very tactile outside of sex, and so when he reaches his hand out to caress your face you flinch away at first, merely from the shock of it. But, gently, he smooths his palm over your face, his eyes reassuring and like cups of warm, morning coffees on yours.

“How do you do it?”, he asks, his voice faltering. “What makes you different from all the others? Why does it feel so much better with you?”

Your eyes glow with a cautious pride. “Maybe you’re getting soft on me, genius.”

“It’s not possible. What I’m feeling for you... it can’t be real.”

You scoff. You knew the softness had to end sometime. There’s his arrogance again. Nathan Bateman. He thinks himself above most things. Of course he thinks himself above love. Or whatever this is.

“Why not?”, you probe, hiding a slight edge in your tone. “I... I feel it too, you know.”, you admit, but he recoils from you at that moment, snatching his hand away. Looking pained. Looking... pissed off.

“Don’t. You don’t know what you’re saying.”, he dismisses, vein popping in his forehead.

You roll your eyes at him indignantly, flipping off the water and reaching for a towel, which you tuck under your armpits and knot at your chest. You pass Nathan a bath sheet too and he towels himself off before wrapping it around his waist. “So, what? I don’t know my own mind now?”

Nathan replaces his glasses, retrieving them from the washroom counter. He furrows his brow as he looks at you from beneath his mildly steamed up lenses, hands on hips again.

“Do you think you do? Know your own mind?”

This look usually ends you, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you in this moment that you don’t like; like he’s studying you all over again. For some reason his question and his manner cause an unease to bloom in the pit of you and you’re not sure why.

“I mean it.”, he continues, oblivious to your discomfort. “Could you prove that you’re conscious?”

You towel off your hair, dismissing his question. “Don’t start this again, Nathan. I’m not in the mood for philosophy.”. Your voice comes out weaker than you intended it. Unsure. The room suddenly feels hot and airless, but as you turn to leave it, Nathan grabs you sharply by the wrist.

“Could you?”, Nathan continues, an intensity in his eyes that you shrink back from, his voice broken all over again. “’Cause… Please.”, he grimaces. “I need to know how these feelings could seem so real when you’re....”

A dread you can’t explain is flooding you now, your bottom lip trembling. He cuts himself off, leaving you feeling as if you’re hanging over an abyss.

“When I’m what?”, you press, eyes interrogating his. “When I’m what, Nathan?”. There is a rising panic in your tone which you can’t quell. 

Something like fear passes over Nathan’s eyes then and he shakes his head dismissively, trying to backpedal. “Never mind. Never mind, baby. I’m sorry. Just forget it. I’ve had too much coffee. Or not enough.” His voice is sweet. Sickly sweet. Manipulative. But when he speaks that term of endearment it sounds entirely sincere.

He tries to shush you, to soothe you, dragging you in towards him in a surrounding embrace. You don’t resist it, at first. You fit against him as if he was made for you.

Or you were made for him.

A feeling like bile rises up in your stomach as your next thought arises.

As if you were made by him.

“No.”, you say, feeling suddenly ill with understanding. “No, no, no!”.

You beat and thrash your arms against his chest but he tries to pin you close to him; ineffectually tries to calm you. You become a mess of arms, like sparring, as he begins grabbing at your wrists and pleading with you from beneath his glasses, chin dipped low like a boxer. 

Your revelation doesn’t seem possible, And yet you instantly know there is truth in it. When you try to think beyond Nathan? You can’t. You were made here. You’ve never left. You are his. His fuck-toy.

“Baby. Baby, I’m so sorry.”, Nathan begs, looking distraught, undone. More vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him. But you don’t care. You don’t care.This is about you. If there is a “you” at all.

Regardless, you struggle against his attempts to subdue you, but he built you weaker than him. There’s something sinister about that. Though why would a god create someone in his own image when he could create them weaker? If he couldn’t prove himself more powerful, would he even be a god at all?

You sob and sob as the truth of things dawns on you. The scope of this truth feels like it’s frying and warping your brain. You feel like you can’t possibly process all of this. It feels like violence, that he created you at all.

“Baby. Shush.”, Nathan reassures, still trying to capture your flailing arms and to contain you. Control you. “You’ll hurt yourself, please. Please stop.”

He does it with reluctance, at least. When your reactions become increasingly violent, Nathan has no choice but to power you down, for your own safety. For his. He whispers apologies into the steamy air. Claws at his buzzed head in distress. As you fall limply to the shower room floor the sight of you there, like that, makes him hurl abruptly into the nearby sink. His hands shake and tears spill from him as he pushes your damp hair back from your face and carries you down to the lab.

He lays you out on the workbench in front of him, alongside the parts and components and faces of other dismantled flings. For once, he doesn’t have any of the answers. None of the others were quite like you, and he still can’t explain it.

Usually, when he lost control of a test subject, he had one alternative; to delete. To take them apart. To start again. But he’d never lost control of himself; his feelings. Not like this. And even if he deleted you, and all of your memories, he couldn’t scrub you from his own brain.

Could he?

Becoming increasingly volatile with emotion, tears streaming down his cheeks, Nathan yells his stream of consciousness into the air, before fishing a bottle of vodka out of his desk drawer and tipping it to his lips as he takes several generous swigs at once. There are some methods humans can use to forget, he supposes.

Then, his eyes cool slightly, his manner becoming slightly more detached. Detached enough to open you up. To slip red wires inside each of your ports with his genius fingers, connecting you to his system. The wires coil around your body, reminiscent of that red, lace lingerie.

“You’re not real, right?”, he asks softly, over your still, beautiful form, his hands running again over his buzzed head as he leans over you. “You’re not fucking real. Just wires. So, if I just wipe you... doesn’t matter? Right? Doesn’t fucking matter?”

Hands trembling, he boots up your code on his monitor. Frenzied, his eyes move at light-speed over the commands and sequences before his eyes. Looking for some explanation. Some evidence. Something he can point to as proof. Proof of you.

But he finds nothing. He can’t prove it. How can you prove consciousness? So, finding nothing to validate this thoroughly illogical adoration that he feels in the pit of him, he taps hurriedly at the keys and generates a command, his index finger hovering over the button as he tries to psych himself up to “execute”.

Execute. Now there’s a choice word.

Maybe there’s another way. Some other way to deal with this. But gods tend to deal in absolutes, not “if” statements. Nathan tended to deal in absolutes.

If you’re real, he loves you, absolutely.

If you’re not, then he’s not a god. He’s nothing more than a fool.

It all comes down to what Nathan is more willing to risk, in the end. Would he dare risk it for love? Would Nathan ever risk appearing a fool?

His index finger hovers over the key, shaking, like the hand of God.

Creator and destroyer of worlds.

He whispers under his breath.

“I am become death.”

THE END

(PLEASE DON’T SPOIL THE TWIST FOR OTHER READERS? TIA!)

Like this? Please consider reblogging, commenting and giving feedback in an ask! It genuinely makes my day! ILY.

Want more? I mainly write for Poe Dameron (and recently Santiago Pope Garcia). This is my first Nathan fic! You can check out my masterlist in my bio to read more of my works. It’s always kept updated there. And let me know if you want more Nathan! :D

Want even more? Just ask if you’d like to be added to my permanent tag-list or any series tag-lists <3 Also, you can always check in my bio if requests are open rn if you’d like to see something specific. I write for Star Wars and Oscar and Pedro characters.

[hughiecampbelle]

Emotional Whore (Thomas Shelby Oneshot)

Character/s: Thomas

Word Count: 1,008

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @death-of-a-mermaid @lotsoffandomrecs @woahitslucyylu @obsessedunicorn24 @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @theshelbyclan @captivatedbycillianmurphy @creativemayhems @soleil-dor @thegirlwithoutaname87

A/N: Ahh I'm sorry I've been so lacking in posts and writing!!! I thought you all deserved a non-therapy fic lol and though this was not at all any of the ideas I was planning on writing, it just sorta happened :P I don't hate it, but I'm definitely not as proud of it as other pieces. It's not my typical style, which feels a lil weird. Still, there are some lines I like a lot! This is as close to smut as I think I'll ever get, so I hope you like it! Thank you for being so patient with me and my lil break. It means the world!!!!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

Gif Credit: @nofckingfighting :)

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO. / PART THREE.

WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

Original sin. Not an act against god, but yourself. Going against every instinct, every moral standard you hold for yourself. A moment of self destruction, weakness, a lapse of judgement. Blinded by the gleam of a razor, a decision too enticing, too moronic not to give into. You spoiled him. Let him think he was the one in control, that he had power, that this could be anything more than a kiss, a touch, a fuck. Sweet boy, playful, but he should have known better than to fall for someone who'd rather not sink so low for him. He was the one on his knees, after all. You had ambitions, goals, wants and needs outside of being someone's emotional whore. Believing himself all powerful, all knowing, you would have thought he'd seen the signs soon enough. A life ahead of you left undecided, with no rules, no expectations. Human nature. Someone who'd shared enough nights with faces without names, this was no different.

This was another place to pass through, another person to become and shed when the time was right, another body sleep beside, nothing more, certainly something less.

Hickeys painted cross his neck. Kisses running down your back, between your thighs. Biting, nibbling, giggling between sheets, beneath the shirts you pulled off, discarding all your worries and fears, forgetting too quickly about your responsibilities. It was never supposed to last this long, go on as long as it did. An accident, the first time. A mistake. Slipping from his sheets the next morning, quiet as you could, returning before the sun peaked above the rooftops, wanting nothing more than to wash the smell of him off you. Your boss. The same man who signed your checks, at least for the time being. Taking his phone calls. Passing messages. Learning his schedule, his day to day. Pulling you through the front door, pressing you against the walls. Funny. You would have thought he tasted nothing more of whiskey and hellfire, his words nothing but blown smoke. Sweet nothings in your ear. Curious hands. Nothing but hungry, starved, willing to do anything to make your night.

It was nice, really, to be so wanted, mourned, silently searching the empty space beside him, especting your naked body, but it couldn't happen again.

Until it did. In his office. His bed. His shower before work. The back room. The fucking kitchen. Too many places, too many times a second to dress, to make yourselves presentable. Telling him what he wanted to hear, what he needed to hear. Needing to be pleased, praised, feed his ego before you could get what you wanted. Never what you wanted. A fling, something without a label, no strings attached. It was never a trick, a sceme, merely something dragging on, half alive waiting to die. Things like this, it made you stupid. In the heat of it all, made words trickle from your mouth, from his, that shouldn't have been said. Too used to getting his way, for the world to bend over backwards for him, you had to be the one on top, shoe him the only one in control of this was you. Put him in his place before it got away from him any further.

Two different realities.

One of passion, love, something more. Deranged. Almost felt sorry for him. Fooling himself, causing more pain than ever intended, slicing himself up with his own razors so willingly, so blindingly. The other, something to pass the time, to make things a little less lonely and a lot more exciting. Reality. It was never meant to be anything more. You knew who he was, what he did. You saw a man very different leave the bar than who walked in. How the glass smashed between his fingers, how he bit the bullet, chewed the barrel of a gun if he had to, the cold of his skin when the air changed. More enemies than friends. A wait list instead of a hit list. Too many bullets for a single body. You knew better than to play with fire when all you wore was gasoline. He could pretend to be careful. Thoughtful. Genuine. But he'd light his cigarette with the burning flesh of you without a second thought. Keep your distance. Never get too close, no matter how close you were. Not for a second believe the things he said. Rehearsed. Effortless. How many times had he moaned those same things? To how many unsuspecting bodies?

Catching eyes, attention. If it wasn't those eyes, it was his stride, that wicked look, or that egocentric way of thinking. Whatever it may be, it was a trap. A web they found themselves caught in before they even realized, believing he truly loved them, that they weren't his flavor of the week, that a man who had everything really needed them in his life. Show him how it felt. To be screwed over. A glimpse of what he put them through. Never taking no for an answer, he'd have to learn to sit and beg. This wasn't the place for you. Not the home, or the job, not a place you wanted to settle, to set root. You warned him, you'd be gone before he knew it. In the blink of an eye, and yet he was naive enough to fall. Tripping over himself, banging his head on the way down, catching it on a sharp corner. Believing sex was love, and love was sex. Try all he wanted, you knew the ins and outs of him. You knew him better than he knew himself. What would make him crumble, struggle to breathe, what made him tense, his jaw lock, what made him melt between your arms.

You never meant for it to happen, but you were glad it did.

Let him know what it felt like to be on the receiving end. Lord knows how many he left freezing in their sheets, believing what they had was anything more than a kiss, a touch, a fuck.

[bjy-on-ao3]

Kinktober Day 20

(As before, you can find a link to the AO3 version of this and the rest of my Kinktober 2020 prompts on the ‘Masterlist’ section of the blog.)

I’ve been wanting to do something involving Dojima for a while now but had never had quite the right oomph or idea for it until these prompts.

Kinktober Day 20: Shower S*x (Ryotaro Dojima | Persona 4)

All around you the air was hot, wet, and heavy for more reasons than one. The stream of water from the showerhead beat a steady rhythm into the cool tiles, the warm water licking at your toes as it swirled away down to the drain.

Each breath you drew was made up of steam and heat. The balmy flow of the water trickled over you, leaving your body slick and comfortably warm, your hair clinging damply to your skin. In harsh contrast, your breasts pressed up against the shower wall felt freezing, nipples almost painfully stiff peaks from the chill temperature, as well as from searing attention being lavished upon you. 

You clutched futilely at the smooth, slick wall, searching for something to hang onto and failing, nails catching nothing and slipping away. Dojima pressed himself flush against you from behind, even hotter than the soothing spray of water. His calloused hands strayed up and down your sides, massaging and groping the soft, wet expanse of skin at his disposal. You tipped your head back, leaning against one of his broad shoulders. A delighted whimper left you as he bent his head to the exposed column of your neck, kissing and nibbling the delicate area. You relaxed into him, the sensation lulling you into a sensual daze. 

Half-limp, knees weak from his touch, the press of his body kept you pinned tightly upright. You felt a sudden twitch against your backside, his cock begging for its own attention. Dojima ignored it aside from a soft, half buck against the swell of your ass, mouthing at your skin a bit rougher. The scratch of his stubble against your neck was a prickly complement to the increasingly fervent touch of his lips and teeth, making you shiver. “Mm, Dojima, that feels nice,” you groaned, the lewd sound of his name on your tongue only encouraging him. 

One roaming hand spread tenderly across your hip before trailing around and down, the pressure of his form easing just enough to wedge his hand between your body and the slippery shower wall. Your breath hitched in anticipation as his fingertips unhurriedly drew along your lips, not quite dipping between them. You could discern his gentle smile against your skin, his kisses and nips pausing for a moment before he slid two fingers between your folds. Pulling away from your neck to watch your face,  he slipped his fingers inside your cunt, crooking them and rubbing slowly. Eyeing the expression of bliss blooming across your face with each pump of his fingers, he inclined his lips to your ear. His gravelly voice was a rough hush, thick with desire. “You’re so wet. Tell me what you want,” he growled, not to hear you beg, but wanting to hear just how much you needed him.

You bit down on your lip before answering, barely stifling a drawn-out moan before you could compose yourself enough to answer him. “I want you, Dojima,” you panted, “I need you inside me, please,” you implored, bucking your hips into his touch.

He withdrew his fingers from inside you, using them instead to spread your lips wide as he guided his erection to your slit. When the head of his cock sank past your opening, he moved his fingers to the front of your pussy, prodding lightly until he found your clit and began to rub ginger circles. He returned to his attack of the oversensitive skin of your neck, letting the rest of his cock sink into you until he was buried to the hilt in the softness of your cunt. Your body hugged him tightly and he groaned into your skin at the sultry, wet sensation engulfing him. 

Your breath turned quickly into heavy puffs, interrupted only by moans as Dojima started to move, tempo leisurely as if he had all the time in the world. Though more truely he wanted savor the hot grip of your cunt. “Aah, Dojima, you feel so good inside me,” you praised breathlessly.

His free hand, settled over the dip of your waist, tensed in answer and a harder cant of his hips broke his slow, steady pace. His kisses became gradually sloppier, the nips morphing into insistent bites.  The sting was a grounding counterpoint to the hum of pleasure building in you. Several deep, guttural moans and growls were muffled into your neck, his control slowly fraying the longer he was wrapped up in your body. The rhythmic smack of skin on skin joined the chorus of bawdy cries, both competing to be heard over the loud patter of beads of water.

You found yourself torn, unable to decide whether the friction of the calloused caress of his fingers on your clit or the heavy stroke of his thick cock inside you felt better, alternating between bucking your hips into his touch and grinding your body back into his thrusts. A tingling wave of pleasure was rising in your core, spider-webbing outward as you felt your body tense more and more with each motion. Each stroke seemed to have a similar effect on Dojima, his breath coming in hot, labored puffs against your neck each time he sank back into you.

‘Fuck, Dojima, I’m gonna cum, I’m so close,” You cried out, the tension becoming near overwhelming.

He fucked into you more wildly at your words, the fingers on your clit matching the fever pitch of his hips, chasing both his need to cum and your own. “Me, too. Let go, I wanna feel you cum,” he ground out between heavy pants and kisses. 

The hand on your waist darted up, snaring itself in your hair and angling your head off his shoulder. Straightening up, Dojima sealed his lips over your, his tongue demanding entrance. Ignoring the rasp of his facial hair, you let him in, instantly rewarded when his tongue swept up your own, dancing in time with the pace of his thrusts.

All the sensations came together at once, sending you tumbling over the edge and shattering the taut coil in your core. You tried to restrain your voice as you came, wanting simply to let out  the near scream of pleasure threatening to burst from your throat. Dojima greedily swallowed the loud moans of his name and a lewd string of swears, muffling their volume more. The stroke of his fingers kept going once your shrieks of bliss started to die away, driving his hips into yours, the pulse of your cunt beckoning him as deep as he could go.

He devoured the last final, fading moans and a small whimper of overstimulation as his touch started to be too much before pulling his touch away from your clit, grasping a breast in his newly freed hand and kneading roughly. Aftershocks of pleasure jolted through you with each increasingly hard slap of his hips, your kisses even messier as Dojima reached his peak.

It was your turn to temper his loud, husky groans as he went rigid against you and spent himself inside your greedy cunt, a shudder of pleasure rippling through him. At last when your pussy had milked him dry, you broke away from the steamy kiss. Your head dropped forward to press against the shower wall, the tile cool against your hot skin. As Dojima pulled out tiredly, you weren’t sure if it was the drip of the water from the showerhead or his cum seeping down your thighs. 

Lightly massaging your chest, Dojima let his hand fall away from your hair, wrapping it around your stomach and leaning his head alongside yours. “Guess we should both get cleaned up before I need to leave for work,” he murmured beside you when his breathing steadied.

“And probably before anyone else notices you’ve got me in here,” you added, face flushing as you recalled what a ruckus you had been making moments before, reminded that several others lived with your lover. The idea of having been heard was mortifying.

The flustered looked on his face as his grey eyes met your own in a sidelong glance was difficult to miss. It appeared you hadn’t been the only one who had gotten a little too caught up in the moment.

[peterparkerisababy]

Get You/Starker Secret Santa

@cammerel happy holidays, here ya go bb! hope you like it! 

@starkersecretsanta

WARNINGS: Mpreg, brief mention of abortion 

(Ignore the shitty title)

Peter woke up, with a soreness all over his body, in a strange bed.

He was confused for a couple of seconds, but he recovered as he felt the warm body spooning him.

He blushed all over, remembering how his previous night had gone. He went out to celebrate the end of the semester, and gone home with a really hot guy.

The person holding him started to stir, and Peter sat up and yawned wiping his eyes as he mumbled a bashful 'good morning'.

"Good morning, beautiful," a sleepy, familiar voice slurred, and-fucking shit.

Peter jumped to confirm his suspisions and Tony, the same man that he spent almost all of his time with and had a huge crush on, was cuddling him aftet a one night stand. Was it a one night stand? Peter hoped not.

"Oh, fuck," Peter gasped, and Tony-he'd dropped Mr. Stark after he'd practically moved in with him-chuckled.

"Nice to see you, too."

Peter blushed again, slowly relaxing.

"I'm-I'm uh, I'm sorry, I'm still a bit sleepy. Um...want me to make, like, breakfast or something?" He asked, not really understanding one-night stand protocol.

"That sounds great. I make an amazing black coffee, if you'd like," Tony joked, making Peter giggle as he slid on a shirt that stopped mid thigh.

He walked to the door and stopped short, staring at how huge Tony's house was. He'd explored every floor of the house except for Tony's personal floor.

"The upstairs kitchen is to your right," Tony called from behind him. And then, in a quiet, shameful voice, "Fri, cancel One Night Stand protocol."

Peter heard him and blushed (but to be fair, his senses were constantly at 11, did Tony honestly expect him not to hear him?) as he shuffled to the kitchen.

He went to the refrigerator and started to make breakfast, pushing the gradually-increasing insecure thoughts out of his mind.

"Hey, Pete, I'm real sorry, but I gotta go-are those eggs?" Tony asked, coming into the room in a suit and looking into the pan of food Peter had.

Peter nodded. "Just like you like them."

Tony stood there for a moment before he sat down. "I can be a bit late."

Peter brought him a plate of eggs, bacon, and slightly burnt toast.

"Petey, this is incredible," Tony praised, making Peter blush for what seemed like the millionth time that day.

They ate in silence, Peter wracking his mind for something to say.

Sorry about the toast.

This is a nice kitchen.

I love that suit.

Last night was the greatest time of my life and I've been dreaming about it all my life.

"Pete, I gotta go-um, meeting," Tony interrupted the silence, shoving his chair back. "Happy'll be back in about 30 minutes and he'll give you a ride. You can take a shower and steal some clothes, okay?"

Before Peter could really say anything, Tony was walking out, entering an elevator and disappearing.

Peter sat there, mouth dropped open, before he finally pulled himself together, slowly cleaning the mess he'd made cooking as tears started rolling down his cheeks. Tony had really slept with him and abandoned him.

As he cleaned, questions swirled through his mind. Was Tony coming back? Did he think Peter wasn't good enough?

Was this his plan all along?

Peter finished cleaning and laughed bitterly to himself. Tony had left him and Peter just cleaned his kitchen.

"Pete, you here?" Happy called from the elevator.

Peter's eyes widened. He ran to the bedroom and grabbed his backpack and some sweatpants, before he put on his web slingers and left through the window, too upset to care who saw him.

***

"Hey, Pete," May called, not looking up from her phone, having memorized Peter's footsteps. "What's wrong? I-"

May stopped mid sentence when she saw his face.

"Baby, what's wrong?" She asked, standing up. Peter walked a few steps forward and dropped into her open arms.

"Is it okay if... I don't talk about it?" He mumbled, voice cracking in the middle of his sentence. May frowned, gently leading them to the couch. She kissed his forehead and played in his curls, soothing him as best as she could.

She didn't even mention the hickeys.

***

Peter was studying for chemistry a week later when he felt it.

Something in his stomach stirred. It wasn't hunger, it wasn't sadness, it wasn't anger, it wasn't arousal, and it wasn't fear.

It was just...different.

***

Five weeks after that, he was sick.

It wasn't like any sickness he'd had before. He was glued to toilet and had thrown up everything he'd eaten, and even when he'd completely emptied his stomach, he was still there, dry heaving.

May entered the room with a cool washcloth.

"Sweetheart, you've been throwing up for a week," she told him, feeling his forehead. "You're clammy."

May's expression suddenly changed into a fearful one.

"Peter," she began, forcing her voice to be steady. "I need you to completely honest, and I'm not asking this as your aunt, but as a friend. When was the last time you had sex?"

Peter groaned, trying to remember. "Six weeks ago."

May's eyes widened even more, but she still tried to stay calm as she met Peter's eyes.

"Peter," she said, "you might be pregnant."

Peter threw up again.

***

We need to talk.

Peter sent Tony the message later that day, curled up in a blanket with a bucket in front of him.

He waited all day for Tony to respond, throwing up to keep himself busy, but he never did. So he sent a second message.

Can we meet up?

No response.

Tony?

Nothing.

Are you seriously ghosting me?

He wondered if he had been blocked.

He cried himself to sleep.

***

"Peter!"

Dr. Cho smiled as Peter entered her office a week later in a hoodie, followed by Aunt May.

"What's thi-"

"Can you be sworn to secrecy? Please?"

She laughed.

"Peter, I've known you were Spiderman for years, I think I can-"

"You can't tell Tony," May interrupted. Peter felt a stab of guilt, knowing that May thought that Peter was just scared of losing Tony's mentorship.

She frowned. "I'm sorry, but anything that happens with Peter has to be reported to him. It's the-"

"Fuck the Baby-Monitor protocol, Helen, you can't tell Tony," Peter pleaded. "Please."

Frowning, she nodded. "What's wrong?"

"I think I'm pregnant," he told her.

She drew a shaky breath, before she composed herself. "Peter, I really should-"

May gave her a look. Dr. Cho nodded again and turned to Peter, grabbing a cup and handing it to him.

"Pee in this and we'll go from there."

***

Peter was lying in his bed staring blankly at the ceiling.

They had driven back in silence, and the second they got home, Peter had gone into his room and shut the door.

Dr. Cho had determined that he was about a month and a half. She printed out an ultrasound for him that had a really small gray blob in the middle. The baby. His baby.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed right then.

Hey, Pete. We do have a lot to talk about.

Peter froze, thinking Dr. Cho had snitched on him, until his phone buzzed again.

Me leaving the other day was totally not cool and I was a huge jerk for doing it, and I apologize. I also shouldn't have ignored your texts, but I was really busy, thought I had responded, and forgot about it. I'm sorry about that, too. Could we meet up soon and work things out in person? :*

Was Tony sincere, he wondered, or was he just trying to get into his pants again?

He turned off his phone and cupped his stomach. There was a bit of a bump there, already, that could be played off as him not patrolling as much and getting a bit chunky.

Then again, Tony was a genius. He knew what pregnant people looked like. What if he'd, somehow, seen Peter and already knew he was pregnant?

What if he wanted him to get an abortion?

Peter's heart dropped at the thought. Did Tony want kids? He might not want to be bogged down by a 22 year-old and a baby. He'd probably make Peter abort it or set it up for adoption.

He pulled out his laptop and spent hours googling stories of abortion and adoption. By the time he was done, he had cried even more and sworn to not do either.

"I'm sorry,"  he whispered to the air, trying to steady his breathing. He inhaled shakily, then exhaled, slowly calming down.

He could hear familiar footsteps coming to his door, and then there was a knock.

"Come in," he called. May entered the room, holding her keys.

"I'm, um, going to get us some dinner. Anything specific you want?"

"Um-" If he was honest, he was even hungrier than he'd even been as Spiderman.

"Pizza okay?" She asked. "I know you've been talking about it."

He actually did want some pizza, really badly, to be honest. So he sat up, sighing.

"Actually, I do," he told her. He walked to her, leaning into her side. She pecked his forehead.

"We'll get through this, Peter."

***

"Guess those cravings have kicked in, huh?" May laughed, grabbing Peter's 7th empty pizza box. "Pineapple, anchovies, and syrup with on a pizza with no sauce." "Ugh, if I taste any marinara sauce I think I'll die," Peter groaned, before he pouted. "I'm gonna run to the store, want anything?" "No, not really," she replied nonchalantly. He grabbed his wallet and left.

At the store, he practically bought the whole snack aisle. As he walked out, he saw a bogo sale on photo albums.

He bought four, just to be safe.

***

"Peter, why did you call us down here on 'urgent notice' if you're just gonna mope?" MJ asked.

"We're worried," Ned added in a softer tone of voice, taking a bite of his pizza.

Peter sighed, sitting up in his seat. "I'm pregnant."

Ned choked on his pizza, MJ harshly hitting his back. He drank his soda and she let him go, turning to Peter.

"Pregnant?!" She yelled, catching the attention of everyone around them. "How?!"

"You know how," Peter attempted to joke, even though his face and tone were serious.

"Congrats, man!" Ned cheered, but MJ didn't let up.

"Who's the father? What are you gonna do with it? Is this a prank?"

"I'm keeping it, it's not a prank, and the father is...Mr. Stark."

Ned covered his mouth and MJ's eyes widened.

"Don't tell anyone," he begged. "Please."

He put his head in his arms, and MJ and Ned put their hands on his back reassuringly.

"We'll support you, Peter," Ned promised.

"As long as you name it after us," MJ teased.

Peter laughed weakly.

***

By month three, his morning sickness had barely decreased, he was always tired, and you could really tell he was pregnant. He went to Dr. Cho monthly, since she wanted to make sure the spider bite didn't affect the baby, and chose to keep the gender a secret.

He had transferred to MIT, changed most of his classes to online, and gotten an apartment where Tony would never think to find him.

MJ and Ned FaceTimed and texted him everyday, and they visited as often as they could afford, bringing him Spiderman themed baby clothes and toys.

May was still staying in New York, visiting as often as possible and sending him half of her paycheck each month. She would often talk about Tony, telling him how he would show up looking for Peter.

"He misses you, Peter," she told Peter as she cooked him some soup.  "You should talk with him. I'm certain he wouldn't fire you because you're pregnant-as a matter of fact, he could be a great figure in the baby's life."

Peter stiffened and his eyes opened. He sat up on the couch he had been resting on and decided it was now or never.

"Um, May?" He whispered.

"Hmm?" She hummed, stirring her food.

"That's the thing...Tonyismybaby'sfather."

May stilled at the stove, making Peter bite his lip nervously.

She turned to him slowly, an unreadable expression on her face before she sighed, moving the pot off the burner and grabbing two bowls and two spoons.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" She asked, spooning soup into the bowls. "I'm not mad, just disappointed."

"I thought you'd be super mad with me," Peter frowned.

"Peter...I know. I knew after you came home from his house with hickeys everywhere. I was just waiting for you to tell me."

He practically deflated, stress seeping from his bones and turning to relief. This pregnancy would be so, so much easier if he knew May wasn't disappointed or disgusted with him.

"So you're not mad?"

May handed him a bowl and a ginger-ale-the only drink, other than water, he could stomach-before sitting down herself. "Not mad, just hurt you didn't tell me. And I don't care for the power imbalance or the age difference-"

"I made the first move," he spilled, quick to remedy any of May's concerns. "And I'm able to get a good job without him. And if he ever tried anything bad, I'd stop him, you know that. But he wouldn't, Tony's an amazing guy-"

"But do you love him?" May interruped, staring into his soul.

Peter inhaled shakily, shocked, before he answered.

"I really do."

May smiled. "As long as you two love each other and you're happy...then I'm okay with it."

Peter grinned so wide he thought his face would crack, one of the many burdens on his shoulders lifting.

"There's a new Stranger Things, wanna watch?" She offered.

He nodded, glad to change the subject, and the two of them put their feet on the table and ate, relaxed, as the show played.

***

When he was four months, he was sitting in Dr. Cho's office, holding his stomach as he waited for another visit.

"I'm way too big for four months," he whined as Dr. Cho walked in.

"My favorite patient," she smiled. "This will be a short appointment, is that okay? Just an ultrasound."

"Okay," he smiled, getting on the bed.

Dr. Cho poured the familiar cold gel over his stomach, Peter barely flinching, before rubbing the wand and spreading it.

Peter beamed happily as the familiar blob showed on-screen. Dr. Cho was scanning the screen when her eyes suddenly furrowed and she added more gel. Peter's spidey senses shot to 100 as she peered at the screen.

"What is it?" He demanded. She ignored him, still watching the screen until her face broke into a smile.

"Peter, it looks like you'll be having twins."

"You're joking." Dr. Cho shook her head. "Twins? Really?"

He grinned so wide his face hurt, before he teared up.

"I'm happy, it's just these..."

"Hormones?" Cho finished. "I understand."

She handed him paper towels and cleaned up a bit as Peter composed himself. At the end of the visit, she had a conflicted expression on her face as she held an envelope. She finally thrust it into Peter's hands.

"He really misses you, Peter," she told him. "I've never seem him this upset before."

"I just-" he stopped, sighing. "I don't know if he wants us."

"Peter," Cho said, "I know Tony, and I know he'll be elated about you and your babies."

Peter tossed the envelope in his bag, nodding grimly to Cho.

***

By month six he felt ugly, lonely, and worried.

Because he'd been seeing news articles of Tony, and in each one, he was drunk and looked miserable.

The straw that broke the camel's back was when he was staying with May and Tony came over at 2 in the morning. From his room, he could hear Tony begging  May for information on him. 

"Please, May," he pleaded, "I haven't seen him in months. Nobody will tell me anything and I'm going fucking crazy. I just want to know if he's okay and what I did wrong."

Peter took a deep breath.

"May...let him in," he called out, after covering his midsection with two huge blankets.

Tony practically broke down Peter's door, freezing when he saw him. Peter's heart raced as he slowly bent down.

"Pete," he mumbled, trying to say something else, but stopping.

He suddenly pulled Peter into a tight hug, and Peter could tell he was crying by the way his body shook, and Peter slowly started to cry with him.

May came to the doorway, prepared to intervene, but Peter gently waved her away. She nodded, walking away.

A few minutes later, Tony sniffled and pulled away, looking at Peter with hurt, red rimmed eyes.

"What did I do?" He whispered when he was somewhat composed, and that made Peter start sobbing harder.

"Tony, it wasn't you," he cried, "it was me, I'm-"

He slowly, nervously pulled the blankets away and watched as Tony's eyes widened.

"You-you're-?"

Peter nodded, sniffling. "They're yours."

Tony froze, a fresh wave of tears pouring down his face.

"I'm so sorry," Peter mumbled, "I was scared you'd have me abort them, or adopt them, but I couldn't, Tony. I love them."

"Them?"

Peter nodded. "They're twins."

Tony's eyes widened and he cleared his throat, shocked and teary eyed.

"Peter, I hate that you thought I wouldn't want them," Tony told him when his voice had somewhat steadied, "and I hate even more that you hid it. I understand that you were scared, but, fuck-"

He looked away. "I thought you hated me."

"I thought you would've hated me," Peter admitted.

"I could never hate you, Pete," Tony assured him. Peter smiled before yawning loudly.

"I'm gonna go," Tony told him, "and I'll be back tomorrow morning. We can talk and I'll bring breakfast."

Peter almost burst into tears again. "Please don't go," he begged. 

Tony smiled softly, happily, as he took off his socks, shoes, and pants, leaving him in his AC/DC shirt and boxers, crawling behind Peter and spooning him.

"Good night, Pete," he whispered, and Peter was out like a light.

The next day, when he woke up, Tony was still there. He smiled to himself, feeling a rough thumping against his side begin. He groaned, accidentally waking Tony up.

"Mornin', babe," Tony mumbled sleepily, "why're you squirmin'?"

Peter blushed at the rasp of Tony's voice and the nickname. "They're kicking me again, and it's always hardest when-"

"Kicking?" Tony interrupted, suddenly wide awake. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think about it," Peter admitted, which was true. May, MJ, and Ned all felt his bump anytime they saw him, so much so that he didn't think to offer.

Peter led Tony's hands to the small feet, who kicked faster.

"They really like you," Peter told him, astonished. "They've never kicked this hard."

"I have that effect on people," Tony joked. Then his face turned serious.

"Peter, I want to be a part of their lives," he said, "and if you would rather us co-parent, I am perfectly okay with that, but I would love for us to...get together."

"Get together? Like date?" Peter exclaimed excitedly, before he blushed, making Tony chuckle. "Yes, Tony."

Tony smiled, leaning forward and kissing him until May came in.

"I bought some lunch, you two slept late-"

She stopped.

"Am I interrupting something?" She smirked, hands on her hips.

"No," Peter grinned, leaning his head on Tony's shoulder. "What'd you get for lunch?"

***

Two and a half months later, Peter was in the hospital, cursing Tony for ever getting near him, and telling him to "go ahead and schedule a vasectomy, old man, because I am not doing this again-"

Until the babies came out. The moment he laid eyes on them, he teared up.

"I want more," he told Tony, who laughed in slight fear, remembering how he had been cussed out 30 minutes ago, until he saw them and yeah, he completely understood why Peter's tune had changed. They were perfect.

May, MJ, and Ned came right afterwards, bringing balloons and gifts and rushing to hold the twins.

"Oh, what are their names?" May cooed when it was her turn.

Peter and Tony exchanged a look.

"The boy is Anthony Edward, or AJ," Tony beamed proudly.

"And the girl is named Morgan May."

May teared up, looking at Peter.

"You mean it?" She whispered. Peter nodded, also tearing up (Cho had warned them of postpartum hormones, but it was a beautiful moment-everyone in the room got a bit choked up).

***

Tony and Peter got married when the twins were two.

When they were three, Peter announced he was pregnant again.

This time, Tony was the first to know.

[ellen-reincarnated1967]

Space

Written for: @spnangstbingo

Pairing: Reader x Jared

Warnings: self doubt, assumptions, condom (you’ll see), accusations (implied and not), cheating (implied), destruction of property, character death, unresolved issues…

Word Count: 1,508

Square Filled: Free Space

Summary: When the reader discovers something unusual in her night-stand, she begins to question her relationship with her husband.  

A/N:  Something personal I needed to flesh out- I tend to overreact and assume the worst in people and today it came to a head.

Something was niggling at the back of your head for what seemed like days.  It wasn’t desperate to be sought out, however, it was making its presence known and the pebble in your stomach was becoming more like a rock as the sleepless nights passed.

You’d been married to the love of your life for roughly four years and together for over seven.  Soulmates he had insisted; you were quick to quote Plato thus sealing you both together.  To him, you were his unicorn: rare, special, and everything he had hoped to have in a loved one.  He was everything you ever wanted in a man.

Relationships are tricky though- you read about them, your girlfriends talk endlessly about the ups and downs of their romances, you see what could only be pictured as too good to be true on the big screen.  There were days that led to weeks that eventually seemed like months, where neither of you were intimate with the other. 

His work schedule, your health, even the late night texts and skype calls were not enough.  He constantly reminded you how beautiful you were; knowing you were having self doubts about your appearance.  He would stare with such an intensity it was as if you were going to fade from his existence.

What any other woman would take to heart and be grateful for the attention, you were feeling trapped.  His constant praises full of rightful intent were becoming trite to you, a necessity; his loving gaze into your soul was driving you mad as if he was hovering, frightened that you may break at any moment.

Jared had left early in the morning forgetting to set your alarm, which was usually a warm kiss to your forehead.  Usually one to oversleep, your intuition woke you.  There was that niggling feeling in your gut again.  You had various phone calls to return, bills to pay, and by the time you realized you may be behind on one of the more important ones, regardless of your husband’s income and yours combined, the stress began to stir in your chest.  

Tiny spindles threading together like a spider weaving a web; only this web was becoming tighter and tighter against your ribcage and the only thing it was catching was your breath.  

Reaching into your night stand for your anxiety medicine, “to be taken as needed”, your hand rummaged around for the drugstore orange bottle, only to land on something you hadn’t felt, seen, or used in seven years.

A fucking trojan; its blue wrapper shiny and new, the label screaming, “lubricated for his pleasure” or something you couldn’t fathom, because, what the actual fuck, Jared, why is there a condom in here in the first place?

This was the last fucking straw to break your back and you did what any wife would do when she found something unusual; you took a damn photo of it on your cell phone and texted your husband,

Why is THIS in my nightstand?!

Breathe in…rage out…

It’s not even the ones we used when we DID use protection FYI.

There weren’t enough emojis to send and the ones you wanted to use would only ignite this further, so you inhaled, texted your best friend the screen shots of the on going message to your husband, and waited.

Dramatically, an eternity passed, but in actuality it was maybe two minutes top when Jared’s smiling face appeared on your phone, his text reading,

???I have no idea!!!!

We’re playing the husband without a clue card, you snarled through your teeth as you read the message again, as if there were a secret encoded reason as to why he was playing said card.  You had nothing to go on so you became obsessed with the actual text itself.  Who even uses that many exclamation points, you felt the anger boiling in your gut, your jaw clenching, teeth gnashing together, as you typed out your response,

Who is she, Jared. 

Not a question; a full on accusation.  You needed to see his face, so you pulled up the FaceTime application on your cellphone and it rang, its incessantly, high pitched, annoying tone, mocking you.

It rang.

Rang again.

Call has ended.

“Not on my end, you son of a bitch,” you threw you phone across the room and it shattered.  Not bothering to pick it up, you hastily grabbed your overnight bag, stuffed whatever clothing you could manage, threw in your toiletries and makeup, and hightailed it toward the garage.  

His metallic onyx Wrangler was taunting you while the keys to your own car, were gripped so tightly that they were pinching your flesh.  Scratching a jagged scar into the driver’s side, you had hoped to trigger something, relief, you didn’t care, what aroused from the act.  

You felt zero remorse, zero guilt; you felt nothing in that moment and it frightened you.

You stared at the flecks of paint on your pale and shaking fingers, looked towards the visible scarring on the truck, and only wished he felt an iota of the pain you were feeling.  As you slammed your belongings into the backseat of your vehicle, you peeled out of the garage, and tore towards your best friend’s house.

As you sped, the limit on the highway, went out the proverbial window, you zigzagged in and out of the cars that were going too slow for your liking. That web that was building in your rib-cage was expanding more than it would allow you to exhale the anger that was making you see red; no, you weren’t seeing red, there were spots in front of your eyes, your breathing was becoming erratic, the sharp inhales of wanton breath leaving you for a lack of a better word, breathless.  

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes, but in your case, all you saw were those flitting spots in front of your eyes as the tears blinded you to the red light in an intersection.

Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of YN YLN, I’m either screening my calls or busy, guess you’ll never know.  Leave a message after the beep.

Beep.

Jamming the phone into his back pocket, Jared was infuriated. A literal chicken without his head, he was running around the set, bumping into the PAs and cameras, as he dashed to his trailer, Jensen hot on his trail.  He had shown his best friend the text messages and felt horrible about not being able to take your FaceTime call, but Rich was running a tight ship. As soon as he yelled cut and print, Jared had made haste to get Clif to drive him home.  

Jensen, trying to aide his best friend with reminders of breathing techniques he had learned throughout his therapeutic sessions was doing nothing but setting Jared’s meltdown into overdrive. 

Shoving Jensen out of the SUV, Jared’s eyes blown from worry, the tears building but refusing to fall down his dimpled cheeks, he looked him in the eyes and swallowed, this is my fault, Jensen, mine.

Jensen knew what Jared meant; tried to persuade him to let him tag along, but Jared insisted, slamming the door to the SUV with such force.  He watched as Clif drove Jared home, the black vehicle becoming just a speck in the distance.  

Jensen swiped his code into his lockscreen and dialed your number, but it went straight to voicemail.

Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of YN YLN, I’m either screening my calls or busy, guess you’ll never know.  Leave a message after the beep.

Jared insisted Clif drive faster but he was quick to be stern with the young man, reminding him it wouldn’t do him no good if he was dead before he got to ya. The road leading towards your house became packed, cars nearly at a standstill.  Flashing lights could be seen in the forefront and as the cars stopped to stare at the wreckage, Jared attempted your phone again.  His heart beat picked up as he saw the compacted metal of what used to be your favorite car, a body bag being zipped up alongside the road, and an ambulance leaving the scene of the accident.  Clif immediately noticed the make of your car, locked the doors to the SUV, and sped like hell towards the hospital.

You never thought it would end like this; but here you were, lying on your back, hooked up to various machines, unable to breathe, speak, or think.  Otherworldly it was, watching the scene unfold before you.  You husband was sullen, his skin taut and gray in color, his beard had grown in, and he hadn’t showered in days. He reached for your hand, urging you, begging you, to squeeze just once.  You would admit later on when you were met on judgement day, that you were tempted to squeeze back.  The fight in you, however, had ended the moment you heard Jared’s voice crack and the phrase that left you hollow,

Baby, I never meant to… 

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