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diremoone · 2 years ago

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Good Enough | Leon.

[ !! ] — female reader, mentions of intentional harm and scarring from a prior Pokémon battle (because realistically, outside of Gyms and League Matches, I don’t see injuries on Trainers not happening), also warning for me bc I’ve never played the game, but the gifs are amazing :D Also might change the title so be on the lookout for that

a/n ;; this is mostly a short story for something imma try to be writing somewhere in the near future lmao

you haven’t battled for so long, but when an old face of a someone who was once a good friend of yours appears to fight, you take up the fight again. And this time your boyfriend gets to see and gush over your battle prowess.

Leon had never seen you battle. He knew you had an entire team at your disposal, but it never really occurred to him that you’d never had a Pokémon battle.

Until today.

“Come on! One fight! One Pokémon even!”

“I said no, Leon! I have my reasons.”

His pouty face never left. You shook him off your arm the second he latched onto it. He huffed, undefeated by your disinterest and unwillingness to use your former team to fight him. One way or another, he was going to get you to battle him.

“Just because my team goes where I go, doesn’t mean I want them to battle,” you told him.

That part was true. You didn’t want them to battle. But they wanted to battle, regardless of what you wanted. As Leon spoke, begging for a friendly fight between girlfriend and boyfriend, the Ultra Balls on your belt shook in delight at the mention of a battle, save for one.

You felt stuck. Definitely between a rock and a hard place, you thought. You didn’t want to deny Leon and his enthusiasm. In a way, you felt like you were disappointing him. You hated that sad, kicked puppy look he gave when he didn’t get his way with something he wanted.

Like those damn cupcakes last week, you remembered.

But it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know anything relating to why you didn’t battle anymore. You only sent out your team when you had to, when he overeager little kids and cocky arrogant jerks decided to battle you — not taking your lack of desire to fight as a green light rather than a red one.

Maybe… Just maybe it would be okay. Maybe you could keep a lid on your emotions and not break into a complete and total panic attack.

“Leon, I—“

“Well, well, look who’s here.”

Both of you turn and your eyes blow wide open.

Out in the Wild Area, there were certain places you’d rarely come across another person. Right where you were, was partly one of them. There were some areas were so secluded, in fact, that people weren’t often found for days. That’s originally how you met Leon, being sent on a task to find him alone. That, however, was a story for another day—

“Hello, [Name]. Lovely to see you again.”

—but the man standing in front of you had a lot to do with why you left the Wild Area’s Rescue Team and decided to never battle again.

Dark hair and familiar ill-intentioned eyes bore down at you. He smirked as you scowled.

“Oscar.” You tamed your breath and bit your tongue, not wanting to let him get under your skin.

“It’s good to see you again,” he comments. “And I imagine you say you could wish the same.”

The tension was so thick one could cut it with a knife. Leon, despite being former Champion and as strong as he was, was beginning to sweat and get nervous. The intensity between you and the male was starting to be too much. Leon shook your shoulder, offering an excuse to leave. He didn’t know this person, nor did he care to.

Unfortunately, this guy knew what Leon was doing.

“As wonderful as it is to meet you, former Champion Leon, my business is with this lady here,” said Oscar, who’s eyes only flickered to Leon for a split second to address him. “If you don’t mind.”

“My lady,” Leon corrected, understanding the veiled threat and intent perfectly. He got to his feet and stood, eyes narrowed at the hostility that was meant for you. “And I do mind.”

As Leon straightened his spine, his height seemed to increase, and you began to realize just how imposing Leon’s figure really was.

His biceps bulged against the sleeves of his black shirt, chest involuntarily puffing out. You could see every outline of Leon’s body, shirt tight and taut against his skin. The amount of adrenaline and anger he was feeling was evident, with you now seeing the veins in his arms and neck. You looked at your boyfriend from toe to head, and it was only when you saw his arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed with fury that you realized that Leon was absolutely pissed. You weren’t entirely sure Oscar was going to make it out of this encounter alive.

But Oscar, ever the idiot, decided to challenge Leon. He reached for the Ultra Ball attached to his hip, and if he hadn’t changed his battling habits — like he hadn’t changed the rest of himself — then Leon needed to move. Now.

You shrieked, “Leon!”

You barely moved in time as a Mamoswine came out of the Pokéball, nearly crushing your boyfriend underneath its feet.

Oscar’s Mamoswine was just as big as you remembered — at least half a Mamoswine bigger than a normal one, totaling 12 feet — him being when you and Oscar were still on the rescue team together.

“He’s huge,” Leon said, exhaling his held breath.

“Massive,” you agreed. “He’s always been like this.”

“The Mamoswine or Oscar?”

“Both.”

You heard your former teammate chuckle darkly. Of course he was finding all of this amusing.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” came the fake apology. “I should’ve watched where I was sending Mamoswine.”

Your eyes narrowed. Letting out a hefty sigh, you grabbed and clicking your belt back into place around your waist.

“You really should leave, Oscar,” you said threateningly, grabbing one particular Pokéball, “before I remind you of the real reason why I was Captain of the Wild Area Rescue Team.”

His own eyes narrowed at the mention of the memory. Oscar had always been unbelievably jealous of you being chosen as the leader instead of him. At the same time, he had an unnecessary fascination with you — an unhealthy obsession — that was driven with a mix of lust, jealousy, and utter hatred.

“I think I’ll pass,” he replied with a snarl to his tone. “Besides, I’d like to know… How’s that left leg of yours doing these days?”

You didn’t need a fancy toss. You merely held the button of the ball upward and a solid click sounded. And out came a massive Steelix, towering terrifyingly over the opposing Mamoswine and his Trainer; the same one that had been your best friend since he was a baby Onix and you an embarrassingly shy four-year-old in your Dad’s arms.

You almost broke your stoic composure and laughed at the sight of Leon’s shock-horrified look at the sight of the Steelix before him, looming high overhead over the three of you.

Oscar and his Mamoswine were unfazed, familiar with your Steelix from the last few years of being team members. The two Pokémon were on good terms, but they would always put their Trainers first and fight one another if necessary.

“Steelix—”

“Mamoswine—”

Leon watched as your Steelix and Oscar’s Mamoswine went to battle. Both of them were clearly battle-trained and, no pun intended, monsters in combat. And as you called out Steelix’s moveset to counter and attack Mamoswine, Leon realized that you were an amazing combatant and strategist. Steelix followed your orders without question, absolute in his confidence in your strategy to win.

The further the battle went on, without either of you changing Pokémon, he knew that if you’d ever entered the Gym Challenge, you would’ve swept him and his team clean and taken the Champion title from him like it was nothing.

“Mamoswine, return!” Oscar shouted. “Go, Lucario!”

“Steelix—“

“Lucario—“

“Mega Evolve!”

He’d only seen Mega Evolution a few times in his life, but being this close to Pokémon that we’re doing it showed him how much energy it contained, almost seemingly even more than Dynamax. The powerful bursts of energy nearly threw him off his feet, particularly from Steelix’s larger amount of power from its natural size.

The battle raged on. Leon was shocked to see how fast Steelix moved when Mega Lucario aimed his attacks at him. Steelix weighed almost a ton; how was he moving that darn fast?!

Twenty minutes later, after several Earthquakes, Lucario was out of the fight. You swept the rest of his team with yours, alternating between Gengar, Obstagoon, Milotic, Hatterene, and Hydreigon for the highest amount of effectiveness to end the fight quicker.

Oscar scowls at his easy loss, but says nothing. You see the change in his eyes from spite to… something else. You’re not entirely sure what you see in his eyes, but it looks tamer than earlier, slightly of a maturity you doubted he would ever have.

“You’re just as strong as ever, [Name]. It’s quite something to be reminded of,” Oscar chuckles, reminiscing fondly. “I was very disappointed when you left the team… but maybe I can understand why. Especially nowadays.” His eyes flicker to Leon, duly noting his earlier protectiveness and the nickname he’d given you. “You have something good… Keep it.”

You’re stunned by Oscar’s words.

He disappears within a few minutes after that, and Leon catches you as you collapse, gently bringing you to the ground.

“You’re amazing,” Leon says in an impressed exhale. “I can’t believe how strong you are.”

“Thanks.” You push the hair back from your eyes. “But I only do it when I have to. I dislike Pokémon battles very much. Oscar is a very large part of the reason why I quit, too. And not just the rescue team.”

Leon is silent for a moment, then says, “I understand. I may not know everything, but that guy brings bad trouble, has a bad aura to him.”

“He wasn’t always that way,” you murmur sadly, “but things changed. He used to be my best friend.”

“Well, I’m sorry he let you down,” he replied.

“Me too.”

He looked at your Pokéballs, then grinned and said, “But I know one thing,” trying to lighten the mood.

“What’s that?”

“You’re freakin’ amazing,” he said with awe, fists clenched with excitement and a fat grin on his face. “You’re an amazing battler! I can’t believe how strong you and your Pokémon are! You make me think you could even take me on and win!”

You feel embarrassment rush over you, from head to toe. You avoid eye contact, and you know now that Leon’s never going to stop bugging you for a battle.

This time, however, you might just oblige him.

#pokemon #pkmn swsh #pokémon sword and shield #pokemon swsh #pokémon leon #leon x reader #champion leon #reader insert #female reader

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duskholland · 4 years ago

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Cuddle Buddies | Peter Parker

summary ↠ you’re touch-starved, Peter’s your best friend, and there’s a whole lot of unresolved romantic tension between you; friends to lovers.

word count ↠ 3.4k

warnings ↠ uh oh.... there’s only one bed..? additionally maybe two swear words? also copious amounts of fluff lmao

a/n ↠ so apparently I really wanna cuddle Peter Parker. wbk. this is very cute and made me so soft when I wrote it. I hope you enjoy it! please let me know if you have any thoughts :D

“God damn, MJ, I think I’m actually going to die if I don’t get a hug soon.”

You’re rambling, your voice full of heavy frustration. Your hair is unkempt and messy from all the times you’ve run your fingers through it, and you stare at Michelle with a wild look in your eyes that makes her press a hand to her hips and laugh lightly.

“Has anyone told you that you’re really good at being dramatic, Y/N?” She replies casually, causing you to mock an outraged gasp. You sit down at the lunch table together, setting down your trays in front of you.

You manage a glare at your friend. “You’re so mean to me,” you whine. “You don’t understand how desperate I am.”

MJ narrows her eyes. “I don’t think it’s possible to die from lack of human contact,” she chimes.

“Who’s dying?”

You startle as a third, familiar voice joins the conversation, and crane your neck to see Peter slipping into the open seat beside you. He gives you an easy smile that stretches all the way to his soft, lovely brown eyes, and you feel your heart ache.

“No one’s dying,” Michelle replies. When Peter shoots her an inquisitive look, she adds, “Y/N thinks she’s going to perish if she doesn’t find someone to hug.”

You scowl at MJ, biting the inside of your cheek as you try not to let the embarrassment show on your face. It’s one thing to have this conversation with MJ - your close friend and number one confidant - but Peter? It’s an entirely different story. He may be your best friend, but your feelings are far more than simply platonic when it comes to him.

“Oh…” Peter looks at you curiously, his eager eyes darting over your face. He leans his elbows on the table and rests his chin in his hands, looking utterly adorable with his face pulled into a cute smile. His grin widens as you meet his gaze, and he nods knowingly. “Hugs are nice.”

You nod in appreciative agreement. “Exactly!”

MJ just rolls her eyes. “You guys are so weird.”

Ned joins the table and begins talking to MJ about a chemistry project, and Peter turns to you properly.

“Hey, so, are we still on for that study session later?” He asks you, his teeth briefly gliding across his lower lip. You try not to focus too much on the curve of his mouth, but it’s very difficult.

“Um, yeah,” you squeak, feeling your cheeks heat up a little as you remember the arrangement you’d made with Peter earlier in the week. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours?” Peter suggests.

“Okay. My parents are still away on business, so it’ll just be us. Is that okay?”

Your friend nods his head, his fluffy brown curls shifting around his face. “Sounds great.” Peter gives you a nervous smile, and it sets your heart racing. “I can’t wait.”

-----

Peter turns up a little after 7pm, a box of pizza in his hands. You spend a while chatting and watching Star Wars, and then eventually pull yourselves around to studying. You opt for your bedroom, with its very comfortable fluffy carpet, and you spread out all of your notebooks and pens around you before lying on your stomach and lazily flicking through your notes. But you can’t quite focus because something is amiss.

Peter is acting very oddly tonight. And he’s normally a little hyperactive, but it’s as if he’s on another level entirely. He keeps glancing up to you, then looking away the moment you bring your eyes up to meet his, and he hasn’t stopped drumming his fingers over the front of his maths textbook all night. You’re already nervous enough being around him, alone and within such close proximity to him, and his antics aren’t helping you at all.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on Peter Parker. Possibly. But you’d never tell him that.

“Pete,” you say, reaching breaking point when you catch him staring at your face for the fifth time in one minute. You sit up and turn to look at him, meeting his guilty, rose-tinted face. “What’s going on? You seem so unsettled. Are you okay?”

Peter opens and closes his mouth a few times, his eyes meeting yours nervously. His voice is more a squeak than anything else as he says, suddenly, “Do you want to cuddle me?”

You blink, totally blindsided by the change in topic.

“Uh, cuddle you?”

“Um, I mean, sorry, that’s such a weird thing to just come out and say, I- I just remembered earlier, with MJ, what she was saying, and I was wondering if you’d want to hug me, if you- if you want a hug so badly.” Peter breaks off, a disgruntled groan coming up his throat as he buries his flushed face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Y/N, shit, that was such a weird thing to ask. Can we just pretend I never said anything?”

You chuckle, your lips pulling into a wide smile. “You would let me hug you?” You ask gently. Peter parts his fingers and looks at you through the gaps, nodding slightly. “I’d like that, Peter.”

He looks so shocked by your statement that it brings another quiet laugh from your mouth. “O-Okay.” Peter clumsily opens his arms. “Um, here?”

It’s painfully awkward at first. He’s sitting at the foot of your bed, his back resting up against the mattress, so you have to do a weird sort of crawl over to him, feeling his wide, anxious eyes pressing onto your figure the whole way. It doesn’t help that you’re practically shaking from nerves now.

You’ve known Peter since the start of high school, but you’ve not really hugged him before. The most you’ve shared is a brief celebratory high-five after acing a biology presentation together, and even that contact had lingered in your mind for days after. The concept of crawling up to and hugging your crush makes your palms sweaty and your mind a numb anxious mess, but you do it, because it’s Peter, and the opportunity to cuddle up next to him is so enticing you think you’d do anything just to feel his arms around your body.

The angle is difficult, but Peter spreads his legs out across the carpet and pats his thighs, and you realise he wants you to straddle his lap, so you clamber into his hold gently. He’s sturdy beneath you, with a pair of dark denim jeans stretched over his firm thighs, and he’s quick to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you in. You let your hands find his sides, and then you settle into a very close, very intimate hug with your best friend.

It’s lovely.

He smells of soft bubbles and peppermint, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, partly because it’s comfortable, but mostly because you don’t want him to see the massive, embarrassing grin fixed to your mouth. Your heartbeat’s going crazy - you can feel it pressing against your ribs almost painfully, and it only doubles in speed as Peter’s hands move slowly across your back, rubbing large, soothing circles over your hoodie. You savour the moment, your eyes closed as you enjoy just being held by your best friend.

“Is this okay?” Peter asks, after a few moments.

You hum against his neck, squeezing his torso softly. He’s wearing one of Midtown’s navy hoodies, and it feels particularly soft against your forehead. “Thanks, Pete,” you mumble, enjoying the moment entirely too much. “You’re really good at hugs, you know that?”

“You’re also a very nice hugger,” Peter replies. You swallow deeply as you feel him tighten his grip on your sides and pull you even closer.

“Sometimes it’s just nice to be held,” you find yourself saying. You’re starting to feel really comfortable now, and find yourself relaxing and shifting further into him.

“Definitely.” His voice is still ringing at a higher pitch than you’re used to, but you put it down to the late evening hour. “Um, Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“If you, uh, ever need another hug, you can always text me.”

You’re so glad you have your face buried in Peter’s warm neck because the grin latched to your lips is so large you think you’d die from embarrassment if your friend could see how giddy his words make you feel.

“Okay,” you say. “Thanks, Pete.” You pause for a moment, and take stock of the way he seems to be clinging to you just as tightly as you are to him. “You can always text me too, if you ever want a hug. Or anything, really.” You manage to collapse your smile so it’s more of a weak grin, and you pull back to look at Peter. His hands fall down to loosely grasp at your hips, and you find him looking at you with warm, attentive eyes and a wide smile hanging from his pink lips.

He looks so cute, and relaxed, and perfect, and you really can’t believe your luck that you’re sitting holed up in his arms just now.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he mumbles shyly, eyes flittering across every part of your face. “You’re a great friend.”

You deserve an Oscar for maintaining the smile on your face, despite the way his words stab painfully at your heart.

“You too, Pete,” you mutter. “The best friend ever.”

The air between you holds just a little too much tension, so you shift and push your face back into his shoulder, hugging him again. Peter’s arms tighten around your waist, and you sigh softly, revelling in rare the feeling of him so close to you, even if it isn’t under the circumstances you crave. You’d take anything Peter could offer you, even if it makes your heart ache.

------

It easily becomes a habit.

Soon enough, it’s been three months, and you’re spending almost every evening with Peter. The more you meet up, the more natural folding into his arms becomes, and soon you find that your favourite parts of the day are the moments you share curled up together.

Sharing affection with Peter is easy, but it comes at a cost - it ties your heart up in knots to spend so much time pressed up against his chest, acting so intimately with him, but then to pull back and go back about your day like nothing really happened. Every second you spend hugging him hurts you because your heart yearns so deeply to have more, but you just can’t bring yourself to tell him how you feel. You value your friendship with Peter too much to risk ruining it all because of a stupid crush, and you’re not ready to stop your evening shenanigans, so you decide to just put up with it and suffer in silence.

A few months into your arrangement, you find yourself at Peter’s when the power across the city goes out in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“Holy shit,” you mutter, shivering as you glance outside and see a flash of sharp lightning cut across the city. The rain pelts down against the pavements so loudly that you can hear it through the gap in the window. You turn and look at Peter, wide-eyed. “Bet you’re glad the Stark internship let you leave earlier than usual today. I’m not looking forward to walking back in that later.”

“Y/N, you can’t go home in the middle of a thunderstorm, especially if the power is out,” Peter tells you firmly, his arms crossing over his chest. He looks so cute with his eyebrows scrunched into a caring scowl that you can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Stay here tonight. May’s out of town, but I can sleep on the sofa. I don’t want you to go across the city by yourself at the moment.”

You bite your lower lip, eyeing the slants of rain that pour over Queens. “It does look pretty horrible out there,” you admit. Your expression shifts into guilt as you eye Peter closely. “You can’t sleep on the sofa, though. I will.”

“No, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“Peter, it’s your apartment, I’m not about to kick you out of your own bed.”

“Then join me.”

“In your bed? With you?”

“Yes.” Peter’s face is a bright red as he flusters, “Um, only if you’re comfortable with that though, Y/N. You don’t have to. I just thought that- because, y’know, we’re kinda… close now, you might want to. But you don’t-”

“I want to,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can think them through properly. You’re rendered utterly incapable of sensible thought, because Peter’s looking at you so intently that it whips the breath straight out of your lungs. “Really, Pete, that would be nice, if you’re sure you don’t mind..?”

“No! I want to,” he replies. Peter runs his delicate fingers through his brown waves, pushing his strands away from his face easily. His smile is gentle, and it grows as you return it shyly. “I’ll go get you some clothes.”

You make light conversation as you both get ready for bed together. Peter even finds you a spare toothbrush in the cabinet beneath the sink, and you pull faces at him in the mirror as you brush your teeth together side by side. It feels so domestic, but also incredibly comfortable and normal, and you decide that you feel more at home by Peter’s side than you do anywhere else in the world. You realise that maybe you’d just been deluding yourself each time you’d dismissed your feelings for him as simply a crush. Maybe, your feelings run a lot deeper for your friend - far deeper than you’d ever intended for them to grow. Because you realise, as Peter laughs loudly when you pull a face at him in the mirror, that your feelings for the boy have taken firm root in your heart, and you’re absolutely fucking in love with him.

“So, um, I normally sleep on the left side, but I can swap if you want that side,” Peter tells you. The power has finally come back on and the weather has cleared up, but neither of you comment on it as he closes his bedroom door behind you and gestures at his nice, gingham-patterned bedspread.

“I can go on the right side,” you offer.

Peter turns off the light and you both shuffle to your respective sides of his bed. You’ve been in his room a thousand times before, but you’ve never ventured beneath his lovely soft covers, and you find yourself sighing slightly as you shuffle beneath the duvet. His pillows are light and feathery, and your head sinks into them easily.

He seems intent to stay as far away from you as possible, and he clings to the far edge of the mattress. It brings a frown to your mouth, but you let him be; if that’s where he has to be in order to feel comfortable, then you’ll let him stay there. Just because you feel something else fluttering about in your heart for him, does not mean he feels the same way - even if you were sure he’d been hugging you a little closer, recently, and staring at your lips more than he used to. But maybe that was all in your head.

“Do you need anything?” Peter asks slowly. You stare up at his ceiling, your eyes taking in the dark curves of his smooth roof.

“No,” you reply. “Your bed is very comfortable.”

You hear the sheets ruffle as Peter slowly turns over. You fold over onto your side and find yourself facing him, his bright eyes twinkling slightly beneath the light that streams in from the city outside. He looks very cute, with the duvet bunched up beneath his chin and his fluffy hair all messy and waved out across his forehead, and it makes you happy to see him so relaxed and free. Sometimes it feels as though Peter carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and you’d give anything to see him gentle and carefree like this. It makes you feel a surge of pride to know you can give him just a little bit of peace.

“Yeah, I dunno where May got the mattress but it’s amazing.” Peter breaks off, shifting around a little, and you freeze up when you feel his hand brush against yours beneath the covers. “Oh, uh, sorry,” he mutters, immediately jerking his hand back. You can just about make out the dark flush of his cheeks.

“‘S okay,” you murmur, biting your lower lip. A beat passes, and then you add, “We hug all the time, Peter. You can touch me, y’know.”

He takes it as an invitation, and he tenderly reaches out. His warm hand finds the curve of your waist, and you stay remarkably still as he slowly shuffles a little closer.

“Is this okay?” Peter whispers into the air.

“Yeah.”

Finally you unstick, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. You shift towards him, as if magnetised, and your hand goes up to rest on his side, too. His t-shirt feels soft beneath your hold, and you find your mind reeling as you take in his warmth, his scent, his touch.

Peter’s face is very near you now. Your legs are tangled together. Your head shifts onto his pillow, and suddenly he’s holding you flush against him, your noses almost touching.

“Y/N,” he says slowly. His eyes are wide and nervous, and they keep dipping down to settle on the curve of your lips.

“Pete,” you respond, your voice fragile. You can hardly keep still, for how nervous you’re feeling now. He’s pulled you right against him, and for the first time, you question whether your feelings are actually one sided. His warm fingers burn against your side, tracing delicate circles over the material of your borrowed shirt. “You’re really close.”

“Do you want me to move?” You’ve never heard him like this before: all warm, and gentle, and inviting. It ignites a whirlwind of butterflies inside your chest, and you really can’t stop yourself from saying, quietly,

“I want you to kiss me.”

Peter’s lips are on yours before you know it. Soft, at first, and a little bit bumpy and awkward. But he loosens up as you reach up and wrap your fingers around his hair, and you kiss him back with all that you have. Peter pulls you closer as you kiss him deeply, savouring the feeling of his warm, pillowy lips and enjoying the way your heart blooms in your chest as your best friend kisses you back. He releases a small noise of enjoyment into your mouth as you nibble over his bottom lip, and then he’s pushing his tongue into your mouth, and you’re making out, your figures lazily intertwined.

It feels so right to be kissing Peter that you briefly wonder why you’ve never tried this out before.

“I, um, I really like you, Y/N,” Peter whispers against you, when you finally pull back. Your lips tingle as you giggle into the air, your fingertips trailing through the soft strands of his chestnut hair. “In fact, I… I’ve been in love with you for months.”

Your mouth runs dry, and all you can really do to stop the tears of relief from slipping out of your eyes is lean in and kiss him again, hard. You kiss him like you’ve been dreaming about for months: slowly, passionately and lovingly - growing in tempo as you fervently try to convey everything you’ve kept hidden away inside your heart.

When you break away, you keep your lips nuzzled against his and breathe out a deep, “I love you too, Peter.”

You giggle together, and you feel so overcome with adoration for the boy that you simply have to kiss him again.

“D’you want to go on a date with me?” Peter asks gently, between gaps in your soft kisses. You finally move away from his lips and settle nearer, your forehead finding his chest as his arms encircle your waist and he holds you close in a warm, consuming cuddle.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Peter,” you mumble against his front. You smile softly as you feel his lips trail across your forehead, and your heart stirs happily in your chest.

“Okay,” he says, sounding immediately relieved. “I’m excited.”

You hum sleepily into his chest, your fingers curling around his strong back. “Me too,” you mumble.

“Night night, Y/N,” he says, his voice already being carried away as you drift further into dreamland. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Pete,” you reply. You know nothing else will compare to the feeling of being holed up in your best friends arms, with his lips scattering a dusting of kisses across your forehead, and you try to cling desperately to every single moment and sensation. “Sweet dreams.”

Peter leaves a final kiss on your forehead, and then you drift off to sleep with him, your figures entangled, and, for the first time, your hearts beating together as one.

------------

any feedback?

masterlist

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker oneshot #peter parker fanfic #peter!friends to lovers #friends to lovers

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millllenniawrites · 4 years ago

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wild eyes (Duke Leto Atreides x Reader)

part one of the wild eyes duology

I thought I should try my hand at writing Leto...... and yes I was supposed to be in class when I wrote this but in battle of Oscar Isaac characters vs calculus, that man and his art win every time

Words: 1.1k

Warnings: choking vibes but no actual choking? sort of? praise sort of?? I cut the smut out of this last minute because I wanted this to be gender neutral and tbh I hated it so I’m gonna work on it and post a p2 probably. slight spoilers (this happens directly after a canon scene in the book (and uses book dialogue) but it’s near the very beginning. all spoilers are like general introduction-to-the-world-of-dune pieces. nothing major) The lovely Lady Jessica makes a brief appearance. this is mostly just me trying to explore the voice so we’ll see how long I even keep this up lmao __

Taking a deep, calming breath, you rounded the corner into the large stone Hall.

Your eyes were immediately drawn to the high ceiling. It was impossible to not feel infinitely small in the grandeur of the space. The faint sounds of feet shuffling and heavy packages being laid on the stone floors filtered in through the doorway you’d used and were magnified, bouncing off the high, dark walls until they were little more than whisperings. The sound was not unlike the sand, a shifting and blowing about outside the house that never seemed to end.

Speaking in soft whispers, the Lady Jessica and the Duke stood in the centre of the space, surrounded by boxes and covered art, from what you could tell. You hesitated to interrupt them, especially with the tension in the Lady’s shoulders and the way she seemed to draw her arms around herself, but your orders were clear.

Your voice echoed in the large space as you called, “My Lord?”

His head snapped up, shoulders turning toward you. The condition of his working uniform and his hair only added to picture that the lines in his face painted: a man under tremendous stress. Something in you ached to reach out, to soothe whatever had left him this way, but you would resist. For the sake of the Lady Jessica, if nothing else.

He cared for her. He had to, for a man of his caliber to have never married. Nothing else would keep a man so loyal to the mother of his son. There were whispers, as there always were, about why he had not married her. People wondered if she had another lover. If he hadn’t married her as to allow her that freedom.

If he himself wished to indulge in those freedoms.

While you would never betray the Duke, it was hard not to smile while overhearing the speculation.

It was always hard, being the keeper of the secrets. But no one would blame you for keeping them. Not if they knew the pleasures of indulging in the Duke’s freedom, too.

You took a few steps into the wide room so he could hear you better, bowing your head as you spoke. “Your guardcar has arrived, my Lord.”

The Duke turned to the Lady Jessica. Her face was perfectly neutral, no hint of their prior conversation to be found. “Don’t expect me until very late.” He strode out, only a flick of his wrist signalling you to follow him.

He was speaking to a grey-haired woman when you finally made it back into the hallway. Servants shuffled more boxes in through the great doors. “The Lady Jessica’s in the Great Hall. Join her there immediately.” The woman shuffled past you into the room and the Duke was off again, heading down the left-most passageway.

Another flick of his wrist and you were following him closely, down a set of halls in the large, cold house that you were certain didn’t lead to his officers or the car what was waiting for him.

The Duke turned down a dead end, stopping so quickly you nearly ran into his back. When he turned, his eyes were lighter. “Did you truly send for a guardcar?”

You met his booming voice with a whisper and a single nod. “I believe one of the servants overheard you and the Lady Jessica, my Lord.” He had mentioned quite loudly that he would be busy with the officers into the late evening, and word traveled fast. Was this another excuse for him to sneak off with a woman from the new city you had all settled in? Was he truly so paranoid that he would lose sleep securing the already-fortified house?

You had moved quickly, calling a car for him and taking names of those instigating the rumours. As was your role.

“I have servants listening in on my private conversations?” There was an element of fake surprise to his tone, as if he had planned this. Perhaps he had. He was more than intelligent and ruthless enough to do so.

“Yes, my Lord.” You answered simply, daring to hold his gaze.

“I appreciate your loyalty.” He lifted his hand up, his trailing calloused fingers along your jaw making you shudder. His eyes seemed to darken as he said, “I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded. Personally.” The low growl of his words threatened to take you apart, his light touch maddening.

“Thank you, my Lord.” You breathed as if it were one word.

“Ask the Lady Jessica for the location of my new office space. Clarify that it be on the orders of the Duke, and I’m sure you’ll find no argument.”

“Yes my-” He gave you a pointed look. One you’d seen too many times to question what it meant. You bowed your head, obscuring your mouth from view as you whispered, “Leto.”

“Your Leto, hm?” His gentle teasing sent a shot of warmth through you, magnified by his own heat as he took a slight step closer.

“I’m sorry-”

“I like it.” With a finger under your chin, he guided you to look at him.

There was a savageness in his eyes that stole your breath, present only since agreeing to make the journey to Arrakis. You froze, letting his fingertips trace your cheekbone. He rested his thumb on your bottom lip and you opened automatically for him, your gasps hot against his hand.

His fingers traced the column of your throat, feeling the unevenness of your breath. “Good.” You could feel the rumble of his voice in your own chest, even as he let his hand drop and stepped back, drawing himself up to his full height. Despite his frazzled state, every inch of him exuded the leadership you had grown to find comfort under.

The power of the House Atreides.

The hall was still empty, but the Duke schooled his features into the mask you’d grown to respect. Or was it fear? A safe amount of both, for certain. “I will see you tonight.” He sounded professional enough, despite the feral grin that graced his lips. Turning his back to you, he strode past you, glancing back only once as he reached the stairwell at the end of the hall that would bring him to his awaiting men.

He winked and you trembled again, but managed a soft smile. And he was gone.

tag list: @writefightandflightclub @a-killvr-queen @imananxiousdriver

#duke leto #duke leto atreides #oscar isaac #duke leto atreides x reader #dune #dune 2020 #my fics #leto atreides #duke leto x reader #duke leto x you #duke leto atreides x you #macks fics

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dedicatedfollower467 · 3 years ago

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rqg long ask game: 3, 6, 7, 8

3. [Choose a character] switches classes. What kind of skills would they now have, and how would it affect the game?

man this is such a broad question. i think one of the most interesting answers to this is what would happen if grizzop wasn't a paladin. i think it would be really interesting to see Actual Ranger grizzop - for one thing, he'd be a lot better at tracking. and for another, i would LOVE to see what grizzop would pick as his favored enemy. i feel like undead would have the greatest utility in the game, but humanoid (human) would be a verrrrry interesting character choice (and also have a lot of utility in the game). frankly, tho, seeing the way ben builds characters, i think he probably would have gone for undead, since he would have known his character was bounty hunting a necromancer. i also have to imagine he'd pick urban as his favored terrain, because of the nature of the game they're playing. the biggest drawback to grizzop being a ranger would be the lack of a healer - rangers don't get spells until 4th level, and it's a fairly limited list - there aren't any first level healing spells on it. the party would have had to rely on healing potions, which would have probably been pretty expensive. they would have been a lot more cautious, i think, up until they met azu.

6. What’s a location you can picture perfectly each time it’s brought up? Describe it.

i.... am actually not very good at picturing locations based on descriptions. i think probably my strongest image for a particular location is Newton's study, actually, but a lot of that is because in my head it's very similar to the office of my advisor in college - large desk with a lamp and a little writing pad on it, bookshelves lining either side, a great big window behind the desk with a tiny (probably fake) plant in the windowsill.

7. The campaign is now set in your favourite AU, but the plot has to stay roughly same. How do things play out?

I'M LITERALLY WRITING THE DAEMON AU WRITE NOW ES. HOW MANY TIMES ARE YOU GONNA ASK ME ABOUT THE DAEMON AU WITHOUT ACTUALLY ASKING ME ABOUT IT.

in all seriousness, though, the story doesn't really have to change much, which is kinda the thing i like about daemon aus; i don't actually have to invent any plot lol. the major differences are in character interactions - having daemons means you can play around with levels of intimacy and have the daemons blurt out things their people would never say.

also i have some thoughts about what happens to a daemon when you die in RQG, because it would have to be different from HDM canon for resurrection to be an actually viable option. but i think i'll keep that a secret for now.

8. [Choose a character]. How do you image their appearance and outfits changing throughout the campaign?

lmao i don't. literally, apart from canonical changes like zolf's hair and sasha's scars, i don't actually picture any of them changing much at all throughout the campaign. a lot of this is because i tend to picture characters the way i draw them, and i have a pretty solid "this is what these characters look like" design for the RQG characters.

my one exception to this is i think cel has longer hair at the end of the months-long airship ride than they did when the party met them, but like. their hair is so wild all the time anyway you genuinely couldn't tell unless you took before and after photos.

...actually, now that i think about it, i also have a fairly decent progression for wilde's appearance, but again, that's based 100% on canon appearance changes, i just think he probably grew out the nightmare buzzcut in between damascus and japan. fwiw, i generally draw 18-month-gap wilde with historical oscar wilde's actual short haircut. not that i've drawn a ton of 18-month-gap wilde yet.

#rusty quill gaming #rqg #rqg headcanon #def answers asks #consultingjedi

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blissfulsun · 4 years ago

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I'm sorry it's me again, bub + I don't know if you've written something like that in the past already but could you write something about maybe being Jeff's editor and you just get along so well because you have the same sense of humour but you never allow yourself to look at him too long because it's clear that he's out of everyone's league so when he's making a move you're like??? Huh??? (I'm sorry I'm insecure about myself, I just need this 🥺) Love you!!! 🤍🤍

nooo don’t apologise you’re the cutest ilyyyyyt🥺❣️ u are always welcome here and this concept is so cute omg i caaan’t (i also assumed u meant a video editor? sorry if it’s wrong lmao I'm a liiil sleep deprived)

He’s handsome, sure, you noticed that when Oscar first introduced you but bit your tongue and offered a shy smile in greeting, hopeful he couldn't see the way your gaze fleeted across his features with no control.

It worked apparently, or at least, well enough to get you hired. That was months ago, Jeff was still one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen, but now, now he was one of the funniest too, witty and caring in a way that grasped at your heart and clawed at your chest.

How could one person be this perfect? How was he still single?

These questions haunted you from that first fateful meeting. Even right now, zoned out as you stare at the same snippet of his face, eyes shining with mischief and lips pulled into the brightest smile, he really had to make this harder.

‘How’re you gettin’ on over here darling?’ The question is almost whispered, his tone playful and warm near your ear. Jeff’s leaning over your frame, broad chest pressed against the back of your chair and head beside yours.

You shrug, composing yourself, a norm in this work setting nowadays. ‘Someone’s gotta make sure you look half decent’ you can’t help but joke. He doesn't need much editing but you’re not about to admit that out loud.

‘C’mon now, you think this face needs extra editing? With my lazy eye?’ there’s that deprecating humour you roll your eyes at.

‘I’ll keep an eye on it’ it’s a bad joke but Jeff laughs, airy giggles that force his chest up and down and as a result almost shake your seat a little.

He sits directly next to you at the table, the others comfortable on the living room couch as you’ve chosen to finish the editing up before heading home.

Jeff stays quiet for a while, the laptop taking your attention away well enough to allow him to look on freely, he notes the cute furrow of your brow, the concentration face you always pull that never fails to lifts the ends of his lips.

How could one person be this perfect? Even better, how are you still single?

The questions have been circling his mind for the longest time, ever since you strolled through his old apartment door and directly into his heart like it was a walk in the park.

‘I’m almost done, I’ll send it to Oscar to check and then I’ll probably head out for the night, ‘m starving’ you say without looking away from the screen. You never really look at him, Jeff’s noticed.

It’s funny because you stare at his face for hours on end most days, analyse individual seconds of content, but your eyes rarely meet his own in real-time.

He’s not sure why he bothers but he still asks. Because hey, you laugh at his jokes and join in on his teasing of Jonah, stay after shoots and help him clean up and that might be just you being a meticulous employee but if he doesn’t say it now it’ll continue to eat away at his insides.

‘Leave it. Oscar can finish up....we could grab a bite if you’d like? Like, dinner, my treat, if you’d like?’ It’s kind of awkward and poorly structured and you would never catch on to what exactly he’s acting if it wasn’t for the way Jeff nervously carts his fingers through his hair and blushes when you finally turn to look him in the eye.

God, he wants you to look at him all the time.

You should say something. Anything, but your throat is dry and expression stoic. ‘I uh, oh god, nevermind, I understand you might not wanna- I’m your boss I guess and-’ Jeff stutters, he’s praying the TV is loud enough for the others to miss his embarrassing manoeuvres in the situation.

‘Are you...are you asking me out?’ your shocked tone halts his rambling.

‘Trying to doll, yeah...’ you both quieten down. Jeff’s simmering in the aftermath, your own thoughts spiralling in confusion and self-doubt.

You look away for a while, it’s a pattern that’s emerged every time his brown eyes pull you in and expose what you’ve worked hard to hide. You miss the way his stare always follows you, behind the camera, around every room as you come and leave without ever truly escaping his mind.

‘Y/n? You can say no I unders-’ ‘Why?’ your question stumps him for a while.

‘I uh...you’re kind of amazing, and the way you put your hair up messily when you concentrate drives me wild..’ you hit him on the bicep, cheeks warming and eyes alarmed as Jeff’s voice grows louder towards the end of the confession.

He doesn’t want the other guys to hear, but it’s worth almost getting caught mid confession when you finally look at him and smile back.

‘Alright...I’ll go out with you, how does pizza sound?’ your tone is light, inside, you feel as though the warmth encompassing your body might make you combust.

You’re still not sure how Jeff of all people seems to be interested in you, but the way his gaze travels across you is almost telling enough.

‘Sounds perfect’ you’re perfect, he thinks. Internally, your thoughts follow a similar pattern as you finally allow yourself to look at him, keeping looking, like you could never have enough.

#goldenwittek #omg oops this got a LOT longer than I thought sorry hahah #thank u for reading💓#jeff wittek #jeff wittek imagine #jeff wittek x reader #jeff wittek blurb #jeff wittek fanfiction

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thecordeliacarstairs · 4 years ago

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Fairstairs (Matthew/Cordelia masterpost)

Uhm so, I’ve seen a lot of people getting confused about why so many people are already shipping Fairstairs and honestly, I understand. I didn't even get the fuss around them when I finished the book. Then I reread CoG and couldn't help but notice all these lines that to me seemed proof that there’s gonna be a lot more happening between Matthew and Cordelia over the course of the series. So I’ve made a compilation of most Matthew/Cordelia moments I catched but please note that while some of those points don't necessarily underline Matthew’s romantic feelings for her (or vice versa), I do believe they show the effort @cassandraclare has made to build up their relationship and feelings for each other as discreetly(?) as possible, but still not in a way that allows people to say that this ship happened out of the blue or was rushed or whatever (IF they’re gonna happen). I gotta say though, I do kind of believe there's some stuff gonna happen between these two. I can't imagine CC making such a big deal out of Matthew revealing his feelings for Cordelia to Magnus- only for him to get another love interest. That doesn't make sense to me tbh

On a side note, I ship both Fairstairs and Jordelia. Both are great ships in their own ways. And you guys can obviously disagree with me. You can ship whatever you want. I’m just bored. And I love books. Anyway, here we goooo

[...] ready to flee, when a hand grasped her arm. She was spun around in an expert grip [...] That’s right. It was Matthew Fairchild. [...] His hands were gentle as he swept her back into the waltz.

I like Oscar Wilde for instance, and he does not. The corner of Matthew’s mouth curled up. I see you go directly for the soft underbelly, Cordelia Carstairs.

You don't need a portrait. You are young and beautiful, Cordelia pointed out. Men are not beautiful. Men are handsome, objected Matthew. Thomas is handsome. You are beautiful, said Cordelia, feeling the imp of the perverse stealing over her.

Matthew laughed, again as if he was surprised to be doing it. That was a very shocking observation, Cordelia Carstairs. I am shocked. But his eyes were dancing.

She was dancing with Matthew [...]. Matthew’s arms were around her and she was smiling.

Cordelia was left alone with Matthew. He had his hat tipped over one eye and was regarding her thoughtfully.

Cordelia tried to imagine it. Kissing men for money, doing more than just kissing... What are you thinking? Matthew asked.

What’s that little smile of yours? Matthew inquired. You look as if you’re about to laugh.

It means unusually pretty. Oddly beautiful. It denotes having a face with character. His gaze travelled from the top of her hair to the tips of her shoes. Like you have.

He was watching [Cordelia] over the rim of his glass.

Matthew whistled. A real gift. He looked at Cordelia with admiration, his bronze hair gleaming in the naphtha light.

Anna smiled her slow, scotch-and-honey smile. And Cordelia as well, of course, she said. A beautiful girl is always a distraction, and we will need to be very distracting indeed. James and Matthew both glanced at Cordelia.

Besides, it is a fancy, Lucie said. He does not really care for me. In fact, I think- She broke off. It was a theory she had developed, seeing the way Matthew’s gaze had been drifting the past few days.

Anna waved her thanks away. It cost me nothing. A werewolf seamstress owed me a favor, and Matthew helped me pick out fabric. She raised her eyebrow.

Cordelia, said Matthew. He looked stunned, as if he walked into a wall. You look different.

Besides James, Matthew sucked in his breath. James glanced quickly at his parabatai. Matthew- Matthew looked as he did sometimes when he thought no one was watching him. There was a haunted loneliness in that look, a desire almost beyond comprehension for something even Matthew himself did not understand. His gaze was fixed on Cordelia.

Matthew was looking at her with wide eyes. Bloody hell, he said admiringly, as soon as she came into range. He looked far more serious than he usually did. What was that?

How long does seduction last? [asked Cordelia] Depends if you do it properly, said Matthew, with a little of his old grin.

The bedroom of Hypatia Vex. Cordelia, I assume you wish to knock? Cordelia refrained from glaring at Matthew. He stood close to her, nearly shoulder to shoulder.

She yanked Cortana back, gasping, and fell to her knees. Suddenly she felt a hand on her arm. She was wrenched to her feet and looked up with surprise at Matthew, staring at her, his face very white. Cordelia-

Matthew’s hand was still wrapped around Cordelia’s arm.

She was pressed up against Matthew in the back of the cab on a bench seat that faced Thomas and Christopher. Matthew had kindly thrown his gear jacket over her shoulders since her own was wet; he was in shirtsleeves, one arm around her, holding her steady. It was an odd but not unpleasant feeling.

She began to remove Matthew’s jacket to return it to him; he held up a slender hand [...]. Keep it, he said. I have at least seventeen, and this is the plainest.

He set one hand on the doorframe, above her head, and gazed down at her. The faint glow from the streetlamp illuminated the high arches of Matthew’s cheekbones and the soft, disarranged fall of his hair.

When he opened [his eyes], he was smiling, though it did not reach his eyes. You have been quite a surprise since you came into our lives, he said [...]. I did not feel that our little group was missing anything before you arrived, but now that you are here, I cannot imagine it without you.

Cordelia should never know it, if nothing else. She loves [Alastair] and should be allowed that. Cordelia. There was something about the way Matthew said her name.

She felt, rather than saw, Matthew turn to look at her in the dimming light. His voice was hoarse. [...] I have wished for a long time for him to place his affections somewhere else, and yet when I saw him with you in the Whispering Room, I was not happy. What do you mean? [asked Cordelia] I suppose I question if he knows what he feels, said Matthew. I suppose I worry that he will hurt you. He is your parabatai, said Cordelia. Why should you care if he hurts me? I don’t know, he said. But I find that I do care.

Matthew took Cordelia’s hand.

His eyes fastened on her, pupils wide and unfocused. Cordelia? he whispered. She blinked. Math, no, she said. It’s Lucie.

That truly was just pretense. It was nothing else. I find that I am glad to hear that, Matthew said. His eyes were very dark, the green just a rim around the pupil as he looked at [Cordelia]. Glad that you are not hurt. And glad that-

Alright! I might finish this thing with the rest of all their moments at some point but right know I’ve got a lot of studying to do and this has been in my drafts for so long- I just want it to get out there because I really spent several afternoons searching for all this lmao

Anyway please remember I didn’t do this to prove a point or change people’s mind on what they ship. It’s just for fun

#fairstairs #matthew x cordelia #Cordelia Carstairs #Matthew Fairchild #chain of gold #cog #tlh #the last hours #matthewcordelia

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knives-out20 · 4 years ago

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Discrepancy - Dean Corso x Male!OC - #3

Fandom: The Ninth Gate (1999)

Pairing: Ambrósio ‘Ambrose’ Fargas (OC) x Dean Corso

Warnings: Swearing, Faggotry, Spoilers for The Ninth Gate, Flirting, Homoerotism, Sexual phone stuff but not phone sex y’know, Ambrósio has no chill and knows no bounds y’all,

Notes: what is going ON y’all....lmao

Dean lay on the bed of his hotel room in Paris, talking to Ambrósio over the phone. "Ambrósio, how are you holding up?"

"I'm lying down if that answers your question, Dean" Ambrósio answered, definitely wearing a shit-eating grin.

Lying down, Dean thought. "What're you doing?"

"Oh, I dunno...talking to some shady book dealer over the telephone."

"I'm shady?" Dean chuckled. "First I'm out of place, and now I'm shady?"

"Yea, man, what the fuck is with your fucking gray hairs around your ears, you got premature graying or something?" Ambrósio inquired, squinting a bit.

"Have you just been thinking about the hairs around my ears lately?"

"I've been thinking of more than the hair around your ears, Dean."

"My facial hair?" Dean teased.

"More than your hair, man."

Dean grinned, "ever the flirt?"

"I try my best, Corso." Ambrósio rubbed his thigh, biting the edge of his lip.

"You been, uh...back at the house, as of late?"

Ambrósio shrugged. "Carmen let me go back to check it out with her really buff boyfriend, like, wrestler-type buff, Jeronimo's huge."

"Is he setting some high expectations up for me?"

Ambrósio decided to mess with Dean. He put on a puzzled tone, "who said they're for you?"

This caught Dean off-guard, like Ambrósio wanted it to. "Oh- uh, nothing, I just- all this had led me to assume-"

"Chill, man, calm down, I'm playing around" Ambrósio giggled. "It felt a bit...grim, but that's obvious, y'know? I mean, with...the reason why I'm staying with my friends in the first place."

"Yea."

A moment of silence struck the two before Ambrósio asked Dean another question. "Where are you right now?"

Dean's gaze darted around his hotel room. "In a hotel."

"Central?"

Dean slowly licked his lips in thought. "Uhh...Sure." He nodded, pulling out a slip of paper and a pen. "I'm staying at this Hotel Central place nearby, in this room. You can reach me there if you're specific."

"No, no. Out of the country." Dean corrected him.

Ambrósio scoffed, "yea, so where are you?"

"France. Ever been?"

"You offering?"

"Again?"

"I'm assuming that's a no."

Ambrósio broke out into a smile as he leaned back in his seat. "Does adoption not exist in America, or wherever?" He giggled. "I'm adopted, half-Pakistani."

"Ever been?"

"You offering?" Ambrósio joked.

"Don't lose hope" Dean smiled. "If I grow to like you enough, decide I need some sort of companionship in my life, I'll reach out."

"You make it seem like it'll be a privilege to me, to be able to hang out with you. It's quite the opposite."

"Oh, really?"

"Yea. It'll be a privilege to you, or rather anyone, to hang out with me, Ambrósio Fargas."

"That's true. Any new up-comings with your..uh...grandfather?"

"Mmh." Ambrósio hummed in a gloomy way. "Jeronimo has an uncle that's in the funeral business. He'll help with all the funeral stuff for my Avô."

"Wish I could come."

"It's like you want to be out of place, Dean, jeez" Ambrósio laughed.

Dean liked listening to Ambrósio's laughter, even more-so since he caused it. He assumes he just liked that he was able to make Ambrósio smile during this suddenly-dark time in his life, given the abrupt death of Victor and all.

Ambrósio and Dean got hit with another moment of comfortable silence. It seemed to be a running thing between the two men.

"You still lying down?"

"On my bed in Carmen's guest bedroom, yea. Why? You gonna ask me what I'm wearing?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you're still wearing that red shirt."

"I have a damn washing machine, Dean" Ambrósio licked his lips. "It's unbuttoned just like the first time you saw it."

"You wearing those gray pants, too? With the stripes?"

Ambrósio hummed his answer, meaning a 'no." "I'm wearin' some shorts, actually. Switching things up, today. What're you wearing, Corso?"

"Same things from the day you first saw me."

"Not one for changes, eh?" Ambrósio questioned. "Well, no. You probably are, given that Balkan's making you go here 'n' there around the globe for some old books 'n'...whatever. Y'know?"

"Yea," Dean nodded. "I'm really sorry, too, Ambrósio. About your grandfather. I never meant for this to happen to him, I didn't anticipate it like you did, but anticipation really has nothing to do with it." He explained. "I'm sorry."

"It's nothing. My Avô was old as hell anyway, Dean. He was bound to go sometime, but I just...not so soon. He was a good man."

"I'm sure he was, he seemed like it."

Ambrósio smiled. "You're a good man, too."

"Really?"

"Yea." Ambrósio nodded. "You, you- you didn't need to give me your hotel number that night you first came, you didn't need to come inside the house to call for me the other day. You didn't need to make sure I was okay, and gonna be okay. You didn't need to make sure I had some place to stay, or ask for Carmen's number in order to reach me. Hell, you don't need to be talking to me right now" he listed out, admittedly blushing a bit.

"But...I am."

"But you are, exactly. You added me into your little equation when you had the choice to leave me in your memories as Fargas' pretty, queer grandkid."

"'Pretty'?" Dean repeated.

"I'm fucking divine, Dean, it's in my name. Meanwhile, Dean means like...'valley.'"

"Would you describe me as a valley, Ambrose?"

"A valley of weird gray hairs, some round glasses, dark academia, and an angular face."

"You think my face is angular?"

"In a good way, pretty boy."

Dean smirked to himself, dragging his free hand slowly down the side of his face. "You think I'm pretty, too?"

"I thought the flirting made it obvious."

"I'm more than a pretty face, y'know" Dean sassed.

"Well, duh. I'm not shallow" Ambrósio scoffed. "I like when we talk, too, and not just for your voice-"

"You like my voice?"

"I've told you this before!"

Ambrósio chortled. "I don't only listen to Hendrix and Foreigner, Dean, Jesus Christ."

"Who else do you listen to?"

Ambrósio stepped back, towards his staircase. "I could listen to you. You sound like you could do a number on people if you sing."

Dean knowingly shook his head, looking down to hide his smile. "I don't sing, but...thanks."

Dean hummed in agreement. "You mentioned reciting poetry, when I met you."

"Yessir."

"What writers do you like?"

"Aw, damn, uh..." Ambrósio scratched his jaw in thought. "Baudelaire, definitely. And JP Marquand, Oscar Wilde, and Lord Byron. To name a few."

"Quite an array."

"You like?"

"I wouldn't shy away from the names. It's an impressive list."

"Thank you, I know." Ambrósio smiled, proud of himself.

"You still lying down?"

"Yea, what're you doing?"

"Lying down, on my hotel room's bed, talking to the dreamy, divine grandson of Victor Fargas." Dean flirted, stroking his beard.

Ambrósio poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "I am dreamy."

"You really are."

"So..."

"So?"

"So, we're just both lying down, on our beds, talking to each other over the telephone?"

"Why, would you rather be doing something else, with somebody else?" Dean joked.

Ambrósio raised his eyebrows. "I'd rather be doing something else that involves being on a bed, with you...Doing a far more scandalous activity than just talking."

Dean fought back a grin, looking over at the wall. "You're on quite the roll, huh?"

"Whether it be the romantic poets I indulge in, or my natural-born charm, the world may never know."

"I think it's just you, honestly."

"I'm touched." Ambrósio placed his free hand over his chest, where his heart lay underneath. "Oh, also- I figured out another song you remind me of."

"Really? Which?"

"Poison by Alice Cooper. I was gonna say his other song Feed My Frankenstein for the sake of the title and sexual themes, but there's lyrics in there regarding a body part that neither I nor you have...I'm assuming. There's nothing wrong with if you do, though. I have a guy friend with the body part, but he's saving up money to get rid of it."

Dean's eyebrows jumped. "You listen to Alice Cooper?"

"Sometimes, do you?"

"Not really my thing."

"Ah, yes, let me guess." Ambrósio raised a finger in thought. "You enjoy sitting back in leather armchairs, surrounded by dusty, possibly-expensive books and listening to the likes of Debussy, Chopin...I happen to like Tchaikovsky myself, if he's any your style."

Dean laughed softly. "No, not actually. I don't know what I listen to, I don't know if it could be classified as one thing."

"If you ever come back to Portugal, we could listen to my records together 'n' see what you're into" Ambrósio offered.

"Are you asking me out?" Dean joked.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm a gentleman, I'd buy you dinner, first." Ambrósio corrected him. "I'm just flirting your socks of for the time being." He told, sliding a hand through his dark hair; he closed his eyes and gave it a tug, trying to imagine that it was someone else, someone specific, tugging his hair in his bed.

"I'm not wearing any socks right now."

"Task complete." Ambrósio nodded slowly, sure of himself. His smile grew when he heard Dean's slight laugh through the phone.

"Dinner, huh?"

"Yea. Wine, music, candlelight, the whole shebang. Again, a gentleman."

"The sound of it does intrigue me."

"That's the goal" Ambrósio stared up at the ceiling.

"Your activity from before, regarding a bed...What would that include?" Dean didn't know what he was doing, nor what he was hoping to accomplish, but liked the power it held over Ambrósio trying to flirt with him...Well, trying and succeeding, but he liked playing a hard-to-get guy.

"Oh, I'm not entirely sure." Ambrósio partially lied. "Winding, twisting, turning, gyrating, writhing...incessant writhing" he purred. "Perhaps some assorted debaucheries along the way."

"You can be so charming when you want something, eh, Ambrose?"

"Or someone," Ambrósio added. "And I can be so charming, full stop."

"Of course you can."

"Alright, how can I get to you, Dean?" Ambrósio asked him. "Tell me the rules." He whispered through the telephone, Dean stifling a shiver.

"Can I trust you?" Dean playfully rolled his eyes.

"Oh, my dearest Dean, have I given you any reason not to?"

"That's true."

Ambrósio's voice turned into another whisper, "you and I could be as thick as fuckin' thieves. Tell me the rules, Dean." His fingers stroked from his chin to his cheek, a faraway look on his face.

Dean could just imagine the look on Ambrósio's face as they spoke. "First, you gotta tell me if I can call you 'chico' yet."

"Beg for it, like you wanted to" Ambrósio reminded him, free hand trailing down his neck, down his torso.

Dean turned back around, seeing Ambrósio holding onto the opened gate. "What is it, chico? Can I call you ‘chico’?"

“If you ask nicely.”

Dean rolled his eyes knowingly, “save either one of us begging for something from the other for another time.” He finally flirted back.

Dean held a knowing expression on his face. He should've expected this.

"No problem, Ambrose. Can I call you 'chico', yet?"

"Only if you beg like you wanted to." Ambrósio flirted.

Dean looked around in thought, "wouldn't you rather in person?"

"Would either one of us want to travel seventeen-ish hours for you to beg me for something so small in the midst of your big book mission?" Ambrósio rhetorically asked. "You wanna call me 'chico', you gotta do what you suggested. It was your words, not mine, big man."

Dean hummed. "Please?"

"'Please' what?"

Dean giggled quietly. "Please, can I call you 'chico'? Please?" He insisted, "please? Let me call you 'chico', Ambrósio, please."

Ambrósio had a smug look on his face, "you may."

"That was barely any begging."

"Let's save actual begging for some other time, when we're closer together. Okay, amor?"

"Okay, chico."

"I also thought of another song."

"You're full of them for someone who supposedly couldn't think of any."

"Shut up," Ambrósio chuckled. "I Was Made For Loving You."

Dean licked his lips, "by Kiss?"

"You like Kiss?" Ambrósio looked surprised.

"I know Kiss, and I know the song you mentioned. How come I never remind you of any Jimi Hendrix songs?"

"That's not my problem" Ambrósio replied. "I Was Made For Loving You, Dean. Take it or leave it."

"Y'know what, Ambrósio?" Dean inquired. "Maybe you were."

"Not even 'maybe', Dean. I know I am." Ambrósio checked the time. "Listen, I gotta get going, a guy's gotta run. Talk soon?"

"Sure thing, chico."

"Bye, Dean. Stay safe."

"You too."

Ambrósio and Dean hung up their phones, Ambrósio's head spinning of round glasses, prominent cheekbones and smooth voices as he left the bedroom. Whereas Dean stayed where he was, rubbing his thighs with thoughts of dark, soulful eyes, inked-up torsos, and dreamy grandsons.

Both of them just hoped Dean's mission would end quick so the two could talk physically again, or maybe do a greater deal than talking.

#the ninth gate 1999 #the ninth gate #the ninth gate oc #dean corso #dean corso x oc #dean corso x male!oc #dean corso x male #oc #ZAYN oc #zayn malik oc #male oc #oc x male #oc x canon #canon x oc #canon x male #male x male #male x oc #male x canon

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themostawesomehuman · 4 years ago

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Matthew babysitting Owen Herondale

This is my first ever fluff lmao! If there’s any thing so can improve on tell me!

Tagging: @lily-chen-deserves-better @liam-h-205 @raccoon-dog-from-mercury @fieryfantasybooklover @daisyherxndale @thanatosangels @magnus-the-fabulous-entp-bane @magnus-the-maqnificent @d3monp0xx @simon-lewis-is-a-skinny-legend @brotherlipsmackariahs @mitsuhamiyamizi @immyownghostwriter @cecilyfightwood @morgnstern @bridgestocksariadne @matthewfaichild @foreverfallentoast @friendlyneighbourhoodreader @idontgetit-whydoihavetosaymyname @herondale-anxiety @insane---chaos @ginacsonka @banesbitch @fairchild-squad @zafirafox4636 @alyssaswords @banesbitch @fairchild-squad @fairchild-blackthorn @fair-but-wilde-child

“I cannot! For your father will cut my head off and shove it on a pole in front of the institute” Matthew explained, his hand resting on his forehead dramatically. It might not strictly have been the case for his dear parabatai but he was quite sure that Cordelia Herondale would not hesitate to use Cortana to slice him in half with a single blow.

“Pleases, Uncle Matthew? Please?” Owen begged, embracing Matthew from behind. Pressing his adorable little face on Matthew’s shoulder. It was hard to say no to Owen Herondale; his eyes glittering with wonder; his genuine warm smile; his face structure exactly the same as James’. Who could really say no to tiny Herondales? Someone must certainly be heartless to say no to Spawns of Perfection. James has told Matthew many times not to call his son a spawn but it is the truth and the truth shall be told. Just a ride from the Institute to his house won’t hurt, right? Matthew thought quietly to himself. He was never the one good with obeying the rules anyway. James and Cordelia often left Owen in the care of Lucie or Thomas but now that they had all made their escape, Matthew had no choice.

After a few minutes of very little persuasion Matthew sighed, “Alright, alright! Let’s go see Oscar”. Matthew stood up and grabbed his coat from a hanger as he spun around dramatically facing his nephew, “Not a word single about this to your parents, understood? Or they shall publicly execute me.” Owen nodded in silent agreement, his eyes lit up like a lightbulb.

On their way to his place, Owen only grew in excitement to see Mr. Oscar Wilde, who Matthew feared would be equally as excited. Matthew himself was extremely tired and was ready to pass out on any given opportunity. Given that if Owen was his parabatai’s son and his godson, he would have left him in a room somewhere and never looked back. During what seemed to be an unusually long ride, he kept drifting off but jerked back and hands on his blade when Owen yelped each time they hit a dump on the road.

After a fifteen ride from the Institute, they finally arrived at Matthew's flat. As the servant opened the door for them, the little boy immediately yelled for Oscar who answered his call with an enthusiastic bark. Owen’s smile brightened even more at the sound; it has been a few weeks since he met Oscar, since Oscar was an old chap with a bit of joint problems.

As soon as they entered the sitting room, Oscar greeted both Owen and Matthew with what seemed to be very wet kisses. Owen giggled as Oscar lay down next to him on the carpet so he could pat his head and give him tummy rubs. As Owen seemed to be entirely focusing on cuddling and teasing the dog, this left Matthew some room to take a bath and asked his servants for hot chocolate and some Turkish delight. He noticed earlier that Owen had barely any of Briget’s wonderful cooking as he was too busy focusing on the book he hid under the table, he was so much like his father, Matthew found it quite endearing. Cordelia had told him that Owen wasn’t allowed sugar at night but at this point, he just wanted his nephew to eat something. She could try to murder and throw his body into the Thames later when she returns.

When Matthew returned downstairs, he found Owen sitting on the floor of the sitting room gobbling down the hot chocolate and a few remaining pieces of Turkish delight. His face was covered in icing, above his mouth a hot chocolate mustache but the biggest cheerful smile on his face. He seemed content and that’s all Matthew really wanted for his dearest nephew.

“These are amazing!” Owen gestured at the plate with his little finger.

“Aren’t they?” Matthew examined a small piece before popping it in his mouth. It tasted very sweet but children seemed to like them. He wiped Owen’s face to make sure that there wasn't any remaining evidence of treats left.

As the servant cleared the room. Owen turned to Matthew and asked “do you live here by yourself?”

“Well, if you don’t count the two servants and Mr. Oscar Wilde then yes”, Matthew answered ruffling Owen’s hair playfully as Owen tried to get away.

“What about a partner? Papa has mam and aunt Lucie has uncle Jess. What about you?” Owen looked directly at Matthew, “ don’t you feel lonely?”

“Do I feel lonely?” shocked Matthew repeated the question. Loneliness was something he never really thought about. Was he lonely? Years before he remembered feeling that way, he would admit. He hated himself and there was this empty void in him that he wanted to fill. He filled it with people, spirits and other things that looking back he wasn’t proud of but as time went by, things changed. “I supposed not”, he finally answered.

“Is that why you’re not married?” Owen questioned him with a bright smile on his face. It’ll be a long time until this little boy has to answer similar questions, there’s so much more he needed to know about the world. It was shocking to think that one day Matthew or James or Cordelia will no longer have to answer every question, for there would be a time Owen would have to figure them out himself.

Matthew’s gaze softened. “Have you ever been to a Shadowhunter wedding ceremony?” he sat down opposite his nephew in front of the fireplace.

“I don’t really remember” the little boy answered, his forehead furrowed thoughtfully.

“Well, they normally asked the soon-to-be-wedded couple, ‘hast thy soul found the one you doth love?’, normally they would both say yes and the ceremony will officially begin” Matthew explained. In the past few years he has been to countless weddings. Everyone seemed to be getting married these days. Everyone except from him. “I haven’t found that person yet. My soul hasn’t and I will wait until I find them”, Matthew answered honestly and shrugged. Owen stared at him, his eyebrows rose and nodded slowly. Matthew knew that Owen didn’t really understand but it didn’t matter. Owen Herondale had so much more time to learn, he had his whole life ahead of him and tonight was only a fragment of it.

As the clock struck nine they were back again at the London Institute with Owen fast asleep in Matthew’s arms. As Matthew lay his nephew down and covered him with the duvet, he quietly wondered what it would feel like to do the same simple gesture for his own son. Maybe someday.

#matthew fairchild #chain of gold #the shadowhunter chronicles #herondale #owen herondale #fluff #heronchild chainofgold #the last hours #shadowhunters #cassandra clare #m’s writing

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commandersheda · 5 years ago

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Jail Birds Pt. I | Sad Eyes x Original Female Character

Summary: Sad Eyes meets a girl who finally intrigues him in the weirdest of places.

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 1,026

Author’s Note: This is my first published Sad Eyes work, as I usually stick to writing Oscar fanfiction, but I’ve slowly started falling in love with Sad Eyes as well and wanted to write for him! This is part one to a series, so don’t worry more is coming! How soon depends on how many people wanna read more and how much inspo I have to write lmao but I hope you all enjoy

PS: I’m not a native Spanish speaker so I apologize for any incorrect translations I do my best to get the most accurate translations I can find :)

Sad Eyes didn’t give much thought to relationships. His day life was entirely too busy to focus on something as seemingly trivial as a girl. But at night, when he laid in his bed all alone, staring at the ceiling, he would imagine a woman. A woman he could love. A woman that would love him back - maybe even give him a few kids.

He thought about where he would meet her. He only traveled to a limited number of places in Freeridge. Oscar’s house, pick up spots, the warehouse when Oscar requested his presence, the park when the rest of the Santos felt like fucking around and Oscar told them to fuck off to somewhere else, the corner store and on Sundays the farmer’s market with his madre. Maybe, he thought, he’ll see her in the park one day. Or he’ll drive by her on the way to Jefferson street with Toro.

Not once in the darkness and emptiness of his room did he ever think he’d meet her in jail.

But there he was on a Friday night, slouched on the hard bench, his head resting against the brick wall when the cell door clanked open. He turned his head to see the new arrival - a woman - dressed in light ripped jeans and a red blouse that fell off of the shoulder. She was carrying her heels as she walked in the cell. Her hair was wild, the curly brown hair now frizzy and sticking out in all directions. Her makeup smudged.

She didn’t pay Sad Eyes any mind as she shuffled over to the bench opposite of him. She dropped her shoes down and plopped onto the seat. The gross fluorescent lights flickered on her brown skin. Sad Eyes noticed the bruise forming on her cheekbone.

“I hope the other person looks worse,” he said.

“She’s a few cells down sporting a broken nose,” she smiled, proudly.

Both of them chuckled before Sad Eyes fully sat up to look at her. “What’d you get in a fight about?”

“The bitch stole my shot. Now I have to be in here and I’m barely fucking tipsy,” she huffed, the anger from the memory flowing back to her. She nodded at him. “What are you doing in here?”

“Possession.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “Cuánto?”

“An ounce in a half,” Sad Eyes answered.

She waved him off. “Misdemeanor. You’ll be out soon.”

Sad Eyes knew that already. He didn’t tell her that, though. Instead, he asked, “You from around here?”

She nodded, “Moved here with a friend a few weeks ago. Tonight was our first real night out and cheap bitches had to start stealing drinks.”

“Where you two move here from?” he questioned.

“Phoenix,” she answered.

“Is she the one coming to get you?”

She nodded. “Yeah,” a beat, then, “Who’s coming to get you?”

“A friend.”

“What in the world would we do without them?” she asked, rhetorically, a smirk on her lips. “Aye, what’s your name anyways?”

“Sad Eyes,” he stated. “Y tú?”

“Monaco.”

Sad Eyes quirked an eyebrow. “Your name is Monaco, foreal?”

“No,” she snorted, rolling her eyes before giving him a defiant look. “But if you’re gonna make up a name then so am I.”

“It ain’t made up. It’s what people call me,” Sad Eyes defended.

“Is it your government name?” she asked.

“No-”

“Then it’s made up.”

“Okay, fair,” Sad Eyes chuckled.

He hadn’t bantered with someone like this in so long. He didn’t count the guys because their banter all seemed to be one note. This was different. She was different. New - refreshing.

“What’s that say on the side of your neck?” she nodded at the cross.

Sad Eyes reached up to feel it before answering, “Santos.”

“Like the gang?” she questioned and Sad Eyes nodded.

He was sure that at that moment she was going to stop talking to him, but she surprised him when she puckered her lips and nodded. “Explains why you’re so calm.”

Truth was, it was Sad Eyes’ first time behind bars. Call it luck or the fact that he was smart enough to know when to be apart of situations and when to stay his ass away (that and his long legs that carried him far, fast), but Sad Eyes had never been caught and locked up. His record was clear before the misdemeanor he got today.

He was sure it appeared like he had been through this a countless number of times before, but that wasn’t the case. It just took a lot for Sad Eyes to become undone. He was the most calm and level headed out of all the men, which is why the role of mediator and rational thinker were automatically associated with him. Something he hated most of the time, but shit, someone had to do it. It might as well be him.

“You got any tattoos?” he asked instead of explaining to Monaco his underwhelming record.

“A couple,” she said. “I’m afraid they’re in places you won’t see until the third date, though.”

A lazy smile slipped on Sad Eyes’ lips. “A third date? Who said I wanted to go on a first date?”

“Please, I saw you checking me out when I got in here,” she smirked. “You can’t get shit past me, papi chulo.”

“And on what date will I get to learn your real name?” he wondered.

“The same one I learn yours on.”

“Sad Eyes!” Both of them looked at the cell door to see Oscar running up, eyes on Sad Eyes. “Qué coño pasó?”

“Long story,” Sad Eyes shook his head.

An officer walked up behind Oscar, unlocking the door and opening it. He motioned at Sad Eyes to come. “You’re free to go.”

Sad Eyes wasted no time standing up and walking out of the cell. The officer closed the door after him, locking it and turning towards the two men. “Let’s go.”

“Goodbye papi chulo!” Monaco waved at the men as they walked away.

Sad Eyes wave goodbye at her, Oscar turning to him when they were far enough away. “Who the fuck was that? La conoces?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, a small smile on his lips. “That’s Monaco.”

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duskholland · 4 years ago

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The Fame Game (Prologue) | Tom Holland

Summary ↠ There’s just something about Tom Holland that makes your blood boil. He walks around like he owns the world, always with an unhelpful quip or irritating smirk on hand. You can’t stand him, and your feud has burned hard and bright for three years. Everything changes following an explosive evening at the Oscars, when a questionable encounter with the paparazzi lands you in some hot water with PR... fake dating au; enemies to lovers; actor!y/n.

Word count ↠ 4.6k

Warnings ↠ Alcohol, paparazzi, swearing, discussions of misogyny and the corruption of fame, Tom and Y/N are both very petty, dramatic assholes.

A/N ↠ Ahhh it’s here! I was really shocked by how many people responded to the announcement post for the series -- I hope so much that this doesn’t disappoint anyone lol. This series is my baby, and I’m very excited to share it with you all. Before we dive into the fake dating, we must first explore a very critical evening for Tom and Y/N... hahahah. This was a lot of fun to write. Please let me know if you’ve got any thoughts! :D

(Tom’s in the FFH premiere outfit because I’m still in love with that fit, and the jury’s out for whether or not the actual Tom needs glasses to see; this version of him just uses them as a fashion statement lmao)

((The biggest thank you ever to V, mischiefandi, for being this series’ no.1 supporter and proofing this -- love you mate))

Series masterpost

ZERO: The Oscars (Y)

The atmosphere at Vanity Fair’s Oscars after-party is electric.

The soft boom of the latest pop tunes seeps into the air, mixing with the warm lights and the sounds of clinking champagne flutes. The room holds Hollywood’s best, and it seems no matter which direction you tilt your head, your eyes find themselves settling over a familiar face. You’re walking amongst legends tonight, and as you throw back your third glass of champagne of the evening, you let a small smile unfurl across your lips.

It isn’t your first time attending the Oscars, but it is the first time you haven’t felt utterly out of your depth surrounded by people of this calibre. When you’d first started in the acting industry, you’d found it incredibly unsettling to enter a room full of Oscar-winners. Even now you remember how your hands had felt slick with sweat as you’d nervously been introduced to Meryl Streep and Viola Davis, and how you’d felt imposter syndrome on a scale you’d never imagined possible. Time and experience have brought you many things, but most importantly, they have gifted you confidence. You’re 24 now, and the string of achievements and nominations tied to your belt is so impressive that they deem you no longer an outsider at the Oscars; instead, it’s as if you’ve been accepted into the fold.

But for all the enjoyment of the lavish after-party, you can’t stop your mood from plummeting. It’s all fun and games until your eyes sweep the room and settle on a smirking figure standing in the corner:

Tom Holland.

Just the sight of him makes your nostrils flare.

You think it must be true what they say: once you start to dislike someone, it’s as if every single thing they do irritates you. This is how you feel with Tom. Even the smallest, most insignificant details about him somehow manage to annoy you. You cannot stand the smell of his hair gel, and you detest the way he stubbornly refuses to mend his phone screen. Your teeth grit together every time you see that smug smirking grin hanging from his lips, and you get worked up by the way he always seems to swagger around as if he owns the room. The grievances fall into several categories: his aesthetic choices, his generally smug demeanour, and his irritating personality, and it all fosters your deep, unyielding disapproval of the man.

Tom infuriates you beyond belief - beyond words. And he’s standing across the room right now, staring at you over the rim of his wine glass with a teasing smirk hanging from his stupid lips.

You try to ignore him at first. You lick your lips and return your attention to a conversation with some of your co-stars. You know better than to try and approach anyone else tonight. Your reputation, as your PR team likes to put it, is ‘fragile’ at the moment. A string of uncomplimentary ex-lovers and a few disgruntled directors have shattered your pristine public image, making you regarded as both a rising talent and loose cannon by the media. There’s been a common trend recently of news outlets dragging your name through the mud, and the desperate words of PR as they’d begged you not to cause a scene tonight drift through your mind as you contemplate wandering over to Tom.

You know it isn’t in your best interests to engage with the man - no matter the occasion, your conversations always end explosively - but Tom is just standing there, staring at you persistently, and you just can’t help it.

Your tongue flicks out across your lower lip as you feel his hot gaze trailing around your made-up cheek. His eyes are intense - holding power over you, to the point where you have you excuse yourself from your conversation. An exasperated sigh slips past your lips as you turn around, preparing yourself for your encounter. Your stare finds him, and it follows Tom as he strides across the party towards you, one hand hanging easily from his trouser pocket as the other clasps an intricately engraved wine glass.

The frown on your lips deepens the nearer Tom gets, and as more details of his figure draw into focus. He’s got his chestnut waves slicked back tonight, with a few stray strands hanging out across his forehead. It makes him look dishevelled, but in a devilishly handsome sort of way - which makes sense, given you’re reasonably sure he must have some kind of relationship with Lucifer himself. Stretched across the wide expanse of his shoulders is a deep burgundy suit, and it cages him in tightly, leaving little to the imagination. Your lips curl into a poisonous grimace as your eyes finally fall on the glasses perched on his nose; you’re sure Tom doesn’t even need glasses, and it riles you up to see him parading the frames as a fashion statement.

But perhaps the thing about his ensemble that annoys you the most is the fact that you can’t look away. No matter how hard you beg yourself, you can’t drag your gaze away from Tom’s swagger, or the tight hold he has on the stem of the glass, or the way his eyes dance with a dark, mischievous glint as he falls to a stop in front of you. Tom is many things to you, but it’s undeniable that you find him attractive, and that fact often keeps you seething well into the early hours of the morning.

“Y/N,” Tom greets, his voice dripping charm. “Lovely to see you again.” His thin pink lips twist up into a smirk, and you find yourself clenching your fingers into fists around the tender stem of your champagne flute.

“Tom.” You step forwards, and your lips catch at his cheek as you press a firm, unwavering greeting to his face. You feel his warm hand slip from his pocket, and it grazes across your hip as Tom holds you closer. “You look to be enjoying yourself.”

When you pull back, you linger near him, allowing Tom to return the gesture by pressing his hot mouth to your cheek. He smells of rich, overpowering cologne, and you scrunch your nose up as his lips burn against your skin.

“It’s quite the party tonight,” he returns, stepping back. Tom’s beady little brown eyes run across your figure, taking in the long designer gown and the decadent sparkly necklace hanging from your neck. He graces you with an approving nod. “Are you having a nice time?”

“I was.” You pause to take a long sip of champagne, finding comfort in the way the bubbles pop against your tongue. You hope the alcohol will help to take the edge off the way your heart has started to pound against your ribs. “It’s a shame you had to come over here and ruin my mood.”

“Couldn’t help but notice you were staring at me, love,” he says, “Thought maybe you had something you’d like to say to me.”

You feel a hot spike of irritation as his lips curve effortlessly around the word love. Tom has always been a fan of pet names. The ease in which they roll from his tongue in that smooth, accented voice never fails to charm the room, and though you like to think you’re immune to his allure, you can feel the word spinning around your head like a broken record.

“Not really,” you return coolly, maintaining your composure with the poise and precision of a seasoned actress. You even manage to flash him an apologetic smile. “No big award for you tonight, though? Must be heartbreaking.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Are you really still caught up on the BAFTA?” He asks, his voice lower and harder.

The mood between you dips, and instinctively you find yourself moving away into a quieter corner of the room. As you drift away from the hordes of celebrities guzzling champagne, it’s as if the facade between you breaks down. Your smirk becomes harder, your eyes less forgiving - and in return, Tom’s smile sours into a grimace, and he holds himself straighter. The masks you wear come off, leaving you both bare and exposed.

“No,” you respond darkly. You’re tucked away in the corner of the party, with your back almost against the wall as Tom lingers in front of you. Both of you have discarded your drinks glasses. “I couldn’t care less that you won the BAFTA, Tom. If the jury decided you were worthy, then you were worthy. I would have to be very unreasonable to disagree with the committee.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, Y/N.” Tom tilts his head to the side, flashing the tips of his shiny white teeth as his mouth loosens into a wild smile.

“Fine.” You give him an excessive sigh, and you let your eyes drift towards his mouth. “I don’t buy it, Tom.”

Tom’s suit jacket breaks out into wrinkles as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You don’t buy what?”

“This act.”

Tom almost rolls his eyes again. “And which act are you referring to, Y/N?”

“The Mr Nice Guy Act, Thomas.” The way he flexes his jaw makes you lean nearer and smirk. “Everyone here thinks you’re such a wonderful man, but I see right through it.”

It’s hard to know precisely when your feelings towards Tom became so hostile, but you like to pinpoint the night of the BAFTAs in 2017 as the day you surpassed the point of no return. You were younger then - both of you - and things quickly got out of hand. You know Tom likes to pinpoint your ‘jealousy’ following his win and your snub at the awards show as the catalyst for your tumultuous relationship, but both of you know that night was the product of several cumulative events.

Your best friend had worked with Tom’s mate Harrison, all those years ago in 2016. You knew Harrison through her, and you got on well enough with him, so when the BAFTA academy had nominated both you and Tom as contenders for Rising Star, Harrison had orchestrated an exchange of phone numbers. However, given your packed schedule and press engagements, you had failed to respond to all of Tom’s attempts to contact you.

One thing led to another. Tom assumed you were dodging his texts and started bad-mouthing you to Harrison. Word travelled to you that this guy - the competition - was throwing shade to your name, and so you might have made a few choice remarks about him on Ellen and suggested that Tobey Maguire was the best Spider-Man. Whatever. It was all so petty and childish, and it’d escalated to boiling point on the night of the BAFTAs when Tom hadn’t been able to shut up and thrust his win right into your face - quite literally. You can still remember the way he’d clutched the trophy as he’d shown it off in all its grandeur.

Ever since then, your relationship has been poisonous. A case of miscommunication and petty jealousy turned hostile, and now you’re in far too deep to even think about mending the fractured dynamic.

“I am a nice guy,” Tom tells you. His eyes skim across your face, and you don’t miss the way they drag across the curve of your lower lip.

“As if.” You ponder which anecdote you should fall back on to prove your point, and it takes a while to select one: the pool of Tom’s past mistakes and moves against you is vast and wide. “Would a nice guy conveniently forget to invite me to Harrison’s birthday party?”

Tom winces, and something almost like regret flickers out across his face before he meets your eyes and hardens up his gaze. “I’ve already told you that was a case of miscommunication,” he says slowly, patronising. “I doubt you would have enjoyed it anyway, Y/N. Wasn’t exactly your type of party.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Your hand finds your waist, gripping firmly at your flesh to stop your fingers from shaking. The way Tom looks at you so intensely makes you feel strung-out and bare, and it’s almost as if he can see straight through you.

“It was a small, intimate gathering. From what I’ve been hearing, you’re a fan of the larger, more explosive parties, aren’t you?”

You could throttle him. You could really, truly throttle him. You know with certainty that Tom’s referring to the latest smear the media had run against you, which had placed you at an illegal rave in Downtown LA and cost you a role in a film you were passionate about.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, Tom.”

“Maybe not.” Tom’s closer to you now. You find your back brushing up against the wall as he steps nearer yet again, his shiny leather shoes sparkling beneath the light curving out from the chandeliers. “I’d like to think I know you quite well, though, Y/N. We have known each other for several years.”

“I’d use the word ‘known’ very loosely if I were you. I think it’s more like, ‘been plagued by’, but you do you, Tom.”

He laughs, and this time the noise is lighter. You feel a little woozy from the champagne - or maybe it’s his cologne - and you let your hand wander up to rest on the top of Tom’s suit. You drag your fingers across the smooth material, marvelling at how soft the designer garb is to touch.

“Do you like my suit?” Tom asks, his voice lower than before. There’s a strange charge to the air between you, and you find yourself nodding.

“I disagree with the glasses, but your suit is decent. I have to admit that this colour looks flattering on you.” The bold burgundy tones bring out the warmth in his eyes, even if the stupid thin frames of his glasses obscure them. You watch as his pupils widen and feel the warmth of Tom’s breath as he inches in closer.

“Thanks,” he says. Tom’s hand winds around your waist. “Your dress is very nice.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly feeling dry. You briefly wish that you had another glass of champagne to keep you occupied because you find your other hand joining the first and finding purchase on Tom’s shoulder. He’s very close to you, and there’s nowhere left to move because you’d backed up against the wall. Fleetingly you wonder what it must look like, to be hidden away at the back of the party and caged in like this, but you decide that the flurry of heated emotions passing through his eyes and the way his thumb pads over your waist is worth it.

Neither of you says a word, but you watch through wide eyes as Tom’s gaze flickers out across your lower lip. He inches in closer, almost painfully slowly, his demeanour radiating a shaky confidence as he tilts the angle of his head. You watch the hard lines of his mouth dissolve, and his smirk melts away into something like a smile as his eyes flutter shut. Now Tom is very close - so, so close - and the gap between your mouths narrows by the second.

He’s going to kiss you. You know he’s going to kiss you. Why is he going to kiss you? Why are you going to let him kiss you-

“Y/N! Hey, congrats on the film. I saw it last week with my wife, and she loved it-”

Tom springs back. You gasp a short breath of air as your eyes widen, and the film of scattered emotions that had temporarily disarmed you shatters. Tom’s cheeks are bright red, and he doesn’t seem to know where to look or what to do as he jams his hands into his trouser pockets and stares at the floor.

“-Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?”

Your throat tickles as you shake your head, looking up to see Mark Ruffalo standing there, his expression relaxed but growing in confusion as he drinks in the awkward tension rippling between you and Tom.

“No,” you say immediately, a bite to your voice. You refuse to look at Tom. “You weren’t interrupting anything.”

Mark releases a breath of relief and launches back into his speech, complimenting you profusely on your performance. You become distracted as you listen to him, but not enough to forget about the way Tom had leaned closer and brushed his thumb across your side almost gently. After a few moments of conversation, you can’t stop yourself from glancing over towards Tom, only to notice that he’s slunk away elsewhere. His absence makes your heart twist.

Another hour slips away, and you find yourself returning to the Moët for release. You can feel your composure gliding away from you with each fateful sip. Tom seems to have vanished, and you find yourself questioning if he’s so embarrassed by your moment in the corner that he had to leave. You wonder if that would be better than him staying.

But eventually, your eyes seek him out, as they always seem to do. And you catch him chatting with a woman, his arm around her shoulders and his lips brushed against her ear. Tom seems to feel your gaze on him, and his deep brown eyes meet with yours. He raises his eyebrows and whispers something into the woman’s ear that makes her laugh, and it sends something whipping down your spine.

It isn’t just jealousy - it goes deeper than that. It’s the realisation that you could never get away with this behaviour. You know that if the roles were reversed and it was you who had been seen getting close to two men in one night, you would be assigned a whole host of derogatory names. The double standards that exist in this artificial world of cameras and headlines make you feel sick to your stomach. You are not jealous of the woman beneath Tom’s arm, though you will admit it makes you feel uneasy - it’s the hypocrisy of it all that makes you seethe.

“Excuse me,” you mutter to no one in particular. Tom’s eyes slip away from yours as you put down your empty glass and turn, heading in the direction of an exit. You wander the vast, glittering ballroom for a few moments before spying a door embedded in the back wall that leads out into a dark alleyway.

When you step out onto the street, the cold February air seems to bring your tipsiness to the forefront of your mind. You giggle softly to yourself and wrap your arms around your chest, your fingers rubbing rapid fiery circles across your exposed flesh as you try to drum up a heat.

You lean back against the wall and stare up at the vacant sky. LA is too polluted to see the stars, but you like to imagine they’re staring down back at you. In the distance, you can hear the sounds of laughter coming out from the hall, and out at the end of the alley you can see the street, cloaked in dark paparazzi vans and dim amber street-lamps, but tucked away up here alone, you feel at peace.

“Cinderella runs away from the ball, yet again.”

You scowl. Your eyes move away from the dark blanket of clouds to see Tom. He’s ditched the glasses, but you can see the legs sticking out from the pocket sewn to the top of his suit.

“Joined by her ugly pumpkin.” You screw up your nose at your own words, cursing your fizzled mind for messing up the tale. “That’s not right, is it?”

Tom approaches you, his cheeks full of a rosy tipsiness. “Dunno,” he murmurs. “Think I like it better than being called your ugly sister, though.”

“Ew.”

You share a loud, unruly laugh with Tom, your voices mixing almost melodically. When you sigh, you lean further against the wall.

“I hate it in there,” you find yourself admitting. “So many people were talking about me behind my back. It’s like they think I can’t tell that they’ve just been discussing me when I walk over and the conversation falls silent.” You slot your fingers together and play around with your thumbs. “Everything is so fake. It’s like a game to them.”

A cool breeze floats down the alley, and you find yourself shivering.

“It is a game,” Tom says slowly, all whilst slipping off his suit jacket. He holds it out to you, raising an eyebrow when you shake your head. “It’s cold, Y/N. I know you’re stubborn, but neither of us wants you to freeze out here.”

The mood between you feels tender, and you let yourself accept his warm jacket. You throw it across your shoulders and feel the warm embrace of his suit, and the husky traces of cologne nestled to the fabric, but Tom’s looking at you with an intense gaze, and the sight of his golden browns draws you back to the scenes from inside the party.

“Saw you chatting with a woman inside,” you say, words a little sharper. “Trying to see how many times you have to try it on before someone bites?”

Tom flinches. The air fills with the sound of him clicking his tongue as he rubs his hands together. “You are so fucking petty, Y/N.”

You raise an eyebrow, responding to his clipped voice with surprise. “Hit a nerve, have I?”

He groans softly. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I shouldn’t swear at you. You just get under my bloody skin.”

You shrug. “You’ve said worse.”

“So have you.”

“Only because you deserve it.”

Tom’s bearing in on you again, but this time you feel more at ease. The scent of his cologne mixes with the sweet champagne that lays fresh across your palette, and it makes you feel delirious. You can’t stop yourself from reaching up and draping your hands across his shoulders, bringing him nearer.

“You drive me crazy,” Tom admits. His voice is husky, his eyes dark and intense. In the slight breeze, strands of his hair waft across his forehead.

“I can’t stand you,” you return. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as his hands dig into your waist. The rough render on the building behind you digs into your back as you loop your arms around Tom’s neck and bring him in closer.

“Neither can I, darling.”

It’s like magnetism - some sort of invisible force pulling you in before you can even fathom it. One moment you’re staring at Tom, scepticism in your eyes and anxiety thick in your chest, the next he’s surged forwards and captured your lips in a messy, sensational kiss. You gasp into his mouth, and your fingers tighten against the short hair at the nape of his neck as you kiss him back harshly. Your noses bump and your teeth collide as Tom grabs at your sides with fervour, and having him clutching at you is so hot that it takes your breath away. The kiss is messy and hurried, and it seems to melt down all the built-up tension and frustration you’ve been nurturing for years. It makes your head hurt, and all you can focus on is how crazy it is that you are kissing Tom Holland - and, horrifyingly, how much you don’t seem to hate it.

It comes crashing down when there’s a round of flashes, and you hear the telltale sound of paparazzi photographs.

“Shit!” You push Tom away from you immediately, your breath hitching as your head snaps down to the end of the alley. Unbeknownst to either of you, you’ve been spotted by the men with those large, invasive lenses. The flashes continue, and you turn away, your actions almost in slow motion as you feel a wave of nausea travel across your chest.

“Y/N!”

“Tom, Tom!”

“Are you dating?”

“Having a bit of fun tonight, Y/N?”

A chorus of cataclysmic yells come racing down the alley and the howls of the paparazzi mix with the loud sound of camera shutters.

“Fuck.” Tom grabs your arm, and he pulls you away from them, bringing you both back into the party. There’s a tightness in your chest as you gasp for breath, walking in dizzying strides as you card your fingers through your hair anxiously.

“No, no, no,” you mutter to yourself. You can hear the calls of the paparazzi ringing in your ears, and you dig your fingers into your temples for relief as you snap your head to glare at Tom. “Why did you just kiss me? What’s wrong with you?”

Tom looks pale, and his eyes are round with shock, but he still manages to stare at you incredulously. “You kissed me too?”

You bury your head in your hands. “This is it - this is the last straw. They’re going to have a field day with this.” You peek out at Tom through gaps in your fingers, laughing humourlessly. Your chest burns as you take in his disarmed expression and his deep chocolate eyes. “This is the end.”

“It… It was just one kiss.”

You shake your head furiously. “They’ll run with it. They’ll make a spectacle of us.” Your nails dig into the soft palms of your hands. “You are such an asshole.”

Tom’s mouth, a little red and puffy, twists into something of a snarl. “You kissed me! Why is this my fault?”

“It’s always your fault.” You pause and shake your head. You can’t help but fall back on the naive thought that this truly is all Tom’s fault. You’d been fine before him. You’d been looking into the starless sky. You’d been at peace. He’d just had to waltz on out and trick you into his lips. “Well, I hope you enjoy the end of your career.”

He raises a thin eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve been associated with me, which is the equivalent of getting a big black line scored right across your name.” You reach up and jerk his jacket from your shoulders, and roughly shove it back into Tom’s hands.

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“Really?” Your gaze hardens. “This is all just a game, Tom, don’t you see? We don’t get to decide who stays on top.” You laugh humourlessly, your tongue tasting sourly of champagne. “We have fucked up.”

Tom sets his jaw. One by one, he stuffs his arms through his suit jacket and tugs it back around his body, sinking into it forcibly. He pulls his glasses from the pocket and places them back on the bridge of his nose, balancing them crookedly.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Tom remarks, his voice cold and sharp. You briefly wonder if he understands the magnitude of the situation, and as he sweeps away without so much as a kiss on the cheek goodbye, you realise he probably does.

Without yet wholly understanding it, one drunken kiss has sealed your fate. As you stand there, twiddling with your thumbs in the back corner of the Vanity Fair party, your mind races. You know with absolute certainty that things will never be the same again, but not even your wildest dreams could compare to what is about to come.

buckle up bc I’m about to take us on a ride and a half. may as well have ended this with an ellipsis lmao.

↠ next part

any thoughts?! I am actually dying to know what you’re thinking lmao!! my askbox is open :D

taglist can be found in the series masterpost, which is the pinned post at the top of my blog

masterlist linked in my description

#tom holland #Tom Holland x reader #Tom Holland x y/n #Tom Holland imagine #Tom Holland series #Tom Holland fic #tfg #y/n #y/n use #self insert #self-insert #my writing

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