#if you can’t tell I’m terrified of spiders

[rosicheeks]

Did you go for round 3? 🤭

I was going to 😤

[buck-yyyy]

i feel Very Weird

[whatswrongwithblue]

Imagine Angel Dust questioning you on your sex life with Alastor

Part 2

“C’mon toots, you gotta give me something!”

“I absolutely do not,” you say stubbornly, turning away from the spider demon but he just scooted closer to you on the couch, practically looming over you.

“Pleeeaaase. I can’t figure the guy out. He’s all flamboyant and goofy one minute and then terrifying and menacing the next. How does that translate in bed? Is he a bottom? A switch? A top?” Angel leaned impossibly closer, his voice taking on a more conspiratorial tone. “Does he let you peg him?”

“Angel!” you exclaimed, leaning over the side of the couch to get away, “that is really none of your business! And he would rip your arms off if he heard you asking such things.”

Angel Dust huffed, frustrated, and folded both sets of arms across his chest, practically pouting.

“This is just unfair. I tell you so much about my work, I don’t hold anything back.”

“I wish you would,” you mumbled, recalling the last disturbingly detailed conversation you were forced to listen to. You still shuddered when you thought about your friend participating in “sounding” or “donkey shows.”

“Alright, well you gotta at least tell me this much,” he said, sitting back up and holding two hands up in front of him. “How big is the guy?”

You shook your head, trying to pull out your phone and ignore him.

“This big?” he asked, holding his hands out about 8 inches apart. “Or this big?” His hands got a couple inches farther apart. “Or, I know, he’s gotta be like THIS big, huh?” Angel’s hands were now over a foot apart from each other.

“Oh my God, don’t be gross Angel, that wouldn’t even fit inside of me.”

“Okaaaaaay,” Angel said with a smirk, “so not as big as some of the Hellhounds I gotta take up the ass.”

“Please stop,” you groan, burying your face in your hands.

“Not until you tell me something juicy about your boyfriend.”

“Ugggghh, seriously, fine,” you say, defeated, and Angel sat forward eagerly, “I mean you’ve obviously seen him shape shift into taller forms. So, let’s just say . . . he’s as big as he . . . or I . . . want him to be.”

“Hmmmm,” Angel said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not a lot to go off of but I think I like your way of thinking. So, like this big then?”

You didn’t even look over to see how far apart Angel’s hands were now.

“What’s the record for how many times he’s made you cum in one night?”

“Angel, you said you would stop!” you yelled, feeling a blush begin to heat up your face.

“A lot huh? Because that, my friend, is the face of a woman who’s lost count,” he said with a knowing smirk.

“I am not dignifying that comment with a response.”

“I’m just sayin,’ I’ve seen you first thing in the mornings. You have the look of a gal who’s well satisfied.”

“Well, I am,” you say, “but that’s all decency will allow me to say. Alastor is a very private man and you should respect that.”

“Decency Schmeecency,” Angel said, throwing himself back into the couch cushions and picking up his own phone, looking bored with the conversation now. “This is Hell, there’s no such thing.”

Relieved he seemed to be dropping the subject, you pick up your own phone and enjoy a couple minutes of silence to scroll through your Sinstagram feed.

“Oh fuck me!” Angel exclaimed, startling you and making you drop your phone.

“What?!”

“That guy has got tentacles!”

There was no stopping the rush of blood to your face then . . . or the little smirk you just couldn’t seem to stop, though you did try and look away.

“Ooooooooh, oh doll face, you can’t hide that look from me,” Angel said, practically crawling over the couch to invade your space once again, “he has totally used those on you, hasn’t he?”

You turned to look at Angel, another retort about privacy ready on your tongue, but your eyes widen in horror as you see two shadowy tendrils raising up behind your friend’s back.

Angel registered the look on your face and sat back an inch.

“Wha-“

The tentacles grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him back to his side of the couch, and holding him down.

“I believe the lady said something about decency,” Alastor’s staticky voice said from somewhere behind the couch and then his shadow rose up from the ground before solidifying into the full glory of his demonic form. His body unnaturally long, antlers spread out wide, he towered over the spider demon he had pinned to the sofa.

“S-s-sorry man,” Angel said with a loud gulp, “I was just kidding around, you know,” he tried to chuckle nervously. “I-it was just girl talk.”

“Alastor,” you said, unbothered by your lover’s terrifying demonic appearance, “let him go. He’s harmless.”

“Hmmm,” Alastor said, tilting his head, eyes glowing brighter as he put on a show of considering the prey he had trapped in his tentacles. “Fine.”

Alastor dropped the tentacles from around Angel and within a blink of an eye, was back to his usual form, straightening his bow tie and brushing off the sleeves of his jacket.

“Ready for our lunch date?” you said, bouncing up off the couch and coming to stand by Alastor, who smiled down at you and looped an arm through yours.

“Sounds lovely, darling,” he replied, guiding the two of you around the back of the couch and towards the front of the lobby. “I’m positively starving.”

At the word “starving,” Alastor leaned over the couch, his glowing, toothy expression letting Angel know just how close he had come to being the cannibal’s lunch.

Angel sank deeper into the couch cushions in submission, eyes wide and fixed on Alastor, as the two of you headed for the front doors.

Alastor opened the door, but you paused after stepping through, grabbing the handle and shooting your friend a mischievous smile and wiggling your eyebrows in a suggestive manner at him. It was your own way of confirming his last line of questioning before Alastor had interrupted. You watched Angel’s jaw drop open and then closed the door, leaving him to his imagination.

Husk, who had been silently watching the entire thing from his place at the bar, began laughing.

“Yeah, he totally fucks her with those things,” he said, before taking a swig from his beer bottle. “Did you see the way she looked at them? She was almost jealous when he had you pinned to the sofa.”

“Jesus Christ,” Angel said, still panting a little. “Yeah, I don’t blame her. That was hot as fuck.”

[pucksandpower]

Blackmail Material

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: you love your boyfriend more than life itself but who can blame you for keeping a folder of all the blackmail material he has given you over the years … just in case

You hear a bloodcurdling scream from the other room. “Y/N! Come quick!” Charles yells.

You rush over to find him standing on top of the couch, a look of sheer terror on his face. “What’s wrong?” You ask.

He points a shaky finger at the floor. “Sp-spider!”

You look down to see a tiny little spider no bigger than a blueberry crawling across the hardwood. You have to stop yourself from laughing at the sight of your brave Formula 1 driver boyfriend absolutely losing it over this tiny critter.

“Really? That’s what all the fuss is about?” You don’t bother to keep the amusement out of your voice.

“Don’t laugh!” He says indignantly. “It’s a monster! Kill it, please!”

You kneel down and take a closer look at the offending arachnid. “Aww, it’s just a little jumping spider,” you say. “It’s actually kind of cute.”

Charles makes a strangled sound of disbelief. “Cute? It’s a beast from the depths of hell! I want it gone!”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “You race cars at over 300 kilometers per hour, but you’re scared of a little spider barely bigger than a piece of lint?”

“Yes! Spiders are my worst fear. Now stop teasing me and get rid of it!” He gives you his best pleading look from his perch on top of the couch.

“Alright, alright,” you acquiesce, grabbing an empty glass from the coffee table. You gently trap the spider under it and slide a piece of cardstock underneath, trapping the spider safely.

“Is it dead? Please tell me you killed it,” Charles asks hopefully.

“Of course not, I’m just going to let it go outside. Spiders are good, they eat other bugs.”

Charles visibly shudders. “Well get it out of here! I don’t want to see it ever again.”

You carry the spider carefully to the sliding door and release it on the balcony. When you come back inside, Charles is still standing on the couch looking suspiciously around at the floor.

“The horrible beast has been banished, you can come down now,” you say.

He hesitantly steps back down onto the floor. “Are you sure it’s gone? You didn’t just give it free reign to run wild in the apartment?”

You try and fail to hold back a laugh. “Yes, I’m sure. Your life is no longer in peril.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “This isn’t funny! Spiders are evil creatures with too many legs and eyes. They should not exist.”

You go over and wrap your arms around him comfortingly, though you’re still struggling not to giggle. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. But you have to admit, it’s kind of silly that someone who races cars at death-defying speeds could be so terrified of a tiny spider.”

He huffs indignantly. “It’s a completely rational fear. They’re all legs and eyes and they move so fast and erratically and some of them can be venomous. Absolutely horrifying.”

You smile indulgently and kiss his cheek. “Okay, I get it. I promise I’ll protect you if any more evil spiders invade our home.”

“Thank you,” he says, finally relaxing into your arms now that the threat has passed.

But you just can’t resist teasing him a little more. “It was just so small!”

He pulls back and gives you an unamused look. “You’re not going to let this go anytime soon, are you?”

You grin impishly. “Letting my big macho boyfriend stand on the couch and scream because of a teeny tiny spider? Yeah, probably not gonna let you live this one down for a while.”

Charles groans. “This is so unfair. The guys will never let me hear the end of it if they find out.”

You pat his shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone that Charles Leclerc is terrified of itsy bitsy spiders.”

And if you happened to save evidence of his freak out just in case? Well … it’s not technically telling anyone unless you share the video.

***

You can’t help but grin as Charles paces back and forth in your New York hotel room, running his hands through his hair in distress.

“Chill out babe, I’m sure the airline will find your luggage soon,” you try to soothe him.

Charles whips around, eyes wide. “Chill out? How can I chill out when my La Mer is missing? Do you have any idea how long it took me to perfect my skincare routine?”

You stifle a laugh at his dramatics. “I mean, it’s just skincare products. Not the end of the world.”

“Just skincare products?” Charles looks at you in horror. “That’s like saying a Ferrari is just a car! La Mer is the cream of the crop, the holy grail of skin care! My face needs it to survive!”

You can’t hold back your grin anymore. “Wow, didn’t realize I was dating such a high maintenance diva,” you tease.

Charles huffs, crossing his arms. “I am not high maintenance, I just have discerning taste and an appreciation for quality.”

“Uh huh, sure,” you say. “Is that why you made us stop at three different Whole Foods on the way here from the airport until you found your favorite protein shake?”

“That is completely different,” Charles protests. “My skin is very sensitive, I can’t just use any old drugstore products.”

You laugh and pull Charles onto the couch next to you. “You’re cute when you pout.”

He tries to keep a straight face but ends up cracking a smile. “I can’t help it, I’m freaking out! Do you know how dry airplanes are? My skin is going to be a flaky desert by tomorrow.”

You run a hand through his hair. “Aww poor baby. However will you cope without your six hundred dollar moisturizer?”

Charles narrows his eyes at you. “You joke, but this is serious stuff. Do you want a boyfriend with wrinkles and acne?”

“I mean, a few wrinkles never hurt anyone,” you say, kissing his cheek.

He gasps dramatically. “Don’t even joke about that! I’ll be twenty seven soon, wrinkle prevention needs to start now.”

You shake your head in amusement. “Most twenty seven year olds aren’t this worried about wrinkles. But I guess Formula 1 drivers really are high maintenance.”

“With good reason! We can’t have crows feet interfering with our vision,” Charles says matter-of-factly.

You give him a look. “You’re just making things up now.”

Charles holds your hands, looking deeply into your eyes. “Mon amour, you must understand. Athletes age in dog years. We need anti-aging products just to keep up.”

You burst out laughing, shoving him playfully. “You’re so full of it!”

Charles grins cheekily. “But you love me anyway.”

You lean in and give him a soft kiss. “Yeah I do. Even if you are a high maintenance diva.”

Charles puts a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I thought girlfriends were supposed to be supportive! My skincare is obviously very important to me.”

You snuggle up next to him, running a hand through his hair. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Tell me all about this super special moisturizer.”

His eyes light up. “Well first of all it contains like crushed up diamonds or something. And they freeze each jar before shipping it to keep the ingredients ultra fresh.”

You make a mental note to Google this later, since it sounds completely absurd that diamonds would be an effective skincare ingredient. Though with Charles, you can never be too sure.

“Uh huh, diamonds. That’s totally normal,” you say, playing along.

“Exactly! And the founder makes sure each jar charges under the energy of a full moon before it’s sold. It’s really an intricate artisanal process.” Charles sighs longingly.

You smile and kiss his pouting lips. “You’re cute. I promise your skin will survive one night without magic moon diamonds.”

Charles snuggles against your shoulder. “I know, I know. Skincare is just part of my routine, it makes me feel relaxed and put together. And smelling like citrus blossoms is an added bonus.”

You kiss the top of his head. “I get that. Hopefully the airline finds your stuff soon. But in the meantime, want me to see if anyone sells La Mer nearby?”

Charles perks up. “Ooh yes, let’s check! I saw they have a Dior down the block too.”

You laugh and take his hand. “Of course they do. Come on, let’s go spoil you with new overpriced skincare products until yours turn up.”

***

You walk into the kitchen and see your boyfriend standing at the counter, a pile of uncooked spaghetti next to him. He takes a portion in his hand … which he proceeds to snap in half before dropping it into the pot of boiling water on the stove.

“Charles! What are you doing?” You exclaim in shock.

He turns to you, confused. “What do you mean? I’m just making sure the pasta will fit better in the pot.”

“But you can’t break spaghetti before cooking it!” You say incredulously. “That’s like a cardinal sin in Italy!”

Charles laughs. “Oh come on, it’s not that big of a deal. The pasta will cook just fine this way.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Il Predestinato is out here breaking pasta. Do you have any idea how offensive Italians would find this?”

“I’m sure they will survive the absolute tragedy of some broken spaghetti,” he jokes.

You nod to your phone. “It’s a good thing I’m recording this for posterity then. The whole country needs to know about this travesty.”

Charles’ eyes go wide. “What? No, don’t record me!” He reaches for your phone but you spin away, giggling.

“The people of Italy deserve to know the truth about their hero!” You declare dramatically.

“Mon ange, please give me the phone,” he pleads, trying to grab your arm. You dance out of reach.

“Truth and justice will prevail!” You continue recording as Charles chases you around the kitchen island.

“Come on, delete it! This could start an international incident if it gets out!”

You pause to catch your breath, phone held high. “An international inchident? Wow, look at you being all dramatic now. I thought it wasn’t a big deal?”

Charles runs a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I didn’t think you’d actually record it as blackmail material! Please, mon amour, I’m begging you, delete the video.”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmm I don’t know … this seems like prime viral video content. Scuderia Ferrari Driver Destroys Pasta, Enrages Italy. Can you imagine the views it would get?”

“Y/N!” Charles lunges forward and tackles you onto the living room couch. You shriek with laughter as he tries to pry the phone from your grip.

“Noooo my video!” You yell dramatically.

Charles pins your arms above your head with one hand and reaches for the phone with the other. “Give it to me!”

You squirm underneath him. “Never!”

He leans down until his face is just inches from yours. “What’s it going to take for you to delete that video, huh?” His voice is low and gravelly.

You catch your breath, hyper aware of his body pressing against yours. “I don’t know, what are you offering?” You ask cheekily.

Charles brushes his nose against yours. “What if I made you your favorite dinner tomorrow night?”

You tilt your chin up in defiance. “That’s all I get for deleting potential internet gold? I don’t think so.”

He moves even closer, his lips just barely grazing your cheek. “Okay, what if I take you out for a nice date too? Dinner and a show at the opera, your choice.” His breath is warm against your skin.

You close your eyes for a second, affected by his closeness but not ready to give in yet. “Tempting, but I think this video is worth even more than that.”

Charles makes a small noise of frustration before capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. You melt into it for a blissful moment before pulling back slightly.

“Well that’s certainly a start,” you murmur, your heart racing.

Charles lets go of your hands to cradle your face tenderly. “Mon cœur, please delete the video. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything.”

You search his eyes intently. “Anything?”

“Anything,” he confirms fervently before kissing you again, deeper this time.

You wrap your arms around his neck and give yourself over to the kiss. After several heated moments, you gently break away.

“Okay fine, I’ll delete the video on one condition.”

Charles looks at you warily. “Name it.”

“You have to let me drive your Ferrari.”

Charles groans and drops his head against your shoulder. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

You laugh and pat his head consolingly. “Those are my terms.”

He lifts his head to grin ruefully at you. “You drive a hard bargain. But for the sake of Italian nonnas everywhere, I accept your deal.”

You lift up your phone and pretend to wipe away a tear. “The souls of broken spaghetti can finally rest easy.”

Charles just shakes his head before leaning down to silence you with another deep kiss. As you lose yourself in the feeling of his body against yours, you quietly move the video into an encrypted folder. After all, you never know when it might come in handy.

***

You raise an eyebrow as you watch Charles carefully pour Red Bull into his Ferrari water bottle. “Do you buy those in bulk?” You ask with a laugh.

Charles gasps in exaggerated outrage. “Buy from the enemy? Never!” He screws the cap on tightly and gives you a sly grin. “Max and I have an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?” You echo in surprise. This is news to you.

Charles nods, looking pleased with himself. “Yes, a secret trade deal. I provide him cappuccinos from the Ferrari cafe and Max supplies me with as much Red Bull as I need.”

You burst out laughing. “Are you serious? You and Max smuggle each other contraband caffeinated drinks?”

“Shh, not so loud!” Charles glances around furtively, but the motorhome is empty except for the two of you. “It must remain a secret.”

Still chuckling, you lower your voice conspiratorially. “So the great Charles Leclerc betrays his team for energy drinks. The Tifosi would riot if they knew!”

Charles winces dramatically. “Do not say such things! It is not betrayal, merely �� creative problem solving.” He takes a long swig of Red Bull and grins. “The taste of the enemy is sweet.”

“I can’t believe you drink that stuff. And I can’t believe Max is your supplier!” You shake your head in amusement. “Does anyone else know about this arrangement of yours?”

“Only Lando. We needed a neutral third party to broker the deal and make the exchanges.” Charles leans in with a playful smile. “So do not be getting any ideas about exposing our scheme, yes?”

You mimic zipping your lips. “My lips are sealed … as long as you share some of that!”

Charles pretends to think about it for a second before breaking into a grin and handing you the bottle. The carbonated liquid fizzes pleasantly on your tongue, the familiar flavor mingling with the surrealness of drinking Red Bull from a Ferrari bottle. You take one more sip then hand it back to Charles.

“Just don’t let Fred or Christian find out,” you warn teasingly. “Pretty sure this counts as treason.”

Charles just laughs. “They turn a blind eye. The team knows I perform best when properly caffeinated.” He caps the bottle and adds, “But no more for you, ma belle. I only have a limited supply!”

You pout dramatically. “Fine, keep your precious Red Bull. I guess I’ll just have to tell everyone what’s really in your water bottle!”

The can of Red Bull that Charles rushes to give you tastes even sweeter than usual.

[love-bitesx]

I loveeeedd the last story Tysm ❤️❤️❤️ Keep up the amazing work 🌈

I have another request

Hobie x fem spider reader

Reader has a weird stalker ex-bf, and the reader tries to keep it a secret from Hobie but he finds out and deals with the ex.

: ̗̀➛ STALKER. hobie brown x fem!reader

any criminal minds fans out there … i hope u see the parallels of my baby spencer also i'm so sorry, i didn't see until after i wrote this entire thing that you said 'fem spider reader' so it's a fem normal reader, so sorry! i hope it's still okay, tho!! thank u sm for ur support angel !! summary: hobie & y/n have been doing long distance for months, but she never told him exactly why. words: 2.8k (the words just kept coming, sorry its so long lmao) warnings: fem!reader, pronouns not really used but "my girl", "lady", etc. are, read at your own risk! weird stalker bf, creepy fella, hobie n y/n are long distance, very very soft hobie

“when can i call you next, darlin’?” hobie’s voice was laced with longing, bass distorted by static at the other end of the phone.

“if you’re quick, we can call tomorrow after 5,” you smiled, and if you were in an 80’s romcom, you’d be twisting the phone cord between your fingers.

“5pm it is, don’t be late,” you can hear his smirk, and a bolt of guilt strikes your chest.

“look, i need to ask something, and i think i already know the answer,” hobie speaks, and you bite your lip in anticipation, “the band and i are playing at a new venue tomorrow, it’s the biggest we’ve played, we’re all dead excited, and…”

a sigh.

“well, it won’t feel the same without you there, pretty.”

if the first bolt wasn’t enough, then the second one lived up to it, striking you into the dead center of your heart. it had been well over 6 months since you met hobie. well, “met”. you’d accidentally called the wrong number one day, meaning to contact a friend of a friend, but typing the last number wrong. picking up at the other end was a deep, almost mesmerising voice, telling you; “no bother, darlin’. it happens, just make sure not to lose this number, wanna hear more from ya.”

“hobie, you know i can’t,” your voice is brimming with remorse and you look to the ground.

“i know, shit with your parents, i get it," he tried hard to hide the disappointment, but his heart twanged with neglect and it creeped through into his words.

parents. strict, all-demanding 'parents'. that's what you told hobie when you first started dating, that the reason you aren't able to see him was because your mother was overbearing and extremely protective – it was a lie. a lie that was eating you up from the inside out. the truth was slightly more grim, however.

years ago, you got involved with a guy at work. a couple brief conversations turned into dates, and dates turned into anniversaries, anniversaries turned into toxic, violent arguments and after a long time of dating, you broke up with him. to say he took it badly, was a criminal understatement. threatening phone calls, showing up at your work, sending you gifts and menacing letters – his signature move was scaring off, and even once harming, any man or potential love interest that you interacted with. it was exhausting, and terrifying.

and hobie was different. he was sweet and kind, but rough around the edges, and his voice dripped in passion no matter the topic of conversation. his promises were never empty, and most importantly – he loved you. and you loved him. the last thing you wanted, was your ex to pop up and scare him off, so you kept it from him. limiting your relationship to phone calls at arranged times incase your ex was keeping tabs.

“i’m sorry, hobie,” is all you could muster, not even scratching the tip of the catastrophic iceberg that wedged the back of your throat.

“it’s okay, darlin’, don’t worry that pretty little head over it,” and just like every phone call, you melted into his words, “i love you, yeah? i’ll call you tomorrow at 5.”

“i’ll be waiting,” you smiled, cheeks flushed at his gentle affirmations, “i love you.”

with a ruckus of movement, and what sounded like a kiss, the call ended, and you stared at the screen silently for a moment. not much longer could you avoid it, and the malten bubble of dread spilled into your gut.

sending him a quick text:

‘good luck tomorrow, handsome. what’s the venue called again? you’ll do amazing x’

you turned off your phone, discarding it on the bed as you climbed into the hole of guilt you’d dug yourself.

“oi, you ready, blud?” hobie’s band mate yelled above the bustle and cheers from the crowd before them. large, bejewelled hands poised onto his guitar strings, he smirked.

“always.”

with a nod to the roadie, the lights went up, illuminating the stage and instruments, hobie's glowing with a harsh red tint. immediately, his sepia eyes digested the crowd. seeing the flushed, excitable faces staring back at him sent a shot of confidence to his bones, and they moved, strumming the guitar with such vigor that the stage floor shook beneath his feet. cheers erupted, and yet felt oddly empty. it was missing something, and he knew what it was immediately.

he'd truly give his all to have you there, front stage in his eyeline, screaming his songs like gospel. not that he'd ever seen you properly, only seeing teasing selfies you'd sent him over the months you'd been together. he didn't care, inherently, he'd fallen head over heels for your personality; a pretty face was only just a bonus.

however, he did yearn for your touch. to feel his hands in your hair, to kiss your cheek, your nose, your neck. he longed to have you with him, even just doing stupid little tasks, having you by his side through the domestic side of life.

his gall spurred him on, his passion surging through his fingertips, spilling out into the sound waves. the audience were lapping it up, screams and chants only barely audible under the booming power of their set. song, after song, after song his talented blood seeped out onto the strings, and his feet were almost numb from the vibration of the bass.

the final song arrived, and his chest was burning, vision blurry, heart pounding against his chest – and he loved it. it was their biggest crowd, their most excitable achievement so far, and his blood pumped with adrenaline as he finished off the set, falling to his knees as he strum his guitar with one final chord. lights falling, his chest was heaving and his eyes scanned the audience one final time – you weren’t there. he had to accept that.

“that was fuckin’ sick, blud!” his bassist yelled as they exited the stage, palm slapping hobie’s shoulder blade and elicited a wide, ecstatic grin.

“you smashed it, mate,” hobie shouted back over the booming stereo that took their place.

“nah, man, you stole the show,” his bassist shook his head, patting him again in appreciation, “good that your lady’s here to see it, too, she must be proud.”

“i wish, mate,” he sighed.

“did you not see her?” his ears perked up, and at his confused expression, his bandmate continued, “over at the back, by the bar, i didn’t know what she looked like, but she was asking after you. ‘er story adds up.”

"shit," he mutters, feet solid on the ground. his heart pounds, skeptical of your presence, but chest bursting with hope that it just might be you, "look, bro, i need to–"

"go! go, man, go see her," his bandmate pushes him in the direction of the bar, and he almost stumbles over his own feet to push the stage door open, met with the chaos of the crowded bar.

dark eyes scanning the aimless faces, he searched for anyone who could look like you; his stature brought him above everyone else, only by a little, but gave him an advantage to seek you out.

"sorry, i need to get past," he repeated, over and over to unassuming bodies, setting through the chaos to find his peace. pushing out at the back, a wave of light met him, shining through empty pint glasses and illuminating the bar.

there you were.

standing quietly, head nodding along to the blasting instrumentals, drink in hand; you were heart-stopping. and he was pretty sure his did. even if he’d never seen you face-to-face, he’d memorised the soft plump of your lips, alluring light in your eyes, even the way your hair fell against your skin from the photos he'd seen. there was no doubt it was you, and my god, you were beautiful. he couldn’t even stop his legs if he tried, as they carried him over to you.

"y/n?" his voice barely travelled through the sound waves, but it hit your ear like a familiar embrace.

turning to him, eyes wide and bright in the twinkling of the bar lights. you drunk him in, warm eyes swallowing every part of him. you'd seen pictures, again, but it could never compare to him. dark brown skin, soft to its complexion, hugged his bones in every perfect way; folding at the creases of his handsome face. he was tall, very tall, and the detail of the curves and indents of his muscles, altered by the shadows of the dim bar light, made your head fuzzy. god, he was beautiful – nothing that a digital screen could ever portray with justice.

"hobie," your voice was crisper than he was used to, and he would bottle it if he could, "hey, handsome, you got a–"

"come 'ere," he interrupted, essentially scooping you into his tense embrace, melting into your scent, the feel of you in his arms. his heart was pounding against his chest. you wrapped yourself around him, running your hands along his leather jacket, ghosting the skin below it.

"you interrupted my introduction," you pouted against his shoulder, "had a whole little joke planned and everything, you know."

"go on, hit me, love," he pulled back a tiny bit, his arms still glued around your waist, looking down through his lashes. you faltered under his intense gaze, giddy smile bursting onto your face and you buried your head in his chest.

"nuh uh, not anymore," you shook your head against him, "you ruined it."

his hand came up to touch your face whilst you spoke, following the edge of your hairline and tucking your hair around your shoulder. he was in awe, having you here, having you with him. tightening his embrace, he didn't want to let you go – ever.

"mhmm," his voice vibrated his chest, and you pulled away, "i'm sure it was hilarious, love."

"it really was," you chuckled, giddy in his presence.

the air grew thicker, your laughter dying out and left with just his strong gaze, his dark brown eyes following yours. you could barely comprehend him being here, in front of you, around you, and he was so much more than you had imagined. feeling his calloused hand caress your cheek, you leaned into his touch, inviting him into your world. cupping your face, hobie bought himself to you, leaning down until his pierced lips were ghosting your own. months he'd dreamed of this, imagined how it would feel to kiss his girl, to taste your lips and feel your love. he could feel your breath, and you were about to give in, until you pulled away.

"wait, i–" you swallowed thickly, pulling your touch from him.

"what's up, darlin'?" his eyes scanned your face for any sign of reason, "did i do somethin'?"

"no! no, you," you sighed, "you're perfect, it's not you."

he'd be lying through his teeth if he denied the pit of anxiety building deep in his stomach, bubbling up his throat.

"what is it?"

"i–" you stuttered again, and fought to get your words out of your brain and into the thick air of the bar, "i haven't been telling you the truth."

silence. just for a second. hobie's brain working over time.

"look, if you've got another fella, or somethin', just get it over with–"

"no! no, hobie, i'm yours, i promise," your words settled him for a second.

"my parents don't care about us, they aren't strict, in fact, they were happy when i told them about you," you begun, opening the dam.

"they know about me?" his voice was smaller than you were used to, and if your brain had a spare synapse to process it, you'd probably have melted.

"yes, and i'm sorry i haven't told you," you avoided his eyes, "it's my ex."

"oh, fuckin' 'ell," he sighed, dropping his arms to his side, and he's about to speak, until you interrupt.

"we broke up years ago, but he's never left me alone," you ring your wrists with your hands nervously, and hobie notices – you looked terrified, "i've tried everything; i've tried the police, i've moved countless times, i've changed jobs, made new friends, met new people – he won't leave me be."

tears welled up now, and his heart reached for you, but his arms stayed stuck by his side.

"every guy that i meet, he's, i don't know, calling them telling them i'm someone i'm not, or following them home and slashing tires, or roughing them up outside pubs," paranoia enveloped you, and your eyes darting around the crowd, "i was so scared, because you're the best i've ever had, and probably will ever have, and i don't want him to scare you off."

"y/n–"

"and i understand if this has done exactly what i'm scared of, because i get that keeping it from you was awful, but i was only trying to protect you and–"

his lips cut you off, warm against your own, capturing your words and pushing them back down your throat. hands on your cheeks, body flush against your own, you melted into him completely. it felt like heaven, like months of tension and longing unravelling like ribbon into the wind. it was safe, gentle, like a promise – a promise that it didn't scare him, and that he was yours.

"is he here?" his voice was low, lips hovering yours.

"i-i don't know," you were flustered, your brain trying to make sense of it all, but his hand on the small of your back stopped any cognitive thoughts, "i haven't seen him."

watching him, hobie's dark eyes floated around the crowd, before falling back onto you. smirk on his lips, he placed a quick peck onto your cheek.

"hmm, i hope he enjoyed the show," he chuckled lowly, and you couldn't help but mimic it, relief flooding off your shoulders, "how about we go somewhere a bit safer?"

"like where?" you questioned, intrigued by the coaxing tone of his voice.

"well, i only live around the corner," he shrugged, before offering his hand. blushing, you slipped your hand into his, the soft skin of his fingers pulling you towards him, until he threw his arm around your shoulder.

"nothing could scare me off, you know," he whispered, placing a kiss to your hair, "i'm 'ard as nails."

"oh yeah?" you giggled.

"mhmm."

clothed eyes glued to the suspicious figure, hobie stood on a rooftop, footsteps silent as he follows the man below. tailing him through the cobbled back lanes of london, hobie's back tingled with apprehension – he'd been following him for at least a mile, waiting for a perfect opportunity.

and he'd finally found it.

pausing his heavy stroll, the man dug into his pockets and pulled out a slightly crushed pack of cigarettes, fumbling further for a lighter. a small orange glow lit up the air around him as he puffed away, smoke fluttering to meet hobie's nose.

silently, hobie swung to a platform below, pulling his guitar tighter against his back and dropped to the hard ground. the sound of his leather boots colliding with the cobble made the man turn in his direction, eyes wide at the sight.

"spiderman?" the man breathed between puffs, voice hoarse, "can i help you?"

"you know what, i think you can," hobie strutted, hands stuffed into his leather jacket, lanky stance towering him, "are you y/n's ex fella?"

"who's asking?" he questioned stupidly, and hobie let out a laugh.

"bruv, who's– are you stupid or somethin'?" hobie punched him lightly in the shoulder, "do you not see the whole get up?"

"the fuck have you got to do with y/n?" he spat, defensive stance taking over his body.

"none of your business," hobie knew that would sting, "but you're gonna leave her alone, fella."

"you don't know what you're talking about."

"i'm not askin', mate," hobie stepped closer, "and i'm not givin' you a choice."

before he could even utter a response, hobie had swung his spike-studded arm in his direction, knuckles colliding against the pathetic man's jaw, knocking him to the ground below.

"tha's my girl you're messin' with now."

[luveline]

hiii could I please request miguel walking in on reader crying in secret?? ty!! :)))

thank you for requesting! fem!reader, 1.2k

It takes Miguel half an hour to fix your spider suit, but when he picks his head up from his work desk with a brag waiting on his lips, you aren’t there. He hadn’t noticed you slinking away. Perhaps he should’ve, given his fantastic sixth sense and his habit of awarding you special attention, just you’re quiet when you want to be. 

He sends you a short message through his wristwatch. Where are you? delivered 7:58PM. 

No response. Miguel folds your suit into a square and holds it under his arm, flicking off his workbench light as he rolls his neck from one side to the other. He wanted to finish the repairs before nightfall so as not to disrupt your routine. He quite likes your routine together. In a stressful life, time spent with you is peace he doesn’t deserve. You aren’t a peaceful girl, of course, you’re his idiot, but he knows the stark difference of having you versus not having you. 

He can’t track you without your suit on and your watch he’d found in the laboratory (you should not be taking it off), but he can ping your phone. 

You’re in the building still, at least. 

He texts you. Where did you go? I fixed your suit. It’s dinner time soon. 

Loosely translated, it means, Why did you leave? We always eat dinner together. 

Miguel sighs and decides to check the most obvious places first. The alcove of the hallway leading to the laboratory where you like to hide, the arts lounge, the atrium where your friends hang out, and the outdoor area right at the surface of the society. By 8:30PM he’s agitated wondering where you’ve gone, because he should probably know, but he’s not a great boyfriend and you’re not always as honest as you claim. You could be anywhere. You could be with someone nicer. 

He’s pissed. With no choice but to admit defeat, he decides he’ll head up to bed (he’s not going to bed, he’s gonna find you, because you can go wherever you like whenever you like but it’s been a long time since you disappeared without telling him). He cares about you too much, even if he wishes sometimes he didn’t. Not because of you. 

He sulks into the apartment (his apartment, your apartment, you were never supposed to live with him but here you tend to stay), throwing his phone and command pod onto the made sheets of the bed. 

The shower drips in the bathroom. He can hear the plink of water dripping onto the floor, a slow, dysrhythmic pattering. Two seconds, a drop. Three seconds, your breathing. 

He startles. You’re shuddering, a sharp inhalation, that strange sound you make when you’re overwhelmed without being smothered by his shoulder. “Stop,” you say under your breath. Another harsh breath, and a pained whine to follow. 

Miguel has never crossed a room so quickly. For a moment he thinks there must be someone else there, not a fully realised theory but an instinct —you’re telling someone else to stop, because someone is hurting you, because you aren’t alone. But he can hear only your heart, and your breath. So he stops cold by the door without bursting in and forces himself to knock. 

“Mi cielo?” he asks, aiming for tenderness, roughness seeping through. He knocks the door. “I’m coming in, okay?” 

Miguel doesn’t realise the door is locked until he’s cracked the doorframe. 

You stare at him in shock. Tears fall fast but quiet down your cheeks, thick streams of them, the kind to accompany gutted sobbing. 

“What’s wrong?” he says, his chest falling. “What’s wrong? Y/N, tell me. Tell me,” he prompts, secretly terrified at your tears and your quiet. He sounds demanding instead. 

“I’m fine,” you say.

“No you’re not.” He speaks before you can deny it again, not sure what to make of your teary voice or the way you’re smiling; trying to hide. 

“It’s okay–”

“It’s not okay, mi cielo,” —he takes your hand if only to be touching you— “you're crying.” 

“You weren’t supposed to see,” you say, closing your eyes. 

Tears squeeze their way out unbidden. Miguel reaches to his right for the toilet paper and pulls off a few sheets, bundling them in his palm. Careful, hesitant, he brings the corner to your face and begins to dry your tears from your cheeks, your chin, the wet line running down to your t-shirt and then back to your eyes. He shushes you as you shudder, “Shh, lovely. Everything will be fine. Everything… Todo va a estar bien.” 

“It’s fine,” you whisper tightly. 

“It’s fine,” he echoes, much more kindly, though he’s no closer to understanding why you’d locked yourself away to cry so intensely. “Tell me what’s wrong, yes? You tell me what’s upset you.” 

“It’s nothing–”

You try to persuade him but end up sounding even more upset than you had, shaking your head from his touch, receding backward toward the sink. 

“Why won’t you talk to me?” he asks gently. 

“It’s so stupid, Miguel, you weren’t supposed to know.” 

He’d say it was unlike you to be secretive with your feelings. You love loudly, tease louder. You’re spirited and petulant when you feel like it and you’re constantly barraging him with cheerfulness he doesn’t deserve, so why doesn’t your unwillingness to share this with him surprise him? 

“But I know now,” he says, bending to be your height, to meet your tired eyes, “and I want to know what’s wrong so I can make you feel better. Can you let me do that?” 

“I don’t feel very well.” 

Miguel can only handle so much. He uses some of his added strength to wrap you up in a full body hug, your toes struggling to stay on tiptoes and then completely off the ground as he leans back under your weight. “I know,” he says, though he hadn’t, “it’s okay, cariño, I’m here. I’m gonna take care of you.” 

You’re all softness in your off-duty clothes. The rolled neck of a worn t-shirt, your naked arm curling behind his neck and your thighs to his. He doesn’t keep you up for more than a few seconds, just enough to take your weight and hopefully save you the energy it’s taking to stay upright. You sag against him as your socks touch down again. He’s the one thing keeping you standing, and he doesn’t mind. You should know that already. 

“Please,” he says emphatically, “don’t cry by yourself. You have to let me know.” 

“Sorry.” 

He moves his head from one side to another slowly, his nose rubbing along your hairline. “Don’t be sorry. But if I don’t know, how am I supposed to fix it for you?” 

“You shouldn’t have to.” 

“Are you kidding?” He encourages your head back tenderly to meet your eyes. “That’s what we do, hmm? What do you think?” 

You smile. Still sad, still watery-eyed, but a real smile. “Yeah.” 

“Alright. Let’s go sit down, okay? I’ll get you a drink.” 

“So weird,” you murmur. 

“I’m weird?” 

“You’re being really nice to me.” 

Miguel squeezes your arm. “Don’t get used to it, Spider-Girl.” 

[teenidlegirl]

⠀⠀⠀౨౿  ׅ ۟   ֪ 𝓑eauty 𝓞f 𝓣his 𝓜ess⠀♡⠀𝓒hapter 𝓕our ۪ ׂ   𓈒 ୭

꒰⠀⠀⟡⠀.⠀military!miguel⠀𝓍⠀fem!neighbor!reader⠀.⠀⟡⠀⠀꒱

⠀ ᰦ 󠄀 ྀ .⠀♥︎⠀summary.⠀you encounter a few problems in your apartment. luckily, your handy next door neighbor comes to your rescue. his kindhearted actions keeps leaving you speechless.

⠀ ᰦ 󠄀 ྀ .⠀♥︎⠀content.⠀fluff, swearing, pet names, tension, little angst, reader has arachnophobia (a little self-indulgent), terrible military knowledge, backstories, miguel is a sweetheart

❛⠀ previous chapter⠀⋅⠀masterlist⠀⋅⠀next chapter ⠀❜

a quiet saturday to relax.

the gloomy weather as a cherry on top. gray, puffy clouds covering the sky. gentle breezes passing by, flowing through the trees. the forecast said it would rain later in the afternoon. oh it’s just perfect.

the perfect weather to snuggle on the couch with a blanket wrapped around you, a few snacks on the coffee table, watching your favorite movie or show, and luna laying beside you. the perfect day off.

as you head to the bathroom and turn on the light, there is a thick black spider in the corner of the ceiling. you let out a terrified scream like you’ve seen a horrifying monster. well, technically spiders are horrifying creatures to look at. not to mention your terrible case of arachnophobia. you’ve hated spiders since you were a child. while playing outside with the neighbor kids, a spider was crawling on your arm and you screamed bloody murder.

you’ve been traumatized since.

when you lived with your parents and roommates in college, someone else would kill the spider when you found one. they were understanding, although they would pick fun at you sometimes.

but now, as a young adult living on her own, there’s a fucking spider in your bathroom and the entire floor must’ve think you’re being murdered.

luna is barking and running up to you as you bolted out the bathroom. she barks when you’re scared. you try calming her down so your neighbors don’t get upset while your heart is pounding like a fucking drum. blood pressure through the roof.

you screamed so damn loud that someone is knocking on your door.

oh fuck.

the last thing you want is an upset neighbor and might dial 911 for a ridiculous misunderstanding.

approaching and opening the door with shaky hands, your next door neighbor stands in front of you with the biggest concerned look on his face.

“what happened? are you hurt?” he sounds a bit breathless. eyes filled with panic and chest heaving.

a huge wave of embarrassment hits you, making you grimace. you were right, your neighbor believes you are screaming bloody murder.

“no no, i’m fine. it’s just— oh god.” you groan, that wave of embarrassment hitting you like a fucking brick. a hand covering your face, rubbing the temples of your forehead frustratingly.

his frown deepens, growing more concern. miguel was about to repeat the two questions but you manage to speak up again.

“i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to scare you, i just—“

“what happened?” he sounds more serious, desperately wants to know the issue.

you close your eyes and inhale a deep breath, preparing to embarrass yourself in front of your next door neighbor. “there’s a big ass spider in my bathroom and i freaked out.”

you spit it out so quickly that you believe he can’t understand at first, but he did.

a big weight was lifted off his chest. the panic leaving his body. you aren’t hurt, that’s good. his expression relaxes a bit but his brows remain furrowed.

a spider scared you, seems natural.

but the scream you made tells him that you are deadly afraid of it. a scream that made his heart stop. miguel never bolted out his apartment so quickly.

“do you need me to kill it?”

you finally look up at him, taken aback by his offer. “oh- no, it’s okay. i’ll probably just spray poison.”

from a great distance, you thought.

“i’ll kill it so you’ll feel safer.” miguel insists.

did this man just make your heart skip a beat for the millionth time?

yes, he did.

you shake your head. “no, it’s okay, seriously. i don’t wanna bother you with my stupidity.”

“hermosa, leaving you alone with a spider that made you scream will bother me.”

how is this man so fucking nice?

you also don’t miss the new pet name, making your cheeks more warm than they already are.

a hinge of guilt lingers in your heart. this man has fixed enough of your problems, he can’t fix more. especially a stupid one like this one. although he did insist on you asking him for help when needed. and you know he won’t stop insisting until you give up.

with a quiet sigh, you accept. “alright…”

moving to the side, you allow him to enter your apartment once again. you show miguel to the bathroom, stopping in front of the door. you offer him the poison but miguel insists toilet paper is enough. his hand will finish the job. although, he still takes the poison as extra precautions.

miguel notices the hesitation and fear illustrated on your face. the noticeable distance you set yourself between the bathroom door. your hands folded together and pressed against your chest, a sign of fear. the sight makes him frown.

he also noticed the lack of eye contact. miguel can sense the embarrassment and it’s completely understandable. he doesn’t blame you one bit.

although, he does wish to see your eyes for a second.

as miguel heads into the bathroom to deal with the bitch ass spider, leaving the door closed so you don’t witness it, you remain outside waiting anxiously. scooping up luna in your arms and holding her for comfort. the harsh thud makes you jump a little.

miguel killed it. bless him.

you hear the toilet flushing as miguel exits the bathroom. the bitch is gone for good.

“it was hideous.” he says amusingly.

you softly chuckle. “yeah, thank you.”

“of course. you okay, now?”

“yeah now that the bitch is gone.” that earns you a soft chuckle from him. “sorry for scaring you, you probably thought i was murdered or something.”

“you did sounded terrified but i’m glad you weren’t hurt. it’s okay, don’t feel bad about it.”

“my bad case of arachnophobia explains it all.” a soft, awkward chuckle escapes your lips.

he frowns ever so slightly, lightly nodding. “it’s understandable. if there’s a spider, don’t hesitate to call me over.” miguel said sincerely.

this man keeps making your heart flutter with his sweet acts of service and kindness.

walking back to the living room, you past by your bookshelf which miguel stops in front of when he notices one of the shelves is slightly crooked.

“you need a new shelf.”

his statement makes you turn around, glancing at the crooked shelve. “oh- well, it isn’t that bad. it seems fine.” you shrug.

miguel looks at you with a disbelief expression. “fine? chica, the poor shelf is on the verge of breaking.” he gestures at the shelves. “those books will fall.”

you wave off with a hand. “it’s fine, give it three more months then it will collapse.”

to you, it really did seem like it was just slightly misplaced and can still manage.

to miguel, the shelve looks like on its last brink considering the amount of books on it.

you have a lot of books, he thinks to himself.

it’s not a bad thing. people have their hobbies. it’s just fascinating to him. miguel wonders how many books do you read in a week? or maybe even a day?

“give it three more seconds and it will collapse.” he said. “let me fix it for you.”

you simply blink at him, surprised. “no, you don’t have to. you already killed a spider for me, you don’t have to do anything else for me. plus, that isn’t a big a issue so don’t worry.”

“hermosa, do i have to remind you that you can always come to me for help?”

okay, again with the new pet name.

it makes you weak.

“ya sé, but that i don’t need help with that shelf. at least not now, it’s perfectly fine.” you said nonchalantly.

one of his thick brows quirks, a deadpan look settled on his features. “i’m two seconds away from walking back to my apartment to grab my tool box.”

this man really never backs down. there’s really no need for him to fix that dumb little shelf for you. it does look fine, to you at least. but your heart can’t deny his kindness and you know he offered to fix things for you. for free, as a reminder.

there’s no point of arguing because it’ll waste both your time. in the end, you accept his help, causing miguel to break into a little smile.

how could you say no to that smile?

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ┈ ୨ ₊ ┈ ౨ৎ   ┈ ₊ ୧   ┈

miguel is fixing your shelf and you’re in the kitchen cooking dinner. he’s been too invested in fixing it to realize you’re making dinner for you both. that’s how you’re repaying him, he just doesn’t know it yet.

“your shelf is fixed.”

pausing the cooking, you quickly walk over and see the now fixed shelf. not that crooked anymore.

“thank you.” you flash him a smile, he hums in return.

you return to the kitchen, miguel following you curiously after putting away the tools in the box, placing it on the marble counter.

“¿qué estas haciendo?” miguel asks softly beside you, peeking at what you’re cooking.

“teriyaki chicken, one of my favorites.”

“qué rico.” the smell of the sauce invades his senses, causing his stomach to rumble a little.

you feel him stepping away, turning around to see miguel about to put on his shoes.

“adondé vas?”

“home.”

“you’re not leaving without food.”

he quirks a brow amusingly before lightly shaking his head. “i appreciate it, chica but i’m okay, gracias.”

“you helped me today so i’m repaying you with food.” you place your hands on your hips, standing in sassy posture. “i ain’t taking no for an answer.” you smirk.

the hint of authority in your tone intrigues him. his lips match yours. he got a hint of your sass at the bar with all your friends that night. to see your true self, sassy and interesting sense of humor yet caring. just so authentic with some sass, miguel was intrigued.

that’s why he couldn’t stop admiring you that night.

he was given the privilege to see the other side of you, the true side. you aren’t just his neighbor.

“pues… i can’t say no to that smell.” he smirks, eliciting a soft laugh from you.

after serving yourselves, you offer to do it for him since he’s a guest but miguel kindly insists he’ll do it himself and to not worry, you sit at your little dining table across from each other.

“wow… that was the best teriyaki chicken i’ve ever had.” miguel gently wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“oh you’re being too nice now.” you playfully roll your eyes, unable to hide your smile.

“en serio.” he smiles. “it was really delicious. it’s different from other ones i’ve had, it was incredible.”

you shake your head, smiling. “well, kudos to my mom. she makes it the best.”

“she’d be very proud.”

the comment warms your heart.

“reading is your hobby, huh?” he asks.

you nod. “since i was a kid. it relaxes my mind, especially after a long ass day at work.”

“favorite genre?”

“murder mystery, or sci-fi.”

“i noticed the amount.” he gestures at the bookshelf.

“can’t help it, they’re that good.” you chuckle.

miguel chuckles as well. “i don’t doubt it.”

“is building things your hobby?” resting your elbow on the table, you place your chin in your palm.

“robotics club, remember?” a smirk on his face. “still do, when i’m not away.”

“you said you served 9 years, verdad?”

“sí and still counting.”

“what made you decide to sign up, if you don’t mind me asking?”

miguel goes silent for a few seconds. you notice how his eyes immediately tear away from yours. the way his shoulders tensed for a moment.

oh fuck, was that too personal?

you’re about to apologize but he finally speaks.

“my brother wanted to, i signed up with him.” miguel reveals. “he always wanted to join the military since we were kids. he wanted to be a soldier, like the bucket o’ soldiers from toy story. i couldn’t let him out of my sight so signed up with him.”

your heart warms at the adorable story. “brothers stick together, huh? that’s cute.”

the corners of his lips twitch ever so slightly, not a complete smile like before. “este güey, pinche loco. couldn’t leave him alone for 5 seconds without him getting his ass busted.”

“the glories of having younger siblings.” you chuckle.

miguel nods. “you too?”

“no, i’m actually the youngest.” you laugh softly. “i wasn’t getting my ass busted, though.”

that elicits a chuckle from him. “how many?”

“two, a brother and sister. my sister is the oldest.”

as you tell him stories about you and your siblings, you realize miguel never mentioned his brother’s name. you’re curious to know.

“oh by the way, you never told me your brother’s name.”

you notice his shoulder tense again, seems hesitant to answer your question. it worries you a little. each time you mention his brother, he tenses.

“gabriel.” he reveals.

a nice name.

“it seems like your mom really liked the ‘el’ part.” you joke, softy chuckling.

silence follows after, making you look at him to see the solemn look on his face. his gaze on the empty plate in front of him instead your own.

fuck, you might’ve pushed it too far.

what’s going on with you tonight?

“i’m sorry, that was rude of me to say—“

“don’t be, please.” miguel quickly reassured you. “it’s true, she did like the ‘el’ part. she did like matching things with each other, even with her own kids.” he offers a kind, small smile. his gaze back on yours.

his smile makes you feel a little better. you offer one of your own, sharing gentle smiles.

glancing at the two empty plates, you reach to collect his plate but miguel grabs it and yours, standing up from his seat.

“wait, i got it—“

“don’t worry, chica. i can take them for you.”

“you’re a guest, you shouldn’t have to.” you try to take the dirty plates from him but miguel slowly moves them out from your reach.

“you cooked for me, i should wash them.” he insists in a gentle manner.

“es mi casa, i’m the one who should wash them.”

“at least let me help you.” miguel pleads.

you really insist that he shouldn’t since he’s a guest but you know arguing over a topic that doesn’t need to be argued about is unnecessary.

you accept his help but only to pass the dishes, you still insist on washing them. miguel simply laughs at your stubbornness but agrees, saying as long as he gets to help you. plus, you can’t deny that smile.

once the dishes are done, it’s time for miguel to return to his home considering it’s dark outside.

“thanks for your help today.”

“siempre. your dinner was delicious, gracias.”

“be expecting that more often.” you smirk.

“you don’t have to, chica.”

“i want to, it’s my gratitude.”

miguel can’t help but chuckle, appreciating your kindness. luna slowly approaches him, her tail wagging as she sniffs at his feet.

“she likes you.” you glance down at her with a smile.

“i’m glad she approves.” he jokes.

you say goodnight each other, thanking miguel one last time before he leaves. you close the door once you see him enter his place. scooping luna in your arms and shutting off everything in the kitchen, you head to your room for the night.

just as you past by, you stop in front of the bookshelf. you stare at the newly built shelf miguel did for you today. the sight and memory makes the corner of your lips curl up into a smile.

a memory you won’t forget.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. ♡ @reverieblondie @nina-from-317 @kavimoo @aly29a2001 @marshhbs @lazyjellyfish300 @tojishugetiddies @aphinthestars @novelaaaaaaaa @imamexican @obessgurlll @deputy-videogamer @watertribeissuperior @lovehadlovelost @auiciqa @agoddoesnotplead @saintdiior @whoopwhoppghost @tomalymme @skadiloki @miguelsfavwife @asterrrrose @glossygreene @aefin @youcantseem3 @resident-clown @kutsipie @zuevcs @totorotales-08 @meowgirl1 @sukunash0e @jadeloverxd @sirendyes

⠀ ᰦ 󠄀 ྀ .⠀♥︎⠀note.⠀special shout-out to @aphinthestars for the bookshelf idea! thanks for helping! dedicate this chapter to you!

© teenidlegirl. don’t steal, plagiarize, or translate my work. ♡

[ktsumu]

YOU TOLD ME TO DO IT SCARED

Iwaizumi was sixteen when he lost all of his fear.

He doesn’t really remember exactly what it was that the two of you were talking about, or when, but he remembers how his voice echoed in the alleyway home — the shortcut, he called it.

Iwaizumi remembers rambling and he remembers that you let him; you were never one to cut him off. He was a good listener, as it could be especially hard to get a word in around people like his group of friends, but you?

Around you? He couldn’t shut up.

He was rambling on and on about something — he forgets what, but it was big for his sixteen-year-old self. Nerve-wracking.

“Are you done?” he remembers you asking, side-eyeing him as you walked.

“Uh, yeah. I’m done.”

“Great. What are you even worried about, Hajime?”

(He still doesn’t know what. It turns out that you were right, and it was so insignificant that he can’t even remember what was bothering him to this day.)

“I don’t know. Rejection. Failure—“

“Oh, please,” you scoffed. “Yes, because Hajime Iwaizumi is known for failing.”

He furrowed his brows. “Don’t be mad that I’m nervous.”

“Scared, Haji.”

“I’m not—“

(You gave him a look and he shut his mouth.)

“So what?” he asked then, dropping his hands in his pockets. You never really knew why he was so good with you, why he talked so much — you never dared question it. “How do I get over it and just do it?”

You smile, shaking your head.

“You don’t get over it. You do it scared.”

“What?”

“Fake it ‘til ya make it, Haji.”

(Iwaizumi doesn’t remember what he did, but he knows he did it terrified; he did it well, too. Passed the test, won the game, cleared the hurdle, got the job. Whatever it was.)

Iwaizumi was sixteen when he lost all of his fear. He’s twenty-eight when it all comes crawling back.

By now, he’s more than a decade older with a bunch of fearlessness under his belt, from spiders put back outside to funny noises in the yard. He’s carding his fingers through your hair on the couch you both picked out, and he hasn’t been this scared in a really, really long time.

(Probably not since you told him that he just needed to do it.)

Iwaizumi is scared because, for the first time in the three months he’s been carrying your ring in his pocket, he really wants to fucking give it to you.

He’s always wanted to — no shit, it’s why he bought it — but tonight is the first time he wants to ask you. He doesn’t just want to picture it on your finger, he wants to feel it against his hand when he holds yours.

The same movie you’ve seen four times plays on the TV. You’re leaned right against him; your eyes are heavy, you’ve yawned a few times.

Half of him wants to do it, half of him knows it’s late.

It’s just — it’s you in his shirt, in his sweatpants, in his arms. He has been yours for way too long to not have done this sooner, but neither of you have ever been in a rush to do anything.

Until now, half past midnight on your long weekend and all he wants to do is plan a wedding.

Iwaizumi can’t even sit in his imagination for long, because soon enough you’re sitting up with a look of confusion and you’re lifting his hoodie up, putting a hand over his heart.

“What?” he says, half a breath and half a laugh.

You look … concerned. He can’t tell whether he thinks it’s cute or distressing. “You don’t feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“Hajime, your heart is racing.”

“Is it?” he asks. He sets his hand beside yours. “Nope, don’t feel it.”

You roll your eyes, yanking his sweater back down as you sit at his side. “Well, something is making you two steps away from arresting right here. Spill before I call an ambulance.”

“It’s nothing, seriously. Watch the movie, will you?”

“But I’m nosy, damnit. Don’t you know me at all?”

God, so fucking well. Somehow, not well enough. Tell me more. Tell me everything I already know.

“It’s nothing!”

“Hajime,” you say, and finally your voice is stern. “Whatever you want to say, you know I could never be mad at you for it.”

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath. The box in his pocket feels like it’s made of fucking lead.

“I—“

“Stop. It.”

(He does. He stands up instead.)

“Okay, wait,” you start again, “I didn’t mean leave.”

“Give me a second, damn,” he groans, dusting off his pants, checking it’s still there. Of course it’s still there, but if it wasn’t, this would be bad.

Iwaizumi knows you deserve a thousand flowers and a candle-lit beach, and maybe he’ll give you both. But he’s neck-deep and the water is rising; it’s now or within the next hour, really.

“Hey, are you alright? You’re pale,”

“I’m fine,” he reassures you. Iwaizumi kneels in front of the couch.

“Hajime,” you say again, face contorted in worry. “Seriously, are you—?”

You don’t just trail off, you jump off the road.

In one of his hands is a box. A small one, fitting for a ring. His other hand rests on your knee.

“Are you—“

“—dead serious? Yeah,” he says, sounding way less strong than he looks. “I am.”

He opens the little box, showing you what’s inside. It’s in your colour, a pretty diamond glistening beneath the warm light of your table lamp and the movie. You swear you even mentioned that shape once, probably years ago.

“No,”

“Yeah,” he says, “yes.”

“Are you serious?” you whisper, feeling your tears jerk to the surface, rimming your eyes. You rest a hand on his.

He’s shaking.

“Hajime,” you laugh, wiping a hand under your eye. “You’re shaking.”

He sighs.

“I know,” he nods. Iwaizumi cracks a small smile — he thinks he might cry, too. “You told me to do it scared.”

Your brows furrow and unfurrow in the matter of a few seconds. Yeah, you did say that.

(You were sixteen and talking about less major things, but you did say that.)

“So I’m doing it,” he finishes. “Scared.”

“Scared of what?”

He shrugs. “That I’d stutter when I ask you to marry me. Or that you’d say no.”

You smile. “Have you asked me?”

“Not yet. I was gonna make a speech, but I,” he slows. He stops — he has to, he’s getting choked up. “I might have to save it for later.”

“I don’t want a speech, I wanna hear you say it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says. Iwaizumi takes your hand in his shaking hold, his thumb swiping over the top of your ring finger. “I’m gonna do it now.”

“Get on with it, Hajime.”

You’re unmistakably excited.

Iwaizumi kisses where the ring will be if you tell him yes. Scared and all, he looks up at you.

(He speaks the words you’ve been waiting for into your skin. Will you marry me? murmured into your knuckles.

You don’t even tell him yes. Not coherently, anyway.)

You throw yourself into his chest and he has to hold himself up against the coffee table behind him to kiss you upright.

“Yes,” you answer again, over and over. “Even if you were scared to ask.”

“It just means I love you, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, taking your hand and moving it back in front of him. He slips your ring onto your finger. “Just scared on the off chance you were gonna spit in my face—“

“Shut up,”

“Hey, don’t talk to your fiancé like that.” Iwaizumi hesitates, looking up from the ring to your face. His eyes are so soft that you know they’re for you. “That has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Fiancé,” you repeat. Husband to be.

“Yeah. That does sound pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“Just imagine how I think fiancée sounds, honey.”

“And look — you didn’t even stutter.”

“Oh, come o—“

“Careful what you say, now. Happy fiancée, happy life, Hajime.”

“I don’t think that’s the saying, but okay.”

note; tagging @shotorus because this is your man :3 happy late birthday sel!

[reysdriver]

Creepy Crawlies & Nifty Neighbours | P.P.

You call your neighbour for help when you spot a spider in your kitchen — neighbour!peter x reader fluff

warnings: spiders (obvi) but nothing else

words: 0.7k

You held your phone against your cheek, listening to it dial anxiously. Thankfully, Peter picked up after the first ring. 

“Hey, I need your help with something.” You asked, your voice shaking. “Like, as soon as possible.”

He was sitting on the couch in his own apartment, but he shot up when he heard the tone of your voice. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m in my apartment.”

“So why are you calling me? Couldn’t you have just knocked on my door?”

“Physically, yes. But doing that would require me taking my eyes off of this giant spider, and I can’t let him run and hide somewhere else.”

Your neighbour relaxed once he realised that you weren’t in any danger, you were just being dramatic about a spider in your apartment. He still paused his movie and started walking towards the door, just not as quickly as he thought he would need to about ten seconds ago.

“So, you need me to kill a spider for you?” He asked amusedly.

“Or let it outside, whatever. I just need it away from me.” 

“I’ll be over in a second.”

And he was, although you couldn’t tell a second from an hour when you were stuck in this staring contest with the arachnid on your counter. Peter let himself in using the spare key you gave him just in case a while ago. That just in case instant was right now, in this horrifying scenario. 

He saw you looking intently across the room, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the intensity in your eyes. He followed your gaze to see what he was dealing with here, and wow— Even he had to admit that was a big bug right there. Was New York even home to spiders that huge? 

“That’s your enemy right there?” Peter questioned. 

You only nodded in response. Not wanting anything to distract you from the arachnid. 

“Alright, I’ll get him. Open a window, please.”

Once you were sure the bug couldn’t run away because Peter was watching it, you stood up and finally looked at your friend. He brought his own glass to trap the spider with. It was a sweet gesture since he knew you would be grossed out if you had to use your own glassware for this pest. 

You opened up the window leading out to the fire escape, since that was the only one that never creaked or got stuck, and Peter was just making his way over to you with the spider in the glass prison he was holding.

You moved aside so he could have all the room he needed, and Peter stretched his arms—his really nice arms—outside to shake the spider out. As soon as you both saw the bug fall and hit the metal grate floor, Peter pulled his hands back and you quickly shut the window so that the spider couldn’t get in again. 

A heavy exhale fell from your mouth, which Peter found amusing. 

“So, I take it you’re not a fan of spiders?”

You shook your head and shuddered dramatically. “Absolutely not. Hate ‘em.”

“Not even the cute ones?”

“There are no cute ones! They’re only tolerable if they’re far away from me, definitely not in my apartment.”

Peter laughed at you, and even though you were being serious, you couldn’t help but crack up along with him.

“What are you laughing at?” You defended. “Everyone hates spiders, they’re terrifying!”

Peter’s chuckles subsided slowly. “I’m not arguing with you, don’t worry. They’re freaks, aren’t they?”

“Exactly. Thanks for saving me.”

“Anytime.” He said sincerely. “I’ll be your own personal superhero.”

“Like that Spider-Man guy!”

Peter shook his head and shrugged like he had no idea who you were talking about. That seemed impossible to you, since the masked vigilante of Queens was a topic everyone was talking about these days. 

“You’ve never heard of Spider-Man?” You asked, shocked at him.

He muttered a ‘nope’ and shook his head once more. 

“You have to look him up, it’s crazy stuff. He’s on the news all the time, stopping bad guys all over the city. It’s super cool.”

“I’ll have to check it out. Need my help with anything else?”

“No, that was all.” You smiled. “Thanks again, Spider-Man.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, then started making his way over to your front door. “Call me if you need any more saving!”

[obsessedwithspiderman2099]

hiii can i request some yan miguel chasing reader down after she escapes

Never…

Pairings: Yandere Miguel O’Hara x reader

Word count: 658

Synopsis: You just couldn’t escape…

A/N: I’m so so sorry for the delay! I’ve been a lil bit busy. Thank you so much for requesting. I looooovvveee me some yandere Miguel.

The street puddles of Nueva York splashed under your feet as you ran.

As you ran from him.

Miguel O’Hara, the man who you thought was just your kind neighbor, had actually tried to kidnap you. The idea itself was still something you just couldn’t process, the fear of it all overwhelming. Luckily one of the windows in the room he was keeping you in wasn’t locked properly ( you’d think a scientist would think to do that.) and here you are.

Adrenaline was coursing through you as you sprinted down another dark street downtown. You knew he was near, your gut was already dreading what would happen if he….

No.

You can’t think of that right now.

Turning another corner, the rain continued to pour on you (two). Looking back frantically, you saw no one. But looking up, the silhouette of Spider-Man on the rooftop above made your heart stop.

He was watching you the whole time.

Miguel was always one step ahead.

You turn and bolt down a different path, desperately trying to steer clear of him. You could already feel yourself start to cry, terrified of him. Although you were trying with all your might to be brave and save yourself, you couldn’t help but almost melt into a pool of fear with what was happening.

You were never the bravest.

The sound of your feet sprinting across the pavement was soon joined by another pair. A larger pair. You look back again, and there he is. His huge body illuminated by the weak streetlights in the rain, his talons out. No no no no no. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. You finally let out a sob, releasing most of the fear that was bubbling up inside.

Hands shaking, you look forward again and make an attempt to book it. Everything in your body was telling you to keep on running, to keep on fighting. So you tried, until you made the mistake of looking back while still running and tripped on an uneven part of the sidewalk.

Time seemed to happen in slow motion as you fell, and an explosion of pain seemed to erupt as you hit the ground. Your right ankle got twisted.

Letting out a sob of pain, you almost just crumple to the floor right then and there. But the familiar red eyes you kept on trying to escape burned into you. Your heart beating faster by the minute, tears started to fall. “y/n.” His deep voice called out.

As a last attempt to escape, you mustered all the strength in you to try crawling away.

The pain was just getting worse.

You felt a hand grab your leg, roughly yanking you back. The sudden movement caused your arms to give out unexpectedly, resulting in you falling face first back into the pavement. You could already feel a small cut start to seep on your cheek, and tears continued falling. Miguel kneeled to your level, his expression under the mask a mixture of stern and concerned.

“D-don’t…, please…” Your voice cracked, already strained from the previous days of screaming and crying.

Miguel’s gaze landed down to your clutched ankle. “You're hurt.” His rough hand cupped your cheek, the cut now evident. You felt the hope of escape already start to disappear.

“I-“ “Let's get you back home carino.”

Before you could even try to protest or fight anymore, he effortlessly picked you up (bridal style). Cradling your small form in his huge arms, Miguel began to swing back. You shut your eyes, not wanting to even see the man holding you.

“We’ll talk about your little attempt later, but first.. let’s take care of your ankle.” He kissed your forehead.

“I love you. I hope you know that. Everything I’m doing is for you. For us. Because we belong together, we’re just supposed to be together. Mi amor..”

Every one of his words made your heart sink deeper than the raindrops down the sewer nearby.

You were never going to escape…. Never.

[profoundathletecowboybanana]

Hey guys I’m feeling emo rn so have some random assorted Marvel/DC character headcanons:

Damian Wayne keeps his stress in his stomach. And he has a lot to stress about. Normally, however, he can release a good bit of stress during patrols and training, so it’s never really an issue. People think he hates getting injured/sidelined because he’s seen as weak/not training/etc, but really it’s because his body will effectively start to break down on him bc he’s too nauseous to eat or move or calm down

(Not rlly a headcanon but,) Wade Wilson still struggles with PTSD all the way back from his days in the military. He has an almost airtight raunchy, obnoxious asshole persona that is extremely effective in distracting people into forgetting about it or not caring about him enough to remember. He can never let himself relax from it because he’s scared he’ll fall into a funk he’ll never get out of. If he can play the part, he can BE the part, lest he reap the consequences. You can inflict a lot of pain on a man who can’t die

Spiderman has an addictive personality. Coupled with his atrocious coping skills, anything that could marginally be classified as a substance (coffee, alcohol, painkillers) is off the table 100%. He would never admit it, but sometimes he finds himself yearning for the slight high and perfect pain he felt from the initial spider-bite. It’s why he’s never tried to find the spider that bit him.

He had a beer at a friend’s house once and didn’t stop drinking for a month. Normally his metabolism would buzz right through it but he had been drinking so many for such a sustained period of time that he didn’t even realize it was gradually starting to build up in his system (and it was easier to function that way, with his brain turned off a little). Scared by how easy it was to get into and how much he liked it, Peter decided it was for the best if the only bottles he picked up would be for the purpose of smashing over a bad guy’s head

Clark Kent can tune out all of the sounds going on around the world. He can also tune them back in. Sometimes, in place of turning on sad music when he’s feeling down the way you and I do, he’ll tune back in to the world around him and listen to the screams of agony from people all around the world that he should be helping, and that he knows he can if he could just be Superman all the time. But he can’t quite bring himself to give up Clark Kent, and the guilt feels as though it’s going to consume him one day

Wally west is never good enough. He sets his standards to beyond what is capable, and inevitably feels himself fall short of them every time. It doesn’t matter if the people around him tell him he’s going above and beyond already. He’s seen great, unbelievable things be achieved in his time as the flash and if he can’t reach that in everything he does, as a hero, a parent, a husband, then the fastest man alive will always feel one step behind

Brucie Wayne specifically is friends with Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy. They like his style and music taste and he doesn’t care if they steal things from whatever gala he’s hosting as long as no one gets too hurt or killed. Brucie Wayne has been crafted so perfectly, however, that the fondness he experiences towards the two girls disappears with the persona, allowing Batman to take over and do what needs to be done in a fight. Batman doesn’t feel a thing as he dislocates Harley’s bad shoulder and burns Ivy’s vines. When Just Bruce is woken up by Alfred in the morning though, Brucie Wayne tucked aside until lunch and Batman resting in the back of his mind until the moon rises again, Just Bruce feels a sickening sense of guilt in the back of his mind that he can’t quite place.

Harley Quinn is so terrified that the acid messed up her brain beyond repair, that she has never tried to complete the research she once dedicated her life to despite the fact that her passion for it never died out. In fact, with the resources and loser morals she has now, it would be much easier to finish, but she’s rusty, and she can’t always think straight anymore, and she’s a doctor, damnit, and she will not put that title at risk by looking like a fool that don’t do some simple research. So at this point, she doesn’t even want to bother trying, despite Ivy’s assurances that she’s not as stupid as the joker made her feel.

There are whole groups of people online and in person that were created for the soul purpose of finding others who, under the effects of fear toxin, have had the joker be a disturbing focus of their fear. During these meetings, when Jason Todd, Barbara Gordon, and Harley Quinn are all disguised, sitting next to each other in companionable grief, they forget all that Batman and Robin stand for and comfort each other in the sole wish that the dark night would just kill the bastard already.

The people of Gotham tend to agree in this sense. In fact, they actively advocate for it most of the time, firm in their stance that they would turn a blind eye for Batman if he’d do it just this once. It wouldn’t be compromising his morals, they assure, and they like to think they would trust Batman more if he took joker off the streets. They’re wrong. A man that strong and skilled and powerful? The only reason Batman gives any hope or safety to the people is the fact that no matter how “bad” you are, he will actively try and keep you alive. The people don’t realize it, but if they knew just how easy it would be for Batman to let his strength slip even once and kill someone, Gotham would never recover. Joker is not the greatest threat in Gotham, but having the privilege of the greatest threat being on their side, the people of Gotham don’t recognize who their biggest fear could really be

[aworldinsideaperson]

Loss-Robert “BOB” Floyd

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd x wife!reader

Plot: The worst day of Bob’s life.

Warnings: Critical injuries, medical themes (probably many inaccuracies), Angst, sadness, potential for death, car accident, talk of Carol Bradshaw’s death.

Word Count: 2,967

Robert Floyd had few fears. If asked, he would say the list of things that scared him was rather short. Spiders, talking to new people, and death. Though as he walked in circles around the hospital waiting room he wondered if the only thing that truly terrified him would come to pass.

He couldn’t tell if it had been seconds or hours since he arrived, a phone call he never expected to receive putting him in auto pilot; one moment standing beside his friends smiling to being in the faux comforting waiting area trying to piece together the words the doctor had uttered.

Accident. Bleeding. Severe. Surgery. Everything we can. Everything we can. Everything. We. Can. Bob Floyds one, true, debilitating fear coming to fruition. The loss of his wife.

He was hardly aware of his surroundings, pacing in a never ending circle, determined to walk a hole into the floor of this hospital. One by one his friends came, calmly laying a hand on his shoulder and taking a seat to watch Bob’s cyclical parade of one.

Phoenix stood from her seat, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder as he came to a stop. “Bob, why don’t you sit down.”

His head shook violently as the tears came to his eyes and his breath caught as he stuttered quickly. “I- I- I can’t. I can’t shit- sit c- c- cause they’re gonna- gonna be out any- ugh- any second and ugh they’re um- they’re gonna - they’re gonna tell me she’s okay and- and I- I just- I just- I gotta be ready. Cause- Cause if I'm standing they’ll know who to talk to and- and there won’t be any kind of um mix up with- with who to- who to talk to. So I’m gonna stand and I’m gonna wait and- and she’s gonna be fine. She’s gonna be fine and- and- and- and-” He could feel his heart beginning to race again and he found it difficult to get a breath as the panic began to rise in his chest once again.

Nat took his hand and squeezed to tightly in hopes of grounding him as she spoke gently. “What if I stand for a little while, you sit, take a breath, and I’ll stand. So they know.”

Looking into her eyes Bob took a deep breath and nodded. “Thank you.” He said softly as he squeezed her hand and moved back to the seat Natasha had vacated.

Bob sat between Bradley and Jake, taking a deep shaking breath, and Natasha stood. She took up post for her backseater, pacing in his place; half an hour she paced before Bradley took her place, then Jake after him. A change of guard every thirty minutes as each of his coworkers, his friends, his family, took turns standing and pacing and waiting. His people being there for him as much if not more than his wife.

As Bob stands, ready to let Maverick have the seat he’s vacating is when news finally comes. Striding toward the naval group was a tall man with a stoic look. “Mister Floyd?” Feeling as though the air has caught in his chest once again Robert Floyd only nods and takes a single step closer.

He tries to keep his head high with confidence as the man before him stands rigid and places his hands behind his back, his face still set without emotion. Bob is sure he’s about to get the worst news of his life, quickly playing out if anyone would be fast enough to stop him from walking into traffic. Then the doctor’s lips start to move.

“My name is Doctor Michaels, would you like to go somewhere more private?”

Robert Floyd looks around the room, filled with some of the people who cared about him most, people who’d kept him alive, people he’d kept alive, his family, and he shook his head as tears began to well up in his eyes.

Nodding, Dr. Michaels continued. “Your wife is on her way out of surgery and into recovery. Making it through the surgery was tough but she did make it. She is by no means out of the woods and I don’t want to give you a false sense of hope but you can come back and stay with her while we monitor her and get a room ready.”

Dr. Michaels began to walk away, leading Bob toward a double door as he continued to speak. “Over the next few hours we can discuss the extent of her injuries and what recovery may look like going forward.” He stopped beside a clear glass wall and Bob averted his eyes, keeping his focus on the doctor as he continued to speak. “She’s not out of the woods but making it through the surgery should be seen as a positive step.” Reaching out and placing a hand on Bob’s shoulder Dr. Michaels attempted a reassuring smile of sorts. Peaking for the first time at his badge he saw a yellow line across the bottom and the word ‘Resident’ in bold script. He wondered if this was the first time he’d had to deliver poor news. If the worst day of Bob’s life was a sort of milestone for the young man before him. “You can head in whenever you’re ready.” Squeezing his shoulder Dr. Michaels turned away and continued to walk down the hall.

Squeezing his eyes tightly Bob breathed deeply and finally turned to the door the opened automatically before him. Stepping inside the room he was greeted to a barely lit room, two nurses moving beside his wife tending to her. Tucking a blanket around her legs, hanging bags from her IV pole, quietly finishing and moving from her bedside. Both nurses gave him a small, sad smile as the left the room.

He couldn’t bring himself to move. He couldn’t bring himself to look up from the floor. The beeping. The pumping of the ventilator. He wasn’t ready to attach the surrounding sounds with an image. It feels like an eternity before he feels he can look at her. She doesn’t look like herself. Hooked up to machines, bags of medication dripping into her body, bruises and cuts marking every inch of skin he can see. It’s not until he sniffles that he realizes the tears he’s been bottling for hours have finally broken free. He moves slowly across the room, sitting in the chair beside the hospital bed. He reaches out to brush his fingers over her hand, fingers then slipping into her palm and drawing patterns on the soft skin. The only place that seems to be free from cuts.

Letting out a breath he trains his eyes on the face of the woman he’s loved for so long. “Hello there Mrs. Floyd, it’s me, Mr. Floyd your husband. I’m here darlin’.

Hours had passed, the sun long since set when a hand was once again placed on his shoulder. His fingers still drawing on the skin of his wife’s palm as he looked up at several staff members shuffling into the room. The woman holding his shoulder spoke gently. “We’re going to transfer her to the ICU now. The process of moving patients can be overwhelming for family so if you’d like to come with me I have some paperwork for you to work on; you can it back to the waiting room and I’ll come get you when she’s all settled?”

Bob shook his head, turning back to look at the woman he loved. “I’d much rather stay.”

“Truthfully Mr. Floyd-” She began before being cut off by Bob.

“It’s Lieutenant. Sorry she’s always on me about correcting that.” He didn’t have a habit of interrupting people. In fact if his mother had been in the room she would have attempted to scold him like he was a little boy again. But his wife was always addamet about correcting his title. Said he worked hard for it and deserved to have it recognized. She’s been so proud of his promotion she’d moaned lieutenant for hours that night.

“Lieutenant Floyd.” She began again. “Truthfully, she’s due for more sedation and there is a probability that she’s come out of it enough to experience some significant pain during the transfer. You need to take care of yourself too and you don’t need to experience that. Please. Let me come get you when we have her all settled.” She reached for the hand he had dangling over the armrest and squeezed it in her own. “I promise you if things take a turn in the time you’re away I will come and get you quicker than a flash.”

Bob looked into her eyes and as his shoulders relaxed he nodded. He squeezed wife’s hand once more, and whispered that he’d be right back as he kissed her forehead. Then he turned from the bed, following the woman out of the room and towards the nurse’s station. With a sad smile she hands him a stack of papers, a clipboard, and a pen.

“Here is that. Take your time with it. There is a lot of information and questions in there so don’t feel like you have to do it all at once.” Turning around she reached for a large opaque bag with the hospital’s name and logo printed on the front and handed it to him. “Here are her belongings. Most of the clothing was unsalvageable but everything is in there except…” Her eyes darted around the space in front of her as she searched for something. “Aha! This is the jewelry she was wearing when she came in, including her wedding ring.” Placing the small bag in his hand and wrapping his fingers around it as she squeezed his hand tightly. A feeling of comfort passed through him as she held it tightly. “I’ll come get you the moment she’s settled.”

Looking into her eyes Bob took her in for a moment. A short woman, early 50’s, graying brown hair and deep brown eyes radiating kindness. She reminded him of his mother and tears came to his eyes again. “Thank you.” His words hardly audible.

“Do you need help finding the waiting room?”

Shaking his head Bob slipped the small bag into his pocket. “No, I remember. Thank you ma’am.” She nodded and Bob turned to walk back to the room where his nightmare started.

Walking back through the double doors he looked up to find the waiting room still half full of faces he knew and a gentle smile came to his face. “What’re you guys still doing here?”

Mickey answered. “We wanted to be here in case either of you needed anything.”

Shaking his head Bob found two empty seats, placing the contents of his arms in one and plopping down heavily into the other. “You didn’t need to do that. It’s been hours.”

Natasha moved to the other side of her friend, draping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him in for an awkwardly angled hug. “We needed to be here for you. How is she?”

“Not good. Critical condition they say. They’re transferring her to the ICU and they’ll come get me when she’s settled.” He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees as he closed his eyes and tried to focus his breathing.

“How are you?” Jake asked, today one of the few times he’d been truly kind to Bob.

Looking up at him, his body still resting forward, Bob let out a huff that was reminiscent of a laugh. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” Leaning back again, eyes trained on the floor as he spun his wedding ring around his finger. “You guys should head home, it’s late and I’m sure we’ll still be here in the morning.”

“At least let us see her. Let her know that we’re here for her and that we’re with you. Whatever either of you need, we’re here.” Maverick insisted.

Looking around the room, the eyes of his friends trained on him as they all nodded in agreement so Bob nodded too. Tears filling his eyes at the love surrounding him. “Thanks guys.”

For 45 minutes the group sat in near silence; startling at every opening door or foot step rushing past. When the woman from earlier came into the room Bob made sure to take note of her name tag. Elizabeth. Social worker. She smiles warmly as she approaches Bob, taking note of the gaggle of people following along as they arrive on the 8th floor. Trekking down the hall in a single file line until they reach room 875. Directly across from the nurse’s station. Bob grabs Nat’s hand and squeezes tightly as the two of them walk into the room, everyone else lining up against the wall to wait.

He can hear Nat suck in a breath but to Bob it’s a better sight than before. The room is a little brighter, there’s a tv playing the Food Network attached to the wall, a wall of windows and they’d turned off the sound of the monitors so at least he wouldn’t have to hear the incessant beeping though the sound of the compressing ventilator still filled the room. His wife is still covered in bruises and cuts, but she looks like she’d been cleaned up. Most of the dried blood was gone, and it looked as though someone had at least attempted to smooth her hair. Sitting in the hard recliner beside her bed, Bob took her hand again and the tension in his shoulders eased. “Let everyone know they can come in when they’re ready.” Bob didn’t move as she left the room and returned with their flock.

For several minutes everyone just stood watching. Watching as her chest moved up and down. Looking at a woman whose face they knew but the could hardly recognize in the current state. Then slowly but surely they stepped up to her bedside one by one.

Fanboy taking her hand and whispering a prayer before kissing it and making a sign of the cross.

Rueben with a crack in his voice assured her that she’d be okay as he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

Jake had tears welling in his eyes as he wrapped his arms around Bob from behind and squeezed him tightly. “I live the closest. Call me if things change.”

Coyote stayed by her feet, his face hard as he gently patted her ankle and quickly left the room.

Maverick kissed her forehead, telling Bob he’d be back in the morning.

The last three in the room, Bob, Nat, and Bradley. The three of them sat silently for some time; Natasha in the chair opposite Bob and Bradley on the couch built into the wall beneath the windows. Eventually as the clock signaled the end of one day and beginning of the next Natasha stood, pressed a kiss to her good friend’s head and turned to Rooster.

“You comin’ Roo?”

“Actually Bob, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to stay.”

Giving Bradley a sad smile he let his head fall to the side as it shook. “You really don’t have to do that Brad.”

“I want to.” He assured.

Bob nodded and Phoenix said her goodbyes, hugging her backseater extra tightly and then leaving the men alone in the room.

Bob sighed, his hand still gripping tightly to his wife’s. He leaned back in the chair and turned his head to face Rooster. “So, why’d you want to stay?”

Bradley leans back slowly, running a hand through his hair as he looks up at the ceiling. “Um, my mom was in the hospital when she died. She had been doing pretty good and we were expecting her to get out soon so no one was there. Well, no one but me. One second we were laughing and talking about going on a road trip before I left for college and the next,” His eyes were now trained on the ground, emotions surfacing that he rarely let others see. “Well the next she was gone.” Standing up, Rooster took the seat on the other side of the bed and took her hand in his. “I was alone when my mom died and I know that Mrs. Floyd here is going to make a full recovery, but on the off chance that I’m wrong, you don’t deserve to be here alone.” Bradley looked over at Bob who’s tears were once again finally spilling over.

“Can I have a few minutes alone with her right now?”

“Yeah. I’ll go find us something to snack on, gotta be a halfway decent vending machine around here.” He stood and walked out of the room, the door closing behind him.

Bob sits in silence at first. His head devoid of thoughts as he watches his wife’s chest move up and down in time with the only sound in the room. He’s holding her hand, remembering the very first time their hands touched all the way back in the 7th grade. How her fingers had brushed against his so softly as they sat side by side in the library. It happened six times before Bobby swallowed his fear and took hold of her hand firmly. Their hands had been so small then but he remembered them fitting like puzzle pieces when their fingers interlocked. Their hands had grown but they always managed to still fit together perfectly.

Bob closed his eyes tight, lifting her hand to his lips he pressed a kiss to the back of it before he looked at his wife’s face and spoke firmly. “I don’t know if you can hear me baby, but if you can, don’t give up on me.”

[zaimta]

Hey hey. I love your writing style and I think that the quality of your work is just so amazing. <3 Can I please request some OP headcanons for Sanji, Zoro, and Law with a S/O who has a lot of fears (heights, the dark, loud noises, typically scary things,etc.,) but is physically strong and can protect themselves and the crew the when needed? Thanks!!

a/n- WHAGAG TY TY <33 sorry for the long wait too!!

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

˗ˏˋSANJI

he is without a doubt “mr. knight in shining armor” you scream once and he’s immediately by your side ready to fight anything and anyone

there’s a thunderstorm on seas and you’re scared? he has to sit in the kitchen with him and he makes you some tea or any kind of snack you want to calm your nerves

if you’re the jumpy kind, he makes sure luffy n them don’t play any pranks on you, if they manage to and he hears your scream he runs over and kicks them all with a quickness

however if you got a problem with a spider or something he will be screaming with you

“what is wrong with you idiots scaring y/n like that?!”

when you’re fighting though it’s like you’re a different person, he watches you fight with hearts in his eyes

if you have to fight for your crew through one of your fears he’s very proud of you

˗ˏˋZORO

he’s sick and tired of you affectionately, he could be in the middle of a nap and once he hears you scream he rushes to you just to find out it’s something minor he gets slightly irritated and brushes it off

he’s always telling you that you gotta “toughen up” and “face your fears head on” 24/7, he claims that at some point he’ll stop helping you but he’ll always come though

if you’re scared of thunderstorms, when you cling onto him he’ll wrap an arm around you and tease you a little

“yea i got you, you big baby”

when you’re fighting he knows he doesn’t need to keep an eye on you and he’s slightly impressed every time, dare i say he finds you kickin ass attractive

but every time he teases you about it

“see you got it in y’a, now all you have to do is keep that up”

˗ˏˋLAW

sick n tired pt 2.

he tries to make sure that nothing that’ll scare you is on the sub, but there’s always something on land that’ll have you screaming

if you run into any bugs he’ll kill it for you with no hesitation but he’s a little irritated, but it’s clear he cares for you a lot

“you can’t keep letting your fears get the best of you what will you do when i’m not around y/n?”

saichi and penguin know better than to rope you into any pranks, but sometimes if your lurking around the ship at night bepo freaks you out because he’s eyes glow in the dark and he looks terrifying

he apologizes to you like 100 times

when it comes to you fighting law still looks in your direction every now and then, he knows you can handle yourself in a fight but since you’re so jumpy he does worry a little

[brisquad-unit-4402]

rating luxiem and noctyx by how good they would be at taking care of bugs

my name is unit 4402 and i’m typing this on my phone. autocorrect’s suggested emojis are going to go crazy wish me luck

tags: ambiguous relationship, can be read as platonic or romantic, gender neutral reader, fluff, humor, bugs and spiders

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

🖋 Ike Eveland: 4/10

he’s neutral about most bugs. he’ll pick up critters like beetles and caterpillars with his hands and set them outside

gets grossed out by the nastier bugs though. won’t touch ‘em himself, they’re lucky if he can gather himself enough to get a paper and cup. otherwise it’s swatter time with gritted teeth and barely mustered courage

SPIDERS. HOWEVER.

certified spider hater. absolutely terrified of them get out of here!!!

he'll use a swatter, pesticides, everything. but he’s so afraid of how they disappear when he’s not looking

you’ll have to keep an eye on it while he finds the pesticide or vice versa

if he’s unfortunate enough to be the one to kill it you’ll have to hype him up, calm his nerves, and then tell him it’s okay once the deed is done

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦁 Luca Kaneshiro -100/10

this guy… easily the worst of both units at bug duty. you might just have to take the bullet

he gets sketched out by even the cute ones like butterflies and ladybugs if he looks at them for too long. there’s no way he could even take a moth with a level head

he even reacts to all of them the same. “AAAAH! T-t-there’s a [BUG NAME] in [room name]!”

even so he tries to be nice to them with a cup and paper, or some other method to get them out of his space

unfortunately australian wildlife has prepared him so smaller bugs are still scary but he’ll be a big scared scary mafia boss and take action

and everyone says they’ll leave the house as a joke if they can’t find the spider but it’s luca. there is a solid chance that he will invite you to stay with him in one of the kaneshiro vacation homes for about three days. that’s enough time for the bugs to leave, right?

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👟 Shu Yamino: 10/10

oh! a bug!

is rather delighted at bug!

honestly if it’s a cool bug he might just take a video of it doing its thing and give it a personality!

he has a out-of-sight, out-of-mind philosophy with bugs. he’s fine with just about anything as long as they aren't annoying

harmful pests will get swatted tho ofc

everything else, he’s fine with bringing outside himself without much fanfare

some of them are a little creepy but he tries to rationalize it. they’re just tiny animals and he’s a big strong sorcerer, it’s fine. what are they gonna do, infest him to death?

…he’s going to spray the house down later just to be sure.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👹 Vox Akuma: 9/10

a wild card. and also VERY emotionally invested in any bugs that come his way whether that’s good or bad

if they manage to sneak up on him he’ll probably yell “WOAH” or curse out of surprise, then figure out whether he should be scared or not

surprisingly fine with the nastiest of them. he actually loves worms, centipedes and similar critters, and he’ll even admire them if they stumble into his territory

“look reader this is me if i were a worm. would you still love me if i was a worm 🥺” “vox please just get that thing outside”

spiders have a 50-50 survival chance. he’ll kill small spiders but bring the big ones outside because the big ones are like full Animals to him and slaughtering animals is not something he can bring himself to do (tiny ones don’t count)

are scorpions bugs? do they count? either way that’s his one objection. he wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole if he had the choice, but if you’re really that scared, then he’ll put on a brave face and hide his fear

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🎭 Alban Knox: 2/10

if he’s going to take care of a bug you need to make peace with the fact that he will whine the entire time

not a cute fun whine either. he’ll complain the entire time that it’s gross and nasty and ewww yuck ugh!

and that’s just for beetles and caterpillars

show him a spider or something else just as creepy and he will actually scream

and yell as he fumbles around to take care of it

and yell as he eventually grabs it with his hands (he’s panicking a little too hard to get a tool)

and yell as he tries to open the door and throw it outside

this is assuming he doesn’t find a slipper nearby. if he has a tissue or something he’ll smash the bug over and over until it’s pulverized

and he’ll STILL be yelling while he does that

the job gets done but at what cost

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🐑 Fulgur Ovid: 6/10

he’s not a 6/10 because he dislikes bugs. he’s neutral towards them, not really creeped out by them but not a fan either

he’s a 6/10 because he’s a dick about taking care of them for you

here’s how it usually goes: you summon him to save you from a creepy crawly. he’ll inspect it and go “really, you’re scared of that little thing? look at it closer, it’s just a bug”

and once he quits fooling around he just swipes it up. his fingers are solid steel which allows for Precise Bug Snatching

but he’ll act unsure and go “i think i got it. here, reader, look inside my hand and tell me if you see it”

or even the dreaded move where he pretends he’s bringing the bug closer to you so you have to see it

and THEN once he’s outside he’ll open his hands and go “wait i think i lost it” just to get a rise out of you until he confirms yes, it’s safe and out of the house

if you’re legitimately terrified then he doesn’t even bother with the jokes. just point out the bug and close your eyes, and he’ll be washing his hands while you stare back at a smudge on the wall before you can even get out a sentence

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🔗 Sonny Brisko: 8/10

somehow both a gentle soul and a complete menace

he's very matter-of-fact when you point them out. "it's just a little jumping spider, no big deal ¯\_(ツ)_/¯"

in fact he's almost adorable with how he quietly talks to the bugs and coaxes them to crawl on his hand so he can get them out of your way

and then he prods and begs you to take a picture of the bug bc it's a cool little guy

surprisingly knowledgeable and can identify bugs easily, so once he's got one in his hands he'll show it to you and tell you some facts about it

which is very sweet except for the fact that it's still a nasty bug and you want it out of your face!

he'll lightly tease you over being so scared of a little bug while he takes them outside. and if it's a pest-eater like a spider he'll hide it in a dark corner out of your sight

overall very kind to bugs and thinks they're friendly

which is why it throws you so hard that sometimes after he coos over them he just FUCKING SMASHES THEM IN HIS PALM?

NO HESITATION AT ALL??

WHAT IS HIS PROBLEM???

also when the bug is taken care of he'll sneak behind you and lightly tap his fingers up your arm like a creepy-crawly and then laugh when you get scared. what a shithead

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🔮 Uki Violeta: 15/10

the very essence of "i'm not locked in here with you, you're locked in here with ME"

it's like watching a cat hunt an unaware mouse. he's so quick about it

and he's so good at it too?? he'll find the bug, swat it, and throw the remains away in less than a minute on a good day

doesn't even act like it's a big deal either, he just goes back to what he was doing before you asked for help

he uses tissues or shoes on the big ones like roaches, but anything small, he's surprisingly good at crushing them with his bare hands. this is especially funny when he has acrylics on bc those nails never get dirty nor in the way

spiders get the relocation pass, and he'll insist they stay inside, just out of sight

non-zero chance if you complain about it, he'll go on a lecture about how spiders are how you prevent other pests from invading the house

honestly you only see this side of uki once. the bugs are too scared to show their faces after this stint

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter VIII : Melpomene

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Heavy angst;  Descriptions of depression; Jealousy; Possessive behavior; Rough sex

A/N: I’ve been waiting for this one for a really, really long time. 

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 7.3K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER VIII : MELOPMENE

When is it polite to let go of someone’s arm after you grab it?

Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

You’re in the dark cavernous lair of your master, and he is there too, chained, beaten. Helmetless. 

Horror.

A flash of brown hair, you blink away – no, no, don’t look.

That terrible voice, terrible for its harrowing familiarity, telling you that you’ll never escape, that you can run from your past, but you cannot run from yourself, from the thing that you are. Your desires, your attempts at reform are futile when you were born poisoned.

But no, no, I wasn’t – I wasn't born poisoned. I was benevolent and good, darkness made me a fiend. 

I had a mother and a father.

A flash of his eyes – No, no – don’t go in there. That isn’t for you.

Are you afraid?

Terrified.

And then the brilliant spark of a lightsaber spearing you through the belly – burning so bright hot it’s almost like ice, a burning gone to numbness, a burning gone to madness. 

You look up, and the saber is through Din’s chest then. The bright red of the plasma mixes and mingles with the dark crimson of his blood, and the helmet is gone, destroyed beneath the fist of a darker power, his face is right there, right there, right there, your last chance to look–

You wake with a start to the sight of his slow shifting back beneath a thin undershirt. The fabric, soft and worn, and you can almost taste the scent of his skin you know it holds. The shining curve of the back of his helmet.

The ouroboros of your own demise… but never his. No matter what, no matter anything.

“Din.”

He turns immediately, blaster and an old oil rag in hand. “Cyar’ika–” voice full of concern, just at your tone. He’s already setting the blaster down.

“I had a bad dream.”

He stands without comment, going into the fresher, you listen to the water run, the lights go out, and then he’s there, sliding beneath the blankets into the cocoon of your bed, skin bare and warm. He pulls you into his arms, the safest place in the entire galaxy, and there are tears in your eyes and a fracture spanning like a spider’s web through your heart. You feel the soft press of his mouth at your hairline, slow moving, the deep inhale as he takes in your scent. “What was it, cyare? Tell me.” His rough hand finds its way up the back of your shirt, another beneath the edge of your underwear to grasp at the soft swell of your bottom and pull you further into him. 

You shake your head, “I don’t know,” lie, “Something terrible,” truth. You think of the first lie you’d ever told him, I’ve never met a Mandalorian before, and you wonder if there will ever be a day that he’ll look back on all this, this time of yours together, and regret it, resent it, hate you. 

He presses your head into the space beneath his chin and lets out a deep breath you feel fan and flutter around you, the wide expanding of his strong chest. “I’m here. It’s alright now.” He’s here. It’s alright now.

“Promise me–” you say suddenly.

And his answer is immediate and without hesitation when he says: “Anything.” But what promise you need you can’t say exactly – stay, don’t leave me, love me. 

He’s beneath you, inside of you, sleeping beside you so that you can always feel the press of his belly into your naked back, the dig of his fingers into your softness, his hot breath against the back of your neck. Your whole lives seeming to have intertwined in an inextricable way, and still, it’s not enough. Still, there’s something panicked humming beneath your skin, sending your blood to boiling, your heart running away from you. You run your palm up his chest and over the thick mass of his shoulder, hugging yourself to him tighter. He’s here, he’s here, he’s real and alive, and you are your own sick ouroboros again and again and again. Eternally destroying and recreating yourself, the things around you. 

But you could never destroy him, of that you’re certain. You’d do the worst, end yourself before you could ever hurt Din, and you realize, with something like finality or fate or the end of myth, that time is no longer on your side. 

-

He decides to take you back to Nevarro after Maldo Kreis. Angry, furious, with himself that his grand idea to take you to the hot baths had seemed to do more harm than good in the end, for some reason he could not, for the life of him, come to understand. You were suffused with a melancholy he could not fight, no matter what he seemed to do, blue and somber, in a way he’d not seen you before. In a way that terrified him. Worst of all, the fact that he could so easily see through your attempts to fight it off for him, trying to distract him with your voice and your mouth and your cunt from the wan truth of you. The sound of your silence hurt him, the dark marks stained beneath your eyes gone dull and lifeless which worried him like nothing else. Distracted and tired and clinging to him in nervous fright constantly, childlike in your fragile vulnerability. And Din, he watched you with a focused obsession, tracked you and took stock of all your movements and moods and habits and expressions, with an intensity that would have probably perturbed you had you the wherewithal to pay more attention, but your mind was gone so far away, eyes vacant, energy low, nights full of terrors and panic.

He thought he understood, the reminder of your past the attack had brought on had to be something more than difficult. It was difficult for him to only imagine it, and he’d not been the one to live it. But there was more… there was him, he could see it in the way you clung to him, desperately, with panic, but your eyes… there was a distance in them too, a wariness when you looked at him, something like an apology and a newfound darkness he could tell was well known to yourself but new to him. He feared that you were discovering something about yourself in relation to him that you couldn’t fathom, as if he were a reminder that you’d been subject to the will of another for so long, your whole life, and you couldn’t again allow yourself to fall under the subjugation of another thing, feeling, something you were unprepared for, had not expected. 

And another, irrational, not entirely easily controlled part, the part that sometimes forewent strategy and patience and charged into a fight, guns blazing, wanted to grip you by the shoulders, take your face in hand and shake you, demand you tell him what was wrong so he could just fix it. He was sure he could fix anything that came your way, fix anything you needed, do anything you needed, be anything you needed. He could, he could, he knew he could if only you gave him the chance. 

“Will you be alright here for a while? I’ll be just over there – with Karga.” He points over to the dim corner of Nevarro’s cantina where the Guild master Greef Karga sits jovially hooting and drinking and guffawing Mandalorian, Mandalorian at the top of his lungs, trying to get Din’s attention. He’d heard something of a shouted girlfriend and I was sure he was a droid which Din was choosing to ignore, too consumed with the vacant look on your face as he cups the soft skin of your cheeks, the heat of your skin suffusing the leather of his gloves. There is a gauntness to you that hadn’t been there a few days ago, no matter how much food he tried to ply you with, and Din’s stomach churns and flips with nerves like he’s never experienced before. You nod your head slowly up at him, eyes huge and dry and lashes so long they make his heart pinch and throb. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he begs once more, low and urgent through the modulator, but you remain silent, only nuzzling your cheek into his palm, tilting your head further into his touch. He sighs, so full of aggravation and impotence, “I’ll be quick,” he tells you before turning on his heel towards Karga. 

He’d decided he was going to tell him he’d be taking a short break from the Guild. He’d look for local work here and stick a cork in taking bounties. You were tired, anxious, you needed rest. He’d find a nice, calm place for the two of you to take up in for a few days, a few weeks, however long you need. And he knows you need it. Din knows of the things you need. Din knows you. As you’d weaved through the busy streets of Nevarro, the gaggle of various Outer Rim tongues sounding around you, you’d clung to him, nervous and jumpy, a vein of paranoia stiffening your muscles, flooding you with apprehension, your tiny fingers entwined between his thick leather clad ones so tightly he was sure it must’ve hurt you. He’d tried to huddle you beneath his arm, nestled into his side with a calming hand on your waist, but he knew your peace was put on. He knew there was something making you scared, something you weren’t saying out loud. And it was his responsibility to know what you needed, to give you what you needed, and any sort of failure in that regard was entirely unacceptable. He was failing you right now, and he needed to rectify it as soon as he could. Staying put for a while seemed like the right first step. 

-

The man slips into the seat next to you as soon as Din turns his back. You turn in your seat, flagging down the barkeep and ignoring the peering gaze you can feel flicking against your face as the man, not very inconspicuously, inspects you. Your eyes flash towards him quickly, immediately clocking him as a non threat and deciding to ignore him, but you catch the surprised widening of his eyes as he takes stock of your own, the bi-colored shock of them. 

“Whoa–those’re really somethin’.” Human, but has a strange accent, nothing you’ve heard before, and you give him a non-committal hum. “Sad though…” He adds as an afterthought, resting his elbow on the edge of the bar to cup his chin in his palm. He strokes two fingers along the scruff of his jaw contemplatively. 

Your eyes jump back to his face, “Excuse me?” He has a shock of white blonde hair nestled at the front of his hairline. 

“Got the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen, pretty.”

“Sad?” You spit, offended.

“Sad,” he nods his head solemnly, mouth twisting in a wry half smile. The twang of his accent cuts off the ends of his words. “What’s got you so blue?” And although you comprehend what the words he’s saying are… you don’t understand. You feel yourself shaking your head, frown marring your brow. “Aren’t you sad?” He presses. His voice sounds too full of air, breathy or unnaturally round or something too strange for you to name. You decide you don’t like it. There’s something knowing in the way he spits them out. Something like wisdom. 

You blink furiously, give a fractional shake of your head, “No…” like a question. “I don’t think so. Not sad. More– more,” You don’t know why you’re speaking to him. You should turn the other way, find another seat, go get Din, but the words keep coming. Something about that fucking accent, the way his face is designed to stretch over his bones. Din isn’t going to like it if he sees you talking to a stranger. But you give another fast shake of your head, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. No, sad isn’t what you are. You turn back to look at him, eyes wide and understanding now, “I’m angry.” Terror had made you cruel for so long, but you still held the capacity for softness, he had shown you that. Sadness at times too, perhaps. But now, no… sad wasn’t what you were at the dawn of your realization. At the reality of what would happen here soon. You are angry, you think: I am just a girl, but I am also angry. Maker, I am also angry. Your unfocused eyes look back at him, wide and maybe terrified. Shocked at the true sight of what it is you’ve been carrying around in your heart these past few days, after the Thalassians, after the reality of loving Din. Because you do, you love him, you love him, you love him, and you’re so fucking angry. You’re in love with him, and you’d do anything for him, give anything for him. And you don’t think that you know how to love someone without swallowing them, without destroying them, and you also know that you could never do that to Din. Not to him. And you’re angry that this is your truth. That this is what you are, what you’d been made. He doesn’t deserve an angry sort of love, and yet, it’s the only sort you have to give him. 

The stranger hums like he understands, taking a long sip of his Spotchka, nodding appreciatively at you or the liquor, you can’t tell. But he understands, you can tell for some reason. “The Mandalorian is yours?” He tips his head then turns to peer over his shoulder where you know Din is doing business, a smarmy little smirk blooming over white teeth. His incisor is chipped, there’s something charming about the imperfection, and you think you need to change your earlier appraisal, there is something dangerous about him. You can’t tell what, maybe something conniving or deceitful, like a snake, and perhaps, not a danger towards you, but still… there’s something there. 

You turn now too, to look towards where he’s speaking with Karga. He stands so tall, a gleaming spire of beskar and strength. Wholly untouchable as if there were some invisible boundary separating him from lesser men. You can’t answer his question. The reply lodged in your throat like a thorn. Desire is about vanishing, and you want him more than anything. But is he yours? He would give himself to you surely. Without thought or question. Perhaps, in his mind, he already had. But there’s something about that which you know is wrong. Like the saber. Like the Thalassian planted seed. And so what is it about a person deserving a thing? What is it about absolution? You can so desire it – again like vanishing – but that desire is… what? So unattainable sometimes, non-existent. Just because you want a thing doesn't mean it’s possible, real, yours. The strange man asks again, “Is he yours?”

And so you tell the only truth that you think is real in terms of Din, “He would be.” But can he be? He frowns, but with a smile, folding his face in such a way that you can’t one hundred percent tell what it is he’s trying to express, his eyes roving your face as if he’s never seen such a creature. He probably hasn’t. 

“I think you’re lyin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are sad–” he interrupts, “You just don’t realize that’s what it is yet. Anger’s good at masking sadness, doesn't mean it’s not there no more. ” You’re about to tell him to fuck off before you tear through his mind because who in the Maker does this little man think he is, when a huge, leather wrapped fist slams down onto the bar’s surface between the two of you, sending the glassware and fellow cantina patrons to jostling and yelping. 

“Fuck off,” he says for you instead, growled through what you can tell are gritted, gnashing teeth. Reading your mind like always. The stranger jerks back with a laugh and a howl. Din’s other hand comes up to wrap gently around your throat, stroking softly at your thrumming pulse, a sign of possessive ownership.

“Well, hello to you too, Mandalorian,” the stranger says, tipping his chin, giving a flourished little salute, suave and calm and entirely provoking.

“You’ve got three seconds to move before I make you move.”

“Oh, he’s a real hoot, isn’t he?” The man says to you, ignoring the tower of aggressively looming beskar, all riled testosterone and possessive protectiveness. 

“Do you not enjoy having your head attached to your shoulders?”

You roll your eyes up at Din, the stranger was annoyingly perceptive and brazen, but entirely harmless as well, no need for all these theatrics. “Ignore him – he’s only half civilized,” you say, placing a soothing palm against the armor over his belly. 

“You know, one doesn’t much often see Mandalorian’s anymore,” he says conversationally. Not very good at reading social cues, this one. You take a small sip of the tea you’d ordered, leaning back into Din’s abdomen, settling in to watch how he handles this. 

“My people are scattered across the galaxy now. It isn’t safe for us to converge out in the open,” monotone and serious, in that way of his. The complete opposite of this man’s  casual, melodic voice like a teasing song. 

“We kill that which we cannot tame. It’s the way of men.”

“Lesser men, perhaps.”

He nods concedingly, “Perhaps,” and swallows his glass down full, looking at you, eyes full of laughter, over the brim. “What a little liar you are, pretty. He is…” yours, and there’s laughter in his voice and his mouth and his movements too, not just his eyes. “Well, it’s been swell. We’ll be seein’ you, I think.” He winks at you as he slip hops off his stool, landing on straight locked knees with a little jolt. “And don’t you let her lie to you too,” he tells Din. Something about the man is nothing but provoking, riling the beskar bound ball of tension at your back into fury. You lean your head back against his chest, not acknowledging the other man’s farewell or that last remark as he slithers off. No need to poke the beast further. Din moves out from behind you, taking the stranger's seat, seething as he forces you to take the first word with his silence. 

“Stop your sulking. He approached me.”

“Of course he approached you. And I'm not sulking,” he sulks. 

“Oh, no?” You snort. “My mistake.”

-

“You smile for that di’kut, but not for me?” He demands, probably even stomping his foot a little bit which you’d normally find funny, but instead, wipes the laugh off your face. 

“I do smile for you, Din,” you say in a small, hurt voice, and he wants to gnash his teeth and howl and do something entirely uncivilized, barbaric, even. That bantha shit sliding in to chat you up the second he’d turn his back. Din finds, with a lot less shame than he probably should have, that he absolutely hates when other men approach you, doesn’t much care, either, what that makes him. He can’t blame them, of course, eyes of pure magic like the ones looking up at him are hard to ignore, harder to walk away from. That doesn’t mean he can’t throw a fit over it. “And I wasn’t smiling for him.” He huffs, looking out at the rest of the dim cantina. Karga had taken his decision with good natured humor, understanding by the way Din’s head kept subtly turning in your direction that there was something more pressing that needs his attention and care at this moment. But your eyes look so hurt, like he’d said the worst thing possible at the worst time possible, he backtracks immediately, “I’m just kidding, it was a bad joke, cyare. I know you weren’t smiling at him.” But the hurt look doesn’t go away, and he feels, a little bit, like he’s going to throw up. “If I admit I’m an ass, will you give me a smile?” He tries to laugh, gives the gem of your earring a little tickle, and you try to return the gesture so limp he can’t even pretend to believe it. 

You shake your head, giving up your false smile with a sigh, “How many pucks did you get?” And his heart beats faster than an X-wing. You aren’t going to like this, but he’ll be firm, stand his ground. This is what’s best. 

“I didn’t get any,” he tells you slowly. 

You blink a slow, confused blink. “What do you mean you didn’t get any? Why not?”

“I told Greef I’m taking a break.” You pull your hand back from the hold he’d had on it, expression going cool and icy, the bright eyes, the one like a scream going dim as a whisper. This is what’s best, Din knows it, he’s sure of it. 

“Why would you do that?” Your voice is very small, very almost hurt again. 

“I think it’s what’s best for now. We need a break.” He sees your shoulder jerk. “I– I need a break. I told you, I’m tired. You’re tired–”

“I’m not tired.”

“We both just need to settle for a time, I think. This is what’s best. And this is what we’re doing.” He’s rambling, tongue tied, heart beating too fast, worried and afraid and so in love with you that if he can’t fix this he’s sure he’ll die. He’s sure it’ll be the end of the world because he knows – Din knows that something’s wrong. He looks back at your face, and it’s so grave, so gaunt and small and easily breakable, “I think this is what’s best for us right now, cyar'ika. Don’t you?”

“No,” you shake your head furiously, try and stand up off your seat, but he clamps a big hand over your shoulder, forces you to stay in place and you bare your teeth at him. “Let go–”

“No, we’re going to talk about this.”

“I don’t want to fucking talk. This– this isn’t– I didn't want you to do this. I don’t need you to do this for me. I’m fine. If you aren’t then that’s your problem. But I’m fine, and I don’t need any fucking rest or to get trapped here in this backwater shithole. No– no.” You try and force your way to standing again, and he presses you down, goes to his feet instead to loom over you. Entirely in a panic now. You’re so angry. You’re so angry and looking at him like… in no way you’ve ever looked at him before. And once again, he’s miscalculated. This was the wrong move. A push in the wrong direction. 

“Okay, hold on– just… hold on. I didn't– I didn’t mean to insinuate… or–” He can’t get his head on straight, his tongue to work, can’t think of the right thing to say, the right way to make it all be okay between the two of you again, to make that dark shadow leave your eyes. “I just thought if we had some time to ourselves that it’d be–” You wilt like a flower, a long sigh like a whimper leaving your body, seeming to take all your strength with it. A felled weed tramped beneath his overbearing boot. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the pucks. It was a bad idea,” he says even though he knows it isn’t, even though he knows he’s telling the both of you a lie. You simply turn away from him, a thrumming pulse fluttering in the muscle of your jaw. But your eyes are dry, almost flinty, but dry, and so at least, he tells himself, he hasn't made you cry. 

You’re up and out of your seat before he can even make it all the way back to you after he’d gone back to Karga with his tail tucked between his legs to retrieve his pucks, and fuck this, you have no reason to be angry with him. He’d been well intentioned, he’d been– what? Trying to mend a sinking ship. He calls your name low as you weave through the busy cantina, men turning to look at your ass as you go which has him snarling, hackles raised as he passes them, stomping after you. He calls your name again, and he watches the jerk of your head, as if you want to turn back to him but won’t let yourself and that makes him fucking angry. You’re running away, you’re running away, and he feels so helpless to stop you, like the two of you’ll be trapped in this constant chase for the rest of your lives. 

Din has never been one to give in easily to his anger, but he gives into it now. Watching the line of your steel straight back scampering ahead of him, every so often your head jerks slightly to the side to check that he’s still there, slinking after you, stuck in the chase once again, as if you don’t trust the tether of your power that’s always there between the two of you to tell you that he’s still here following. As if you aren’t sure, don’t know that he’ll always be here. That there’s nowhere else for him to be or go after all this, after you. The Crest comes into sight and his heart beats so hard he’s nauseous, sweating beneath his helm. You quicken your steps, and he lengthens his, gains on you until he’s practically breathing down your neck, looming behind you, your movements jerky and jittery. And as soon as your foot makes first contact with the gangplank his hand is shooting up quick as a viper to clamp down around the back of your nape and pressing you forward so that you’re stumbling, held up only by his guiding grip, and shoving you into the open hatch, following at your heels and slamming his fist against the security mechanism, locking the two of you inside. He’s on you before you can even think to turn around, ripping your cloak from around your shoulders and shoving you up against the durasteel wall, pinning you there like some sort of trapped butterfly. “If you want to fight, cyar'ika, I’ll pretend we’re fighting. You only have to say so,” he bends his head to say, right at your ear, his other hand digging beneath the edge of your trousers and pulling them down along with your underwear over the swell of your ass, baring you to his gaze. You struggle, spitting and hissing, but don’t tell him to stop, don’t tell him no. He slides his palm between your legs, “Wet little cunt,” he grunts, pushing two of his leather clad fingers inside of you, immediately going deep, fucking you hard, jostling them back and forth inside of you to listen to the wet rattle of your cunt for him. “Feral little thing. Are you going to tell me you don’t want it? That you’re angry with me? Did you like that boy? Is that it?” And you arch your hips, a ragged moan and no, no, Din, I do want it. I don’t want to fight, please. He pulls his fingers from you with a wet sucking noise, lands a sharp stinging slap to your ass, listening to the pretty sound of you whine and keen for him, and he’s so fucking angry and hard. There’s something electric and aggravated and upset inside of him. Something that feels wrong and on the verge of something terrible. Another slap, another, pressing you harder into the wall so that you’re forced up onto your tiptoes. He opens his own trousers, pullings his sticky tipped erection out and fists it tightly, punishing in his grip, jacks it once, twice, and he’s bending at the knees, notching at the mouth of your cunt and pressing all the way inside to the end of you. He feels the bump at your cervix and the resulting cry when it hurts just a little too much, swings his hips back and does it again and again and again. Fucks you with a brutal edge he knows’ll make you cry, but that you’ll like nonetheless, want more, harder. “H– how’re you always so soft and so wet and so pretty for me? Huh? Always so ready to get my soft cunt nice and fucked, right? Always ready to let me in and ride you however I need? Right, little one? Say yes. I want to hear you say, yes, Din.” 

Yes, Din. 

“I just want what’s best for you–” he tells you, a continuation of your earlier conversation he doesn’t need to remind you of, and then more spitting and hissing and struggling from you, riling your anger up again. He pulls his gloves from his hand with the edge of his teeth and gives you his palm to gnaw on like the rabid thing he knows he’s turned you into. Sharp little teeth immediately savaging into the flesh of his palm as soon as he wraps his hand over your mouth, tugs your head back so that he can look down into your eyes from above, all the while his balls slap wetly against your cunt, jolting you forward, making you cry and spasm around his cock.

Once, when you’d thought he’d been asleep, he’d heard you tell him he was like a god in the shape of a man, and that you’d always thought that was supposed to be you. Din never feels more like a god among men than when he’s riding your cunt, balls deep inside of you. 

“I need to come,” slips your warbled moan against his palm, spit slicked and tear stained. 

“What you need is to be fucking grateful and take it how I say,” he snarls, riding you harder, watching the rebound of your ass against his pelvis on every thrust inside, the way the slick root of his cock splits you open, the drag of your walls against him when he pulls out just to snap back in. He grunts and whimpers and tries to make you understand without words that if you leave him he’ll die, that he needs you to be okay, that he’ll do anything. He has the sinking, clawing feeling that you’re not going to listen. Why does it feel like all you’re doing is saying goodbye to me? And he’s so fucking angry he wants to cry. Angry and afraid and helpless, a small child once again watching his whole world go away from him. Entirely without choices or home. 

“Do you want my come?”

“Yes, yes, I want it so badly,” and your tears roll over his fingers, lose themselves in the cracks between. 

“Beg me for it.”

“Please, come inside me, Din–” please, please, please. “Fill me up.” He tightens his hold on you, harsher than he should, rips open the front of your tunic and twists your breast tightly in his grip, presses you up and into the wall so that he’s pretty sure your toes leave the ground and grinds the tip of his spitting cock at the mouth of your womb while you go tight as a fist, the best thing he’s ever felt in his entire life, the only thing that matters, vision going white to black to nothing and fills you with his come, feels you suck and milk him with your cunt. He pins you there with his hips, pants as if he’d just fought for his life, for something he knows he can’t keep. That was maybe never meant to be entirely his. He realizes, like a surprise in that very moment, the thought occurring to him out of nothing, that he’s never seen the true, pure color of your eyes unburdened by the helmet. Open and staring at him, only him, and he regrets it bitterly, knows then that he could have done so much more. It’s some sort of curse, some sort of punishment, this realization. “What’s best for me is to please you,” he tells you. Just so that you know. Just so that he’s sure it’s been said out loud. So that it’s there. 

“You know that no matter what, I’m always yours,” And because you’ve said it out loud, he supposes it must be true. 

-

“Where does your next adventure take you?”

He cocks his head to the side, pauses the cleaning of his blaster, dallying while the pre-flight checks work. The curve of the helmet gleams so bright for one second it almost blinds you, and you shut your eyes tight, open them again. “Further into the outer rim. Karga’s given us a tricky one this time.”

Us.

You’re quiet for a beat, letting him pretend – face trying to prevent itself from fracturing, wavering, by sheer force of will. “I think, I’m afraid– I think all my adventures will be over very soon.”

“Why’s that?” Slow and measured, your last game here at this moment.

“Oh…” you tilt your head side to side, let the sin you’re about to commit, simmer and slide between your ears. “The wrong choices – made over and over again.”

Another beat of silence, perhaps, trying to measure where you’re trying to take this, trying to hold off. He resumes his task. “That’s a shame.”

Do you ever kiss?

No.

That’s a shame.

You smile briefly, a whole other girl ago, “Perhaps, you’d have taken me away on all of yours, forever. I would have liked it, you know? With you, I might have liked it forever.”

He freezes now, his favored silence – the impenetrable facade of his helmet like a dark yawning pit come to swallow you whole. You know his intention is to bend you to his will, force your hand into something easier for him to understand, to face. You close your eyes and lean your head back humming. “Yes, I think I'd have liked it quite a lot, actually.”

“Cyar’ika,” he murmurs, and he already knows, so what’s the point in being brave or honorable? “Spit it out.”

“What do you mean?” Playing difficult and obstinate, playing the fucking coward, you do not open your eyes, do not give him the respect or consideration he deserves looking him in the eye while you break him. You see the rest of your life branching out before you, behind your closed lids, like the branches of a shuura tree. The branch before this moment, heavy with the fruit of your potential, your togetherness, and the branch alone, after, empty of him. There is a part of you that screams that this is a mistake, that you will regret this for the rest of your days. You continue anyway. 

“Stop playing fucking games with me.” He knows you too well now, your eyes snap open, too much risk.

“This has been fun, but don’t you think it’s about to have run its course? It was never supposed to be forever. And– you– you have plans. If you want to stay… that isn’t what I want.” The words burn like acid, like the worst thing you’ve ever done. All lies. You watch his left shoulder jerk back as if you’d struck him, shot him. 

“Say it.”

Your belly twists with nausea. “Say what?” A cold sweat sprouts across the back of your neck, and your face feels aflame with heat, you think you’re about to be sick. You try for another smile. 

“Tell me you’re leaving me.”

“Don’t be–”

“Fucking tell me. Tell me you don’t want to be with me anymore.”

“I think this is enough.” You cannot, you cannot say those words. It would be too great a lie to tell, even for you. And you have already lied to him so much. 

“Coward,” he spits. Truth. At least one of you still possesses the capacity for such a thing.

“Perhaps.”

“And what? You’re just going to be alone again? This is what you want?”

You’re choking on your own breath. “That–” you clear your throat, “No.”

“No? Fucking look at me.”

You snap your head back towards him, the terrible darkness of his visor, and for one moment you feel so fucking angry that you can’t look in his eyes right now. “What do you want from me? I can’t give you what you want. I can’t. I don’t have it in me. I am not sorry.” Lie, lie, fucking lie. 

“Cyar’ika, please, why don’t we just–” He stands, moving towards you. 

You cut him off, take a step back, away. “No, Din. I’m ready to move on. There’s no reason to draw this out. We both knew it had to end eventually. We want different things.” You’d always known how it would end. You always know how everything will end.

“After everything? After all this? That’s pathetic. It’s sad.” You’re pathetic, is what he surely means, but he moves towards you again, the subtle inclination of his body towards yours as if he were trying to absorb the last of your touch just once more.

“Why? Coming from you? You’ve always been alone? Why is it sad for me?”

“Because– because we– I don’t…I don’t want that for you. And we have–”

You can’t hear him say it. The proverbial we, you both wish this could have been. 

“There’s so much you don’t know,” And there are tears in your voice, tears in your eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks, and there is anguish in his own voice when he begs, “Then tell me, tell me everything, and I’ll help you bear whatever burden you think you must carry on your own.”An impossibility, for worse than anything else, worse than him hating you for your lies or your evasions or your secrecy, for running, what would be worse than anything else would be for him to hate you for what you really are. The truth would be death-dealing. You’d not survive it. 

You give him the full weight of your gaze – one last look. Brilliant and strong and intelligent. So brave. A good man – this is a good man before you, honest and true, and he deserves better than you. You refuse to let him think he could love a thing like you. Someone who has done the things you’ve done. This too shall pass. 

And then one last bit of truth: “I didn’t think I believed in anything anymore. But I believe in you. There’s nothing to be sad about. I’ve never really lived,” But then again, another lie, for with him, you had.

“But you deserve the chance to. By the Maker, you still ought to. If you believe in me then stay with me. Fucking stay. Don’t leave me,” the words spit through clenched, furious teeth and he sounds like he’d cry if he could, and you feel as if you’ll die if he does. You can’t acknowledge it. There’s a star of red, in the vast darkness of you, bleeding out, fractures in the ice of your heart. That desperate wretched thing that so desperately wants to live. You gather your satchell which you’d hidden from him by your feet behind a crate. Ready to flee as soon as you possibly could. Nothing but a coward and ghoul. 

“This is what I want. You have to give it to me,” and then returning his own words back to him, “You can’t say no to me, you can’t tell me no,” and even as you say the words, there is a part of you shocked, howling that he isn’t keeping you by force. Hurt by it. You want him to wrestle you to the floor of the Crest and chain you to himself. And it’s irrational and ridiculous, for you are the one that’s doing this, the maker of your own demise like always, this is what you’d told yourself you want, what is necessary. And yet you’re still hurt, still shocked. 

You turn towards the open hatch. “Don’t get yourself killed,” you hear yourself say with your back to him, words you’d said to him once before, what seems so long ago now after all this. After the two of you. A whole other girl, creature, monster. 

“Would you care if I did? Die?” Voice full of venom and hurt and smallness. “It’s amazing to me that one person can have the ability to be so singularly selfish. What about me? What about what I want?” You wish he’d hit you, take up his blaster against you, anything else, but you know he’ll give you what you ask for nonetheless. He can’t say no to you, you’d made a deal of sorts, with those words, after all. He knows what you are and what you are not, and he has always understood the things you need. And you wish that you were anything other than this, anything but what you were made to be. That you could have so wholly changed yourself that you could forsake every terrible thing that you’ve ever held within you to make you into the venomous little thing that you are. You beg him with your mind, your heart, your tears to not let you leave, to not abandon you. To not heed your poisoned words, your vile heart, your uncaring actions. Please, please, Din, see me for what I really am. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I was made like this. I have been broken beyond repair, and I am sorry.

Instead and cowardly: “Or do. I don’t give a shit. I don’t plan on coming back here anyways.” You ignore the rest. What he wants is inconsequential in this instance because he wants the wrong thing. He cannot want you to keep. You are not a thing to be kept – too savage, too broken, too dark. One day he’ll see this and thank you for what you’re doing now. 

But despite this moment of self awareness, on the back end of that thought comes the whisper: Don’t leave me. I’m sorry. 

But he does not see, and he goes anyway. 

The two of you part ways and beyond the pain of anything else you’ve endured, the abyss of the dark, the loneliness, the pain inflicted by hands crueler than you could ever dream of being, this hurts more than all the rest. 

You’re still there, pretending you’re not waiting for him, months later. 

He does not return. And you are left blind to the fact that for a long time to come, he will be on a mission of his own – with a little boy, special and magical beyond even your own imagination. 

Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din

As if you’d lost a limb, a chunk of your heart ripped from you. You miss him so much it makes you want to die.

Time passes anyway. 

You are afraid that you will think of him forever, for the rest of your life, and you are afraid that you will never be in the same place again. 

Time passes anyway.

It is two years before you see your Mandalorian again.

[END OF PART I]

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lover - p. parker

a/n: hi guys so sorry it's been a while i meant to finish this a million times and im still not thrilled with the ending but oh well! i want to make a quick note that as someone whose hard of hearing i am aware that being hoh/deaf has a lot of rheotric around it and there's a lot of positive associations with being hoh/deaf but reader in this fic is not always happy with being hoh because being deaf/hoh has a LOT of complciated emotions associated with it! just keep that in mind as we go forward. warnings: hoh!reader, cursing probably, suggestive behaviors, lots of kissing, lots of fluff, a poorly written ending, gn!reader, reader having a lot of complex emotions about their hearing, talks of weddings, and reader has a mom and a step dad who love them. AUTISTIC PETER BTW ITS ONLY MENTIONED ONCE BUT IT IS IMPORTANT TO ME word count: 4.0k summary: peter parker is quite literally the most amazing boyfriend ever. even when you realize you're hard of hearing. pairing: tasm!peter parker x hoh!reader now playing: lover - taylor swift "my heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue/all's well that ends well to end up with you/swear to be over-dramatic and true to my/lover"

Going to the grocery store is a nightmare.  

Especially when you go on a Saturday in New York City, on a relatively nice day out.

You’re pushing the cart through the grocery store, trying to focus on what’s right in front of you as Peter comes up behind you, placing a box of cinnamon toast crunch in the bag before you check it off your list.

This is your system—Peter runs around grabbing your assorted groceries for the next two weeks as you check it off the list, then there is two people making sure you have all your groceries. This pretty much eliminates the possibility of having to run out to the store during the week.

And usually, you do this very early on Sunday mornings—Like, you and Peter are the first patrons at the store.

But you’re out of just a few things that are essential—Toothpaste, Milk, coffee—You pretty much just decided to get it out of the way for the next two weeks.

The problem now, is that you’re in this crowded store, full of people talking, machines beeping and carts wheeling.. You’re struggling to focus. That’s what you pass it off as, at least.

Peter’s hand lands gently on your arm as he says your name gently.

“Huh?” You tilt your head to look at him.

“I just wanted to know what was next on the list.” He smiles at you. You glance down at the list,

“Uh, Bread.” You tell him, planning on making grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” He hums, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile softly. You’re not the biggest fan of PDA but Peter can recognize when you’re feeling upset and just need a reminder of your worth.

A few minutes later, as you’re struggling to ground yourself in the middle of this Trader Joe’s, Peter spooks you when he comes up behind you, his hand resting on your upper arm.

“Fucking Christ—” You gasped, “You terrified me!”

“I’m sorry, Baby.” He says gently. “I called your name a few times, was yapping all the way down the aisle.”

“Oh..” Your face softens. You don’t really know how to say all the things you’re feeling.

“Hey, I’ll—I’ll finish up here, how bout you step outside for a few minutes? Wait for me by the carts?”

Your list is almost finished up so you nod, smiling gently before leaving the grocery store, finally getting some peace and quiet. You lean against the wall of the grocery store, watching people pass the grocery store. About twenty minutes later, Peter walks out of the grocery store, holding your grocery bags. He hands you two bags but carries about four. Your boyfriend is Spider-man, and as much as you hate taking advantage of that.. You can’t’ deny how nice his strength is for situations like this.

He shifts the bags around to pull two candy bars out of his pocket—

A Snickers for him, and a standard Hershey bar for you.

You eat your candy as you make the short trip home, not saying much. The candy bar helps, but this looming truth lingers in the air, and you don’t want to be the one to say anything about it. So the pair of you make your way into the apartment, putting away your groceries wordlessly. But in the quiet of your apartment, you stop, suddenly plagued with a new trouble.

“My ears are ringing.”

“What?” It’s not something he’s asking because he did not hear you, but the statement catches him off guard.

“My ears are ringing.” You repeat. He gently takes the oranges out of your hands, scared that you might dig your fingers into them and destroy them half an hour after he picked them out.

“Okay,” he says softly, putting them to the side. “Why don’t you go sit down in the living room while I make some tea and put the groceries away?” He gently prods. Too busy wanting to literally claw off your own ears, you nod and head over to your couch.

Peter’s by your side a few minutes later with a mug of tea on the coffee table. However, it goes quickly forgotten as you climb on top of him, cuddling into him. His hands rub your back gently. You sit like this for a while, until he decides to ask—

“How long have you had trouble with your hearing?” His voice is soft. You reflect for a little while, before responding with a soft,

“A long time, now..” You remember being a teenager and having trouble hearing your friends in the lunchroom and lectures being a nightmare during college. “I think I’ve been just ignoring it for a few years..”

He had a feeling that’s what your answer would have been—you’re rather in tune with yourself, and something like this would’ve been something you picked up on a long time ago. But he doesn’t blame you for ignoring something like this.

“You know we should probably go to an audiologist, right?” He asks.

“Yeah, I know..” You sigh, cuddling into him further, as if you can hide away from the entire world.

“I’ll take you,” he says gently, not wanting you to worry about going alone or being anxious. You’ll be anxious anyways, but maybe he could help. And he will help, his fingers always brushing against your skin, making sure you remember that he’s there and not going anywhere. It’s the best way he can help-- By making sure you’re not alone.

“Thanks..” Your voice breaks, and he frowns, his hand coming to find your cheek, pulling you into his view. The sight of you crying makes his heart squeeze.

“What’s the matter, baby?” He asks softly, his thumb wiping your tears.

“I don’t..” You bite your lip, trying to form the words. You’re not an idiot. You have done some research on Deaf culture. You knew that it was an enhancement, something to be proud of. And that was phenomenal—You had done a lot of courses in college on disability rhetoric, and you knew how important it was to reinforce positive associations with disabilities, as well as the fact that most deaf and hard of hearing people did not consider themselves disabled.

And all that pride lived inside of you—But you couldn’t help your struggle about the subject. It would take time to adjust to, and Peter.. Peter deserved an easy life. He was Spider-Man for Christ’s sake!

“I don’t want you to have to worry about me if it turns out I do have trouble hearing. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

He frowns at this, tilting his head.

“Hey,” he tilts his head, looking at you with admiration. “Did you know when I was adopted by my aunt and uncle they told them I would be a challenge to raise? That my autism and lack of social skills would make me.. harder to love..?”

“You’re not hard to love.” You immediately say, and he smiles.

“I know. My aunt and uncle proved that to me, they went into raising me knowing that I would just have different struggles as other kids my age. Even if you are heard of hearing or deaf—You’re not hard to love. You just have different experiences and struggles from other people our age. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want every part of that journey.” He leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead. It makes you smile a bit. “Now, no more tears. Let’s watch a movie, and we’ll start our research tomorrow, okay?” He hums.

You nod and grab the throw blanket behind him, pulling it across the pair of you as he grabs the remote and turns on your favorite movie. His hands stay on you, rubbing comforting patterns into your skin.

He turns the subtitles on without you asking.

• • •

The audiologist office has lights that are too bright. You and Peter sit side by side, as you look around at the other patients. Your chest tightens as you realize you are surrounded by people in their 70’s and 80’s—Except for you, a twenty something year old, a young boy, around seven, and a teenage girl. You all share similar looks of discomfort, but in your anxiety, you notice that there’s a sense of.. familiarity in seeing people your age here.

You decide to put a pin in your thoughts, as Peter’s hand finds your thigh, and you glance back over to him. In the past two weeks, He’s been giving more physical cues to get your attention, a small way he’s trying to make you feel more comfortable.

“Stop bouncing your leg,” he says softly, “You’re just working yourself up.” He says gently. You nod, and then your name is called, so you gather your things, and before you go, Peter grabs your wrist, before throwing up the sign in ASL for ‘I love you’. You grin and throw it back, before following the nurse into the back.  

Peter waits, for around half an hour, making sure not to draw too much attention to himself. He makes pleasant conversation with two of the older ladies who are there, after finding out that they all grew up in Queens.

After that half hour, you come back out of the back rooms of the office, and Peter grins at you as he says a quick, respectful goodbye to the two older women, before handing you your jacket.

The pair of you stay quiet until you’re out of the office, and only when you’re a few steps away does he slip his jacket on before asking,

“How’d it go?” And with this, he clumsily signs along. The pair of you have been practicing ASL—Short phrases here and there.

You hesitate for an answer, going into your bag and fishing out a small ASL dictionary. Inside, in his sort of messy handwriting, Peter has written you a note that you take a glance at every time you open it. It reads, ‘Don’t forget I love you’, and it never fails to make you smile.

Another challenge you’ve been facing in your journey to learn ASL is your facial expressions—You’ve never been good at properly matching your face to your emotions or words, so it’s been a struggle.

“Fine,” You speak and sign. Then you pause. “Actually, not fine.” You sign, and then you drop the signing, because you’re only a beginner. “It’s sort of what we expected—My hearing is.. bad, and will probably get worse as I age.” His hand finds yours.

“Okay.. What did he say about hearing aids?”

“That If I felt like I needed them to schedule a follow-up.” You tell him. “But they’re expensive and I’ll need to do research to see what sort of health insurance coverage I have.”

He nods gently, his thumb rubbing your knuckles gently.

“Well, we’re gonna cross that bridge when we get there, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He throws up the sign for ‘I love you’. You throw it back. And it might seem stupid, but every time Peter holds up that sign, your heart melts a little bit. Maybe it’s a low bar or something like that—And it’s true. But Peter is learning a whole new language for the sake of making sure you’re comfortable and for your comfort. No one has ever done anything close to that for you.

• • •

Peter has become in tune with your body. Which is a weird way to say it, but it’s true. Those heightened senses of his come in handy, and mostly, he watches for tension in your shoulders and your jaw, perfect indicators that your ears hurt.

Usually, it’s this painful ringing, and usually, Peter just tries to make you as cozy as possible while you ride that out.

But tonight, you’re at a family party, celebrating your sister’s birthday. She’s getting married in a few months, and she’s been so busy with that you haven’t seen a lot of her. Peter holds your gift for her in one hand, and your hand in his with the other.

The party goes well for the most part, you’re just relaxing and hanging out with your family. It’s a nice party, and you’re grateful for your entire family. Your mom holds your nephew in her lap, your sister laughs with your aunts and her fiancé, and your brother and uncle are yapping about some football game.

You, Peter, and your stepdad stand in the kitchen, talking about all sorts of things. Your sister’s wedding, the cruise he just took your mom on, Peter’s recent promotion, and of course..

“Have you considered hearing aids?” Your stepdad asks.

“Yeah, they’re just.. expensive.” You laugh, nervously.

Your stepdad gently taps his own ears, “Well, you’d be part of an elite club.” He grins.

You roll your eyes playfully, before your attention is grabbed by a tugging on the leg of your pants. You glance down, and see your young nephew, gazing up at you with wide eyes.

“What can I do for you, little man?” You ask, a hand coming up to brush hair from his face. He says something you can’t quite make out, so you put your drink on the counter and crouch down to hear him properly, tapping right below your ear, “One more time, bud.”

“Can Peter come play?” He asks, still a little shy around the man you’ve been dating for a while now. You grin and nod,

“Of course he can.” You glance up to Peter, then to your nephew. “What do you wanna play?”

“Dinosaurs.” He requests. So, you pick him up and turn to Peter.

“Peter, our friend here would like to play dinosaurs with you.” You grin.

The way your hair falls into place, the way you hold your nephew close, the way your smile pinches your eyes together.. Peter wishes he could freeze this moment forever because you look perfect.

“Dinosaurs?” he repeats, before grabbing your nephew from you, and then positioning him so that he’s riding on Peter’s back. “Dude, I love dinosaurs!” that’s the last thing you can make out as Peter carries him off to the living room to play dinosaurs. You watch with an affectionate smile, taking small sips of your drink.

“So… Nice kid..” Your mom says as she walks into the kitchen.

You assume she’s talking about your nephew, so you shrug, “He is a good kid.”

“No, I’m talking about Peter.” Your face flushes as you realize where this is going.

“What about Peter?” You hum, looking over to her.

“I’m just saying, I think—”

“You two are gross together.” Your stepdad chimes in, but there’s no malice behind his comment. In fact, you only laugh because it’s something you used to say to them when they started dating.

“Yeah, I know,” You hum. “I really love him.” You confess, before shrugging.

“You know, with your sister’s wedding coming up, I’ve been thinking a lot about—” Your face flushes, as you finish your drink.

“When Peter and I are ready to get married, you two will be the first to know.”

“Oh, so you do wanna marry him.” Your mom smiles. Your face is warmer now.

“I’m gonna go mingle, you two should try minding your own business.”

You find Peter rather quickly, and he just smirks at you, before signing, ‘Talking about marriage?’

You roll your eyes, signing back, ‘Shut up.’ He just puckers his lips and blows a kiss at you. He wants to marry you too.

• • •

After dinner and cake, you sit in your old bedroom, rubbing your ears as you try and come up with an excuse to leave.

Peter finds you a few minutes later and sits next to you on your bed. You lean into him, your eyes heavy from dealing with the ringing you’ve been dealing with.

He gently prompts you to pick your head up before signing, ‘Ringing again?’

You just nod.

“Pete, I wanna go home.” You tell him. Your brother and nephew left a little while ago, and downstairs, your aunts and uncles are getting ready to head home.

“I know, baby. Let’s get you home.” He hums softly. He gently rubs his hand up and down your arm, before pressing a sweet kiss to your neck. Then, one at the base of your ear.

• • •

A few days later, you’re just doing chores around the apartment when your phone buzzes. When you take a minute to glance at it, you find yourself grinning.

It’s the link to an article, sent to you by your mom—Besides Peter, she has been the greatest support through your journey in figuring out you’re hearing. And she knows you have a bias towards Spider-man as far as vigilantes go (wonder why).

The link leads you to a photo of Spider-man, who is swinging across the city, holding up the sign for ‘I love you’. A grin breaks out on your face, just in time for Peter to crawl back into the apartment.

You find him with his mask off as he starts to calm down from a long day, and before he can do much else, you make your way over to him and pull him in for a long kiss.

He hums, his hands finding your waist as your arms wrap around his neck. When you pull away he grins.

“Hi.” He hums.

“Hey..” you smile. “I didn’t know Spider-man knew sign language,” You tease, and he just laughs, a light pink dusting of blush across his cheeks.

“He knows it for you.”

“For me?”

“For you, baby,” he leans in and kisses you gently. His hands begin to travel from your waist to the hem of your shirt, and then up, resting his gloved fingers against the skin of your sides.

• • •

Your hearing aids come in just in time for your sister’s wedding.

You pick them up and hold them in your hands as you go back and forth, worrying. Worrying about Peter not liking them, worrying about breaking them, worrying about everything, really.

But you stand in front of the mirror, and put them on carefully, before turning them on. You take a moment to adjust to how certain sounds are now. The drip of the faucet is more pronounced, and the sounds don’t just melt together like they usually do.

You can even hear Peter shuffling around outside, giving you as much time as you need to process the look and feel of them. When you finally step out, you’re nervous, and he must be able to tell.

“Look at you,” he grins, peering at the hearing aids. “Can we get a spin?” You immediately let out a nervous giggle, and then do a little twirl for him, and he just laughs and claps.

“You like them?” You ask nervously, and he nods.

“Absolutely.” He tells you. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, right next to your hearing aids. “I have something for you.” he tells you, before handing you a small black box. For a moment, you freak out. He probably senses the panic and shakes his head, “Just open it.”

You do, and when you realize what you’re looking at, your heart absolutely melts. It’s a gold star earing that has a chain that hooks onto your hearing aid, and another chain with more star pendants that dangle. It’s gorgeous, and you wonder what you did to deserve him. You lean in and kiss him gently.

“Thank you.” You say softly, and he can tell you’re going to get emotional, so he kisses you again.

“I think you look very pretty.” He hums, “Complete.” You grin and lean in for another kiss.

You’re beginning to feel it, too.

• • •

The morning of your sister’s wedding, you’re texting Peter as your sister gets her makeup done. You’re pretty much all ready, you’re just inclined to stay with her until she needs you.

‘Bug Boy

2:24

Attachment: One Image’

The look of Peter in his suit makes your heart melt.

‘Sugar

2:26

you look very handsome, pete <3’

‘Bug Boy

2:26

Aw, thank you, sugar. Do I get a photo of you or do I have to wait?’

‘Sugar

2:27

nope! gotta wait.’

‘Bug Boy

2:30

: (‘

‘Bug Boy

2:33

How are your hearing aids feeling?’

‘Sugar

2:35

good! they’re helping with all the commotion. i’m glad i got them before the wedding’

‘Bug Boy

2:36

Me too. I love you. See you soon?’

‘Sugar

2:37

see you soon <3 i love you.’

 You wear all black, as per her request, and you ask her a few days before if it’s okay if you wear your hearing aids, mostly because you don’t want the attention on you if you must answer a bunch of questions about your hearing aids.

But she’s more than happy to have you wear them, especially if it means you can hear everything that’s happening, and that your ears won’t ring.

The gold hearing aid jewelry goes well with your outfit, and you’re anxious to see Peter again—You’ve been so busy getting ready and helping your sister get ready that you haven’t given him a chance to see your fancy new outfit.

Just before the ceremony, as your sister is having her first look with her soon to be husband, you manage to sneak away, finding Peter mingling with your extended family, enjoying a drink, and eating some appetizers. Your spider boy and his appetite.

You tap on his shoulder when he’s alone, and he turns and quite literally gasps at the sight of you.

“Look what we have here,” he hummed, his hands running down the sides of your outfit. Then, he puts his drink down and begins to sign while speaking, “You look gorgeous. Your jewelry looks lovely.” He grins.

You blush, before signing back, “You don’t think it looks weird or clunky?”

“No,” He shakes his head, “You’re glowing,” he tells you, leaning into place a soft kiss on your lips.

“I love you,” You sign, “Do you want this?”

Your question catches him off guard, and he signs back,

“What?”

“This,” You gesture to the area around you. “A big wedding.”

His answer is simple but effective—

“I want whatever kind of wedding you want.”

“Even if I want big obnoxious flowers and a big ugly pastry gown?”

“Even if you want all that. Although..” He trails off, shrugging his shoulders.

“Although?” You question.

“I always imagined you in something simple. Something that shows off your features, not outshines them… And now, your little stars and hearing aids to go along with it..” He hums, grinning at your reddening face. “And pink tulips.”

“Pink tulips?”

“To go with the white roses.” He hums. You never really thought of Peter as a guy to have dreams and plans for his wedding, but he’s full of surprises. You know that better than anybody else.

“I love you.” You say softly, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. On your side, the flash of a light goes off and you start to giggle when you realize that one of the many photographers your sister has hired, and you realize that the photos of you and Peter will forever be known as from your sister’s wedding when you were just dating.

“I love you,” he hums as he holds up the sign for it. “How much time do you have before the ceremony starts?”

“Twenty minutes?”

“..Plenty of time.” He has this wicked grin on his face. Your face flushes, before you take his hand, letting him drag you off to a quiet corner of the venue.

“You better not ruin my hair or my makeup, spider boy.”

“I’ll be nice and gentle- I can be mean and rough later.”

“Peter Parker, I swear to god—”

He cuts you off by pressing you against the wall of an elevator, and as the door closes, he runs his fingers over your hearing aids, before pressing another kiss to your lips.