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alnilaem · 9 months ago

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a more fleshed-out version from the third prompt of this post of mine.

cw for emotional manipulation, breaking in, stalking, smut, babytrapping, and dubcon to be safe

simon riley/reader

Something is wrong.

Your suitcase is halfway past the threshold of your front door, halfway past your new grave, when you notice the hum of salt and tobacco in the air. Discomfort licks your insides and binds to your skin so heavily that you begin to sweat. A tinny sound peals out as you rearrange your keys between your knuckles, clenching it, and step inside your flat.

Your heels are at the foot of your shoe rack. Your coat isn’t where it’s supposed to be, crimped in a pool on the floor. Your framed photographs are all inched to the left—you know this because you committed their placement to your memory—because you feared this would happen.

Something is seriously, gravely wrong.

You feel like you’re lost at sea. Dull-headed and impaired under the alluring melody of a blood-thirsty siren. Walking towards their call, your legs moving before your mind can, spit in the presentiment of fear the same way insects get caught in spiderwebs. Stuck, and about to be eaten.

You trek further into your flat, following the telltale signs that someone has been here—is here. A general shift in air. The stench of stale herbs and metal. A trail of silt on your hardwood floors, that of which could only be caused by certain mud-clogged boots tracking into your flat.

Here, you pause. On the threshold of your kitchen. Your stomach turns inside out and if it weren’t for your ribs, your heart would have burst out of your chest.

It’s like you’re walking on glass. Every thin sliver that pokes your skin, invading you, is a splinter of fear. And it also makes it so that you can’t walk away—you’re frozen in place, watching him above your stove, setting a kettle to boil.

He hears your squeak. Simon turns around, cotton-plated in his civvies, and hums.

“Welcome home, Love.”

The moisture leaves your mouth and rushes to your eyes. A film of dew materialises on top of your waterline. It’s thick and pearlescent and clouds your vision, turns Simon into an incorporeal blob in your vision, turning him into a trick of your eyes that you hope will go away after you blink.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Simon rests himself against your kitchen counter. He crosses his tattooed arms over his chest, tilting his head, and bends his lips into an unseemly smile.

“How was your friend’s place?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Simon?” You try getting your anger across, but your voice betrays your emotions. It’s heavily distorted by fear, waning, so much so that it makes him blandly chuckle. Like he can smell the terror roiling off of you. Like he feeds from it.

“How did you get in?”

Simon shrugs. “I’ve got a copy of the key.”

“I changed the damn locks.”

“I got new ones,” he says.

“We broke up.”

“You broke up with me,” Simon snarls. “When I was at my fuckin’ lowest. You broke up with me and I didn’t agree to tha’ shit.”

“Simon–” a gust of disbelief cuts your sentence short. You grip your hair at its roots, tugging it, twisting it, coiling your face in frustration. “Simon, you need to leave.”

“You’re talkin’ like that ‘cause you’re mad at me. Give it a few minutes, and you won’t be.”

“Are you fucking insane!?” You yell. You draw towards him and slam the kettle off the stove. “You broke into my flat!”

“I had a key,” Simon says. He steps towards you, bullying you backwards until the hind of your spine catches on the cold granite of your countertop. Until your back bends over it, Simon, looming over you. “I’ve always told you to use the deadbolt.”

You bite your lip. The blood sticking to the roof of your mouth isn’t as bitter as Simon’s eyes. His are cold, depthless.

“Fuck off.”

Then, Simon flips. His expression shifts in a whirlwind of seconds. Now, his brunette eyebrows are pursed and his lips are pointed down. His head is ensconced on your neck, his shoulder suddenly laden with an invisible weight as he kittens into you.

“Just came ‘cause I wanted to talk…” he mumbles. “One a’ my men died on me yesterday. Got early R&R for it. Thought you’d be happy to see me...”

You’re motionless as Simon clemently begins kissing your neck. You split your hands on his chest and try shoving him away, but he doesn’t move. He’s as solid as rock. Pushing himself into you, grovelling into your sleek skin.

A phantom chain is tightening around your throat. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you can say. You feel that with any words that poise themselves on your tongue, Simon won’t take kindly to.

“Simon… I’m sorry for you. I really am,” you slip out from under him and step back. “But this isn’t the way to go about it. We’re adults. And I’m asking you to leave.”

Simon raises his head, lukewarm. He stares at you through his half-lidded eyes, breathing heavily, clenching his fist around the lip of your countertop. Thickly, you swallow. You fidget with your cardigan and hope it will offset the discomfort hanging in the air. Simon takes a deep breath, sucking it all up—the discomfort, the presentiment—and you expect his huffing to precede an explosive reaction, but it doesn’t come. He just slips himself off the island and turns around, quiet when he speaks.

“Yeah,” he hums. “My old man didn’t want anythin’ to do with me, so why should you?”

Your eyes widen. Though you’ve spent so much time trying to bury it, trying to familiarise yourself with Simon’s sick gambits, a pang of guilt hits you hard.

“Don’t say things like that,” you point an accusing finger to his chest, “it isn’t fair.”

“No, no,” he grumbles. “Makes sense, does’n’it? My old man walked out on me, so I should handle you walking out on me, too.”

Simon shudders with a long breath. He slaps his face into his hands, and it’s at this point, does your knee-jerk impulse to comfort him take hold of you. The last of your even-tempered brain screams at you—he’s trying to ply you with a humanised side of him, but that side died a long time ago—but you press forward and awkwardly bring him into your arms, patting him on the back.

“Simon, I’m… sorry, okay?” He buries his head in your neck, nips at your skin. “I’m sorry.”

“Can’t you jus’ yell at me tomorrow?” He asks. Simon slips his hands into the depression of your waist, pulling you against his chest. Against the ever-rising tent of his jeans.

Your mind protests, but Simon keeps you close. He stinks of sweat, impairing you with it, spinning you around and pushing you against the counter.

“Simon–”

“Shhh,” he hums, catching his fingers on the hem of your leggings. “Y’said we can talk later. ’m tired, Love. Just need you right now.”

Any protests rot on your tongue because the wind is knocked out of you as you’re folded over the counter. Simon’s hands travel, gripping every part of you, rekindling old bruises left behind and making space for new ones.

He ruts into you, cock fattening in his boxers and stressing against his jeans. He slides a hand over the divots of your spine and bends it around your neck, hoisting your head back, huffing into your ear.

“You’ve no idea how much I missed y’Love,” Simon’s humping you now. Rutting himself against your ass with unrestrained vigour. He bites the husk of your ear, flattens you against the counter, and sinks a hand below your waistband. He spreads your pussy open like the shell of a fruit, pushing his thick fingers into its flesh, knuckle-deep and kneading you.

“How’s here?” He grumbles. You whine, and he twists himself deeper. “What about there?”

Your mind and body wrestle between pushing him away and yielding under his touch. Simon fucks his fingers a little deeper, a little meaner, into you, and chuckles when you squeal.

He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you see a sliver of bared teeth as his lips hitch up into a gnarled smile. “Ah, so that’s the spot, innit?”

You’re dew-skinned and fuzzy when Simon throws you over his shoulder, carrying you to your bedroom. Your tongue is heavy and numb and bootless against any objections as he throws you on the mattress, standing balefully at the foot of the bed.

If you were a child, you’d hide under your sheets until he disappeared. But you’re not a child, and Simon doesn’t disappear. He sinks his knees into your bed and swipes his shirt off over his head, unbuckling his belt in one slick motion.

He unzips his jeans and doesn’t even pull his balls out, just cups the gauze of his boxers beneath it and leans onto his hands.

A pearlescent bead of precum slips down the slit of Simon’s dick and drools onto your comforter. He wraps his hand around it, slips his palm up and down, tugging down your pants.

Your legs kick into a paltry complaint, but Simon pins your legs down.

“No reason in fighting,” he says, rubbing his cockhead against your clit, “You’re so wet, Love.”

Simon nudges your panties to the side and thumbs your clit. Leans in for a biting kiss and swallows your moans, slapping his fat cock against your puffy, wet cunt.

“Missed me just as bad, eh?” He huffs, setting his dick against your winking hole, pushing past your first ring of muscle and rolling at the sticky sound of your cunt spreading open.

“Simon–” you hic, latching onto his forearms. Trying to offset his bruising grip on your hips as he falls into a steady, deep rhythm. “At least wear a condom.”

He’s so thick, so heavy between your legs. Hoisting you onto his thighs and leaning over you, snapping his cock into you. He screws his face tight, pellets of sweat running down his marred collarbone. Congealing into the spindly, blonde threads of hair on his chest. Down to the wire of steel wool that thickens on his pelvis, pinching your clit each time he slams into you.

“You’re stayin’ with me, Pup,” he pants, kissing a stripe up your neck, suckling on your pebbled nipple. “Gonna gimme a litter, ain’t you? Just like we talked about?”

A little, lone tear slips down your hot cheek. Simon leans in and licks it off. He stuffs himself to the hilt, shuddering with abrupt pleasure as he skips to his feet and folds you in half, pounding into you, biting down on your shoulder.

It hits you like whiplash when Simon pushes himself so deep that you feel him swelling under your skin. He gives you no warning before emptying his balls inside you, flooding you with a white-hot come, clutching your jaw into a wet, messy kiss.

You’re blinded and eclipsed by pain as your orgasm shoots through you. The pleasure is numbing and makes you quiver, tremble, until you’re gushing around Simon’s cock and swivelling your hips to get away.

You’re shaking when he pulls back, giving your pussy no time to soften. Simon gives it a swat and flays himself off of you, heading to the bathroom. You hear the cellophane of your birth control peeling open, and the successive thunk as Simon tosses it into the bin.

You try getting up but Simon flattens you back as he crawls in bed next to you. There’s a hand of his on your waist, seemingly benign, but tightens itself each time you try slipping away. Your sniffles are piercing and Simon pulls you close. Brushes your tears away, kisses your eyelids.

“You’re not gonna leave me now, eh? You can’t,” he whispers, “you’re all I’ve got. You and our baby. You can’t leave me now.”

A pitiful cry escapes you. Simon takes that as agreement.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost smut #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost/reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 #writing #simon riley/reader #simon riley smut #ghost writing #orion writing

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joelmillerisapunk · 5 months ago

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Howdy Honey I. can't get you off my mind

series masterlist masterlist

wordcount: 6,709

summary: After a tumultuous fall from your horse that leaves you with a fractured wrist and bruised ribs, you find solace in the strong arms and gentle care of Joel Miller, the new ranch hand whose rugged exterior hides a tender heart.

warnings: mentions of falling, fracture, eventual smut, slowburn, age-gap, some fluff, two stubborn people falling in love, angst, from both your and Joel's pov

notes: First of all thank you to all of you for supporting the masterlist, I am absolutely blown away! I appreciate the heck out of you all so very much! <3 <3 Second thank you sm to @joelslegalwhre and @mountainsandmayhem for screaming with me about all of this ily both <3 Third I wrote this after my own experiences falling off a horse and being carried by a hot cowboy at work. K I'm gonna go panic, love you all bye. gif is by @tomshiddles divider by @saradika-graphics

The sun is high and unforgiving, casting a golden hue over the sprawling acres of your family's ranch—a place where the West still feels wild and untamed. The ranch, nestled in a valley surrounded by rugged mountains, is a patchwork of green pastures, dotted with grazing cattle and horses. The main house, a sturdy two-story structure with a wraparound porch, stands proudly at the heart of the property, its whitewashed walls and red roof are like a beacon for the lost amidst the vast expanse of land. You can always find your way back home.

To the east lies the stables, a long, low building with enough room to house two dozen horses comfortably. Its wooden walls have weathered to a soft gray, and the scent of hay and horse is always present in the air. Just beyond the stables is the equipment barn, filled with tractors, balers, and all manner of tools necessary for maintaining the ranch. The sound of metal clanging against metal often echoes from within as ranch hands tend to repairs or prepare for the day's work. A little further out is the chicken coop, bustling with activity as hens peck at the ground and roosters crow their morning greetings.

On the southern end of the ranch, a series of fenced-in training pens are set up for breaking in new horses or for practicing roping skills. It's here that you often find the newly hired ranch hand, Joel Miller, expertly mending a section of split-rail fence or guiding a young colt through its paces with patience and skill honed over decades.

You've grown up with the scent of hay and the sound of hooves on dirt, a life that's as much a part of you as the blood in your veins. Recently, your parents brought on a few new ranch hands, a decision driven not only by their advancing years and a growing wanderlust but also, you suspect, by a desire to ensure you're well looked after in their absence. It didn't seem to matter how many times you'd promised that you and [name] the very first and only other person hired to help around, could take care of the ranch - they never let go of the fact you weren't five anymore.

Today you find yourself working a little less hard because of Joel Miller, the new ranch hand that looks like he stepped straight out of a Western movie. You watch him from afar as you make your way to take your horse out, his muscles straining against his plaid shirt as he repairs a section of fencing. He moves with an easy grace despite his age and broad build. His salt-and-pepper hair peeks out from under his worn cowboy hat, and you can't help but feel a pull towards him, something beyond the usual respect for a seasoned hand.

The ranch is alive with activity as you prepare Daisy for her daily run. The horses in the nearby pasture lift their heads at your approach, their ears pricked with curiosity. Daisy nickers softly, her tail swishing in anticipation as you lead her out of her stall and toward the open pasture. As you trot along one of the well-worn trails, you pass by landmarks that tell stories of your family's history; there's an old rusted tractor from your grandfather's time, now half-buried in wildflowers; a grove where you used to play hide-and-seek with your siblings; and further on, an ancient stone marker placed by settlers who once claimed this land as their own. Each sight brings back memories that are as much a part of you as they are a part of this place.

But today, these familiar sights are merely blurs in your peripheral vision as Daisy gallops across the landscape. The wind whips through your hair, and you feel a rush of adrenaline as the horse's muscles move powerfully beneath you. It's in these moments that you feel most at peace, in harmony with the natural world around you.

Suddenly, a sharp cry from Daisy breaks the rhythm of her gait. You pull sharply on the reins as a jackrabbit darts out from the underbrush, its sudden appearance startling her. In an instant, your peaceful ride turns to chaos. Daisy rears up, her eyes wide with fear, and you're thrown from the saddle, the world a blur of blue sky and golden earth. The impact is jarring, knocking the breath from your lungs as you hit the ground hard. Pain radiates from your side and arm. As you lie there, struggling to catch your breath, Daisy gallops away towards the safety of the stables, leaving you alone in a cloud of dust.

The sun beats down mercilessly upon you as waves of pain wash over your body. You try to move but find that even breathing is a challenge. You try to push yourself up, but a wave of nausea forces you back down. It's then that you hear the pounding of hooves approaching fast and boots hitting the ground.

"Easy there, easy," a familiar voice drawls as strong hands gently roll you onto your back. Joel's face swims into view, his brow furrowed with concern. "Looks like ya had a bit of a tumble, darlin'. Can you tell me where it hurts?" His voice is deep and soothing, cutting through the haze of pain. You manage to point to your side, wincing as he carefully probes the area. "Just bruised, I reckon," he says after a moment, his touch is surprisingly gentle for such calloused hands. "Your arm too. We should get ya back to the house. Might have t'see the doctor."

Over my dead body, you think to yourself.

With surprising ease, Joel scoops you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest. You can't help but notice the warmth radiating from his body. It's an intimacy that makes your breath hitch in your throat—a sensation that has nothing to do with your injuries.

"Gave me quite the scare there darlin," Joel remarks as he carries you towards his waiting horse. His tone is light but there's an undercurrent of something else—affection? worry? "What were you thinkin’ taking Daisy out alone after that storm last night? These trails can be treacherous."

You want to argue that you're capable and don't need help, that it was just a routine ride and something spooked Daisy but arguing takes energy—energy that's currently in short supply thanks to the pain radiating from your side and shooting through your arm. Instead you murmur a weak apology. "Didn't think it’d be a problem."

Joel chuckles softly. "Well, I reckon that's part of the adventure, ain't it? Never quite knowing what the day's gonna bring." He adjusts his hold on you slightly, his grip firm yet careful. "But next time, maybe wait for someone to come with you. Safety in numbers and all that."

As he settles you onto his horse, he keeps a steady hand on your back, “you okay darlin?” He asks, making sure you're secure before you nod and he swings up behind you as gently as he can. The closeness is overwhelming; his body is a solid wall of heat at your back, and you can feel the muscles in his thighs as they grip the horse's flanks. It's a strange mix of vulnerability and safety, being so close to this man who just (weeks/days?) ago was a little more than a stranger.

The ride back to the ranch is a blur of sensations—the rhythmic sway of the horse beneath you, the scent of leather and sweat mingling with Joel's unique aroma of woodsmoke and something undeniably masculine. You find yourself leaning into him without thinking, seeking comfort in his strength.

"Almost there," Joel reassures you as the house comes into view. His breath is warm against your ear, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. "We'll get some ice on those bruises and take a look at you."

Once at the ranch house, he carries you inside and sets you down gently on the living room couch crouching beside you to remove your boots. His fingers brush against your skin accidentally as he works them off one by one—a touch that sends sparks racing along your nerves despite yourself and despite any rational thought about how much older he is than you. You quickly blink them away.

"Ice pack," he commands firmly but kindly before disappearing into the kitchen. You hear the clinking of ice being scooped from the freezer.

As Joel returns from the kitchen, the air in the room shifts subtly. He kneels beside you on the couch, his movements deliberate and gentle. "This might be a bit cold at first," he warns, his voice carrying a hint of gruffness that hadn't been there before.

You nod, bracing yourself for the shock of cold. But when he lifts the hem of your shirt to expose your bruised side, the brush of his fingers against the sensitive skin of your stomach sends an unexpected wave of heat coursing through you. It's a clinical touch, meant only to aid in your recovery, but the proximity of his hands to the curves of your body is not lost on you.

He places the makeshift ice pack against your side, the cold seeping your body. You can't help the sharp intake of breath as the icy chill envelops the tender area. Joel's eyes flick to yours, concern etched across his features.

"Sorry, darlin'," he murmurs, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. "I know it's uncomfortable, but it'll help with the swelling."

You give him a small, reassuring smile, trying to convey that you understand—that you appreciate his attentiveness. As he holds the ice pack in place, his other hand comes to rest on your hip, a steady presence that seems to anchor you amidst the discomfort.

The room is silent save for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock and the occasional crackle of ice as it begins to melt against your skin. You can feel the heat of Joel's palm through the fabric of your jeans, and you find yourself acutely aware of every point of contact between you.

After a few minutes, he slowly lifts the ice pack away, his eyes scanning your side with a practiced eye. "How does it feel now?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to resonate within you.

"A bit better," you admit, the pain having dulled to a manageable ache.

He nods, his attention still focused on your injury. With a gentle touch that belies his rugged exterior, he traces the edge of the bruise with his fingers, his touch feather-light yet firm. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, and you find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his next move.

"You're gonna be sore for a few days," he says. "But I think you'll live."

As he withdraws his hand, you feel an odd sense of loss, as if the warmth of his touch had become a lifeline in the midst of your pain. You watch as he rises to his feet, his tall frame casting a shadow over you.

"Thank you, Joel," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. The words feel inadequate, but they're all you have to offer in this moment.

The corners of Joel's mouth twitch into a small smile, and he gives a nod, turning back towards the kitchen

While he's gone, you take the opportunity to study him from afar as he walks through the open room to the kitchen. There's an air of quiet strength about him, a sense of resilience. You find yourself wondering about his past—where he came from, what brought him here to your family's ranch. But those questions will have to wait for another time; right now, just talking and moving is enough of a challenge without adding an interrogation into the mix.

Joel returns with a glass of water and some painkillers. "Here," he says gently, helping you sit up enough to swallow the pills before lying back down against the cushions with a wince at the sharp pain in your side again.

“Rest up now," Joel instructs. “I'll take care of things around here for the rest of the day. You just focus on healin.”

You drift in and out of sleep on the couch and everytime you drift out you see Joel lingering around keeping watch over you like some kind old west guardian angel dressed in denim.

As the day wanes and the shadows grow long across the hardwood floors, you stir from your uneasy slumber. The pain in your side is a dull roar now, thanks to the medication Joel provided. You blink slowly, your eyes adjusting to the dim light of the living room. The ranch is quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old house settling and the distant sound of Joel's voice as he talks to one of the horses in the stable.

Your heart flutters at the thought of him—his rugged features, his gentle touch, and those eyes that seem to see right through you. It's a dangerous path your thoughts are taking, but you can't help it. There's something about Joel that draws you in, despite the years between you.

The front door opens with a soft squeak, and Joel steps inside, his boots leaving a trail of dust on the floorboards. He looks weary but satisfied, his shirt damp with sweat from a hard day's work. His gaze finds you instantly, and a warm smile spreads across his face.

"You're awake," he observes needlessly as he approaches. "How're you feeling?"

"Sore," you admit with a small grimace as you try to sit up straighter on the couch. "But better than before." You didn't want to admit how bad your arm was actually killing you.

Joel nods in approval before disappearing into the kitchen again—a man of few words but many actions. He returns a bit later with a steaming mug in hand and offers it to you carefully so as not to spill any on your lap.

"Chamomile tea," he explains gruffly when he sees your questioning look at what seems like an unusual choice for someone like him, someone who seems more accustomed to strong black coffee than herbal infusions. "It'll help with any lingering pain and help ya sleep."

You take a tentative sip; making sure to grab the cup with your good hand it's sweetened just how you like it—a small detail that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly because it means he's been paying attention even when he didn’t have to be. The warmth seeps into your hands as much as into your insides making everything feel less daunting all at once despite your injuries.

The evening settles in, casting a cozy glow over the living room. The ranch is quiet, the animals bedded down for the night, and the chores all done. Joel lingers, his presence a comforting constant in the otherwise empty house. He settles into the armchair across from you, the lines of his face softened by the dim light.

"You should eat somethin’," he suggests, already rising from his chair. "I'll fix ya up a plate."

Before you can protest, he's back in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes and the smell of food wafting through the air. You can't help but smile at his insistence. It's been a long time since anyone has taken care of you like this.

Joel returns with a tray balanced in one hand—a simple meal of soup and a sandwich, cut into manageable pieces. He sets it down on the coffee table, pulling it closer to you. "Eat up," he urges, his tone gentle but firm. "You need to keep your strength up."

As you eat, he watches you, his gaze never straying far. It's an odd sensation, being the focus of such intense attention, but you find yourself not minding it. There's a sense of security in his watchfulness, a feeling that you're not alone in this big house.

When you've finished eating, Joel takes the tray away, leaving you to sip your tea in peace. The painkillers are starting to wear off, and as you move to adjust your position on the couch, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your arm, causing you to yelp in surprise and discomfort.

Joel, who has been quietly cleaning up the remnants of dinner in the kitchen, is at your side in an instant. "What is it?" he asks, his voice laced with concern. "Did you move wrong?"

"It's my arm," you admit through gritted teeth, cradling the injured limb with your other hand. "I think I might have aggravated it."

With a nod, Joel gently takes your arm in his hands, his touch firm yet gentle. He probes the area with practiced ease, watching your face for any signs of pain. When he reaches a particular spot, you can't help but flinch, a hiss escaping your lips. “Shh, I know. Easy, easy," he soothes you like a wounded animal, before releasing your arm. His brow is furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't like the look of this. Could be broken, or at least badly sprained. We need to get you to a doctor first thing in the mornin’."

"I'm sure it's fine, Joel," you argue weakly, not wanting to cause a fuss. "It's probably just a bad bruise. I'll be okay after a good night's sleep."

But Joel is having none of it. "No, it ain't fine," he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You could be doin’ more damage by not getting it checked out. I'll drive you to the clinic myself in the morning. This ain’t up for debate."

You know that look on his face—it's the same one he wears when he's dealing with a stubborn horse or a difficult piece of machinery. There's no point in trying to dissuade him when he's made up his mind. And truthfully, the idea of having a professional assess your injuries is somewhat of a relief.

"Alright," you relent with a sigh, the fight draining out of you. "I'll go to the doctor in the morning."

Joel's expression softens, and he gives your good shoulder a gentle squeeze. "That's the smart choice, darlin'. We'll get you fixed up in no time."

As he moves away to finish tidying up the kitchen, you find yourself watching him, a mix of gratitude and something deeper swirling within you. Despite the pain and the uncertainty of your injuries, you can't help but feel a sense of safety and comfort with Joel around. You're taken from your thoughts when Joel comes back into the living room. "I should be gettin’ home," Joel says after a while, his voice low and reluctant. "But I'll be back first thing to check on you."

You nod, trying to hide your disappointment. The house feels too big, too empty to be without him in it. "I'll be okay, Joel," you assure him, trying not to worry him, though the words taste like a stale cigarette on your tongue. "Thank you for everything."

He gives you a long, searching look before nodding slowly. "Alright then," he says, rising from his chair. "You remember what I said about not pushin’ yourself too hard?"

"Yes," you reply with a small smile. "Rest and recovery."

"That's right," he affirms, pulling on his jacket. "And don't hesitate to call me if you need anything—no matter the time."

You watch as he heads for the door, his silhouette framed by the night outside. Just before he steps out into the darkness, he turns back to you, his eyes reflecting the soft light of the living room. "Goodnight darlin," he says, his voice carrying a hint of something unspoken.

"Goodnight, Joel," you whisper back, the words hanging in the air long after he's gone.

The house is silent once more, save for the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner. You finish your tea and carefully set the mug aside, the warmth of it still lingering on your lips. With a sigh, you settle back against the cushions, the pain in your side a dull reminder of the day's events.

As the night deepens, you find yourself reaching for your phone, your fingers typing out a message before you can second-guess yourself.

Hey. Just wanted to say thank you again for today. I'm okay, just wanted to say thanks. Hope you got home safe.

What you really meant was, “please come back I'm fucking scared being alone.”

You hit send before you can change your mind, the message disappearing into the ether. Minutes tick by with no response, and you chide yourself for expecting otherwise. Joel is probably already asleep, or at least on his way to getting some much-needed rest after the day he's had. But just as you're about to set your phone aside and try to get some sleep yourself, it vibrates in your hand, startling you. A notification lights up the screen—a new message from Joel.

Of course. That's what I'm here for. Got home just fine. How are the ribs? Any better with the meds?

You can't help but smile at the concern in his words, the gruff affection that seems to come so naturally to him. You reply, telling him about the tea and the meal, about how much better you feel with him looking out for you.

His response is quick, as if he's been waiting by his phone for your message.

Glad to hear it. And remember, there's no rush to get back in the saddle if you're not feeling up to it. Everything will still be here when you're ready. Your health is the priority now. If there's anything I can do for you, just holler. I've got your chores covered. Take care of yourself and don't hesitate to reach out if you need anything or just want to talk about what happened.

You read his words over and over, each one a balm to the lingering ache in your side—and to the unexpected emptiness in your heart. With a contented sigh, you finally set your phone aside and close your eyes, the sound of the ranch at night lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

______________________________________________________________

The next morning, you're awakened by the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside. You rub the sleep from your eyes and glance at the clock—it's early, barely past dawn. With some effort, you manage to sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the couch, wincing at the stiffness in your muscles.

The front door opens, and Joel steps inside, his hands full of a large wicker basket. "Brought you some things," he announces, setting the basket down on the coffee table. Inside, you find an assortment of items—fresh fruit, a few paperback novels, a soft, hand-knitted blanket, and a small potted plant. "I figured you could use some company," he says, gesturing to the plant. "And the books are from my daughter's collection. She loves a good western—thought you might enjoy them."

The revelation that Joel has a daughter is something that catches you off guard, a piece of him that he kept carefully tucked away, a piece you want to know more about.

You're touched by the thoughtfulness of his gifts, each one carefully chosen to bring you comfort during your recovery. "Joel, this is... it's too much," you protest half-heartedly, even as you reach out to run your fingers over the soft wool of the blanket.

"Nonsense, darlin’," he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The way he calls you darlin’ brings heat to your cheeks, and you quickly look away, busying yourself with arranging the items in the basket. When you finally gather the courage to meet his gaze again, you find him watching you with a soft smile on his face and you assume he's forgotten about the doctor until he speaks up.

“Alright let's go.” Joel's stands up and holds a hand out to you.

You look up at him and chuckle “It's fine Joel. It barely even hurts.”

The argument is brief but intense, with you stubbornly insisting that a trip to the clinic is unnecessary despite the pain in your arm. Joel, however, is just as adamant, his concern for your well-being overriding any protests you might have.

"I ain't gonna stand by and watch you suffer when there's somethin’ that can be done about it," he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

You cross your arms defiantly, wincing as the movement sends a jolt of pain through your injured wrist. "And what's the hard way?" you challenge him, though there's a hint of amusement in your voice.

Without warning, Joel strides toward you, scooping you up into his arms before you can react. You let out a startled yelp as he hoists you over his shoulder with surprising ease, his strong hands holding you securely in place.

"Hey! Put me down!" You pound on his back with your good hand, your cheeks hot with embarrassment and indignation. But beneath the surface, there's an undeniable thrill at being so close to him—at feeling the muscles in his shoulders and back move beneath his shirt as he carries you effortlessly toward the front door.

"As soon as we get to the truck," he replies calmly, unfazed by your struggles. "We're going to see Dr. Simmons whether you like it or not."

You continue to squirm and protest as he carries you across the yard to where his truck is parked. The other ranch hands look on with barely concealed grins but wisely choose to keep their comments to themselves. They know better than to get between Joel Miller and something he's set his mind to.

With a gentleness that belies his gruff exterior, Joel sets you down on the passenger seat of the truck and buckles your seatbelt for you before closing the door and heading around to the driver's side.

Joel.

He grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white as he navigates the familiar dirt roads that lead away from the ranch. He can see you out of the corner of his eye, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the passing landscape. A vision of stubborn beauty, your jaw set in a way that makes his heart do things it hadn't done in years. He can feel the tension radiating off you—a mix of pain and frustration at being manhandled against your will. He can't blame you for being upset. If someone had picked him up and carried him off like a sack of feed, he'd be mad too. But when he saw you lying there in the dirt, hurt and vulnerable, something inside him shifted. It awakened a protective instinct that he thought had died along with Sarah.

Damn it, Joel, he chides himself. She's young enough to be your daughter. But the thought feels hollow, a weak defense against the pull he feels toward you. You’re strong, fiercely independent, and yet, there’s a vulnerability to you that calls to something deep within him, the need to care for someone - for you. He glances over at you again, taking in the delicate curve of your jaw, and the way your hair falls in waves around your shoulders, taking in the way the morning light plays across your features. You’re a sight to behold, all fire and spirit wrapped up in a package that is far too tempting for his peace of mind. Every time he looks at you, all logic seems to fly out the window. There's an undeniable connection between you, a spark that ignites whenever you're near each other. It's terrifying and exhilarating, you make him feel young again.

He risks another glance in your direction, and his heart skips a beat when he finds you watching him with those big doe eyes of yours. Joel swallows hard, forcing himself to look away before his thoughts can wander any further down that dangerous path. He needs to focus on getting through this day without letting his guard down completely.

The clinic is just up ahead now, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the early morning sun. He pulls into the parking lot and kills the engine, turning to face you with a stern expression that belies the turmoil he feels inside.

"Ready?" he asks, though it's clear from his tone that it's more of a statement than a question. He's not going to let you talk your way out of this one—not when your health is at stake.

You nod reluctantly, your gaze fixed on the clinic entrance. You're nervous; he can see it in the way your fingers worry at the hem of your shirt, in the slight tremble of your chin. He wants to reach out and wrap you in his arms, to offer some semblance of comfort, but he holds back. It wouldn't be appropriate—not here, not now. Instead, he climbs out of the truck and comes around to open your door for you, offering a hand to help you down onto solid ground.

The interior of the clinic is cool and sterile-smelling—a stark contrast to the fresh air and open spaces of the ranch. Joel checks you in at the reception desk while you sink into one of the waiting room chairs, wincing as even that small movement sends a twinge of pain through your side and arm. Joel takes a seat beside you in the waiting room, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. He can feel the tension emanating from you, a coiled spring ready to leap to action at the slightest provocation. He knows that look—it's the same one he's seen on injured animals over the years, a mix of fear and defiance. It tugs at something deep within him, a primal urge to protect those he cares about most.

He wants to say something to ease your discomfort, but words seem inadequate in the face of your pain. Instead, he reaches out tentatively, his hand hovering just above your knee before he gives in to the impulse and rests it there gently—a silent promise that he's not going anywhere.

You startle at his touch, your gaze flicking to his face in surprise. But as you meet his eyes, you see nothing but sincerity and concern reflected back at you. Slowly, deliberately, you place your own hand over his.

The waiting room is filled with the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rustle of magazines being flipped through by other patients. Joel's thumb traces idle patterns on your leg as you sit there together in silence.

"Joel," you say finally, breaking the silence that has settled between you. Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through the ambient noise like a knife. "I want to thank you - for everything."

He shakes his head dismissively, though there's a warmth in his eyes that wasn't there before. "No need for thanks," he replies gruffly. "I did what anyone else woulda done."

"No," you insist firmly, turning in your seat so that you're facing him fully now—ignoring the twinge of pain it elicits from your injuries. "Joel," you say again, your voice steady despite the pain you're clearly in. "I mean it. You've been... you've done so much for me. More than I could have asked for."

He opens his mouth to respond, to downplay his role in your care, but the words die on his lips as the nurse appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. She calls out your name, scanning the room until her eyes land on the two of you.

Reluctantly, Joel withdraws his hand from your knee, the connection between you severed as you rise to follow the nurse. He stands as well, intending to accompany you, but the nurse shakes her head. "Just the patient for now, please," she says with a polite but firm smile.

You shoot him a reassuring look over your shoulder as you follow the nurse down the hallway, leaving Joel alone with his thoughts. He sinks back into his chair, his hands clasped tightly between his knees again as he waits for you to return.

The minutes tick by slowly, each second stretching into an eternity. Joel's mind races with worry and concern. He knows the ranch like the back of his hand, can handle any crisis that comes his way—but this is different. This is about you, and the thought of you in pain, of you being afraid, is more than he can bear.

He can't shake the image of you lying in the dust after being thrown from Daisy, the fear in your eyes when you realized you couldn't get up on your own. It had been years since he'd felt that kind of raw terror, the kind that gripped your heart and squeezed until you couldn't breathe. But in that moment, with you hurt and helpless, it all came flooding back. Joel had always prided himself on his strength, both physical and emotional. He'd had to be strong after Sarah passed, but with you, he felt something shift inside him—a crack in the armor he'd spent years building up around his heart. He cared about you, more than he should. It was a truth he couldn't ignore, no matter how hard he tried. You were young, vibrant, full of potential and promise. And he, well, he was just an old cowboy with more yesterdays than tomorrows. But when he looked at you, when he saw the fire in your eyes, he felt alive in a way he hadn't in years.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when he hears your name called again. He looks up to see the nurse beckoning him forward with a gentle smile.

"You can come back now," she says, her voice soft and reassuring. "She's asking for you."

Joel's heart skips a beat at her words. He rises quickly, his boots thudding against the linoleum floor as he follows the nurse through the maze of hallways to the examination room where you're waiting. His mind races with possibilities—none of them good.

Why would they need me if everything was fine? Had something happened while you were back there? Was the injury worse than they initially thought?

The door to the examination room creaks open, and Joel steps inside, his eyes immediately going to you. You're sitting on the edge of the examination table, your face pale but composed. The relief that washes over him at seeing you unharmed is palpable; it leaves him momentarily lightheaded as he crosses the room to your side.

"What's goin on?" he asks urgently, his gaze flicking between you and the doctor who is standing nearby with a clipboard in hand. "Is everything alright?"

Dr. Simmons gives him a reassuring nod before turning his attention back to you. "I was just explaining to your friend here that it looks like she's got some bruised ribs and a fracture in her wrist," he says matter-of-factly as he jots something down on his clipboard. "We'll need to keep an eye on those ribs—make sure there's no internal bleeding or complications—but I think she'll be just fine with some rest and proper care.We gave her some pain medication before the x-ray. It may make her tired so she will need to be watched. No driving, etc. And she will need to come back in three weeks from now to get an updated x-ray of her wrist."

Joel lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, relief flooding through him like a tidal wave crashing against jagged rocks. He reaches out instinctively, taking your good hand in his own as he listens intently while Dr. Simmons goes over your care instructions.

Once the doctor finishes his instructions and hands over the prescription, Joel helps you down from the examination table, his hand at the small of your back providing a steady, reassuring presence. "Let's get your meds and then getcha home," he says softly, guiding you out of the clinic and back to his truck.

The drive to the pharmacy is quiet, the air between you thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions. Joel keeps stealing glances at you, noting the way you're cradling your injured wrist against your chest, the way your breath hitches ever so slightly when the truck hits a bump in the road. He wants to say something, to offer some words of comfort, but he's never been good with this sort of thing. He's a man of action, not words.

At the pharmacy, Joel takes charge, handling the paperwork and payment while you sit quietly on a nearby bench. He can see the exhaustion etched into your features, the way your eyelids are starting to droop. He knows you're running on fumes, and the pain medication will likely knock you out soon.

He heads back to the ranch, the truck's engine humming softly beneath the weight of the silence that stretches between you. You're fading fast, the medication they gave you at the doctor taking its toll. He can see you struggling to keep your eyes open, your body swaying slightly with each turn of the vehicle.

Once he reaches the ranch house, he parks as close to the front door as possible and hurries around to your side of the truck. You're already half-asleep by the time he opens your door, your eyelids fluttering as you fight to stay awake. "Easy now," Joel murmurs, unbuckling your seatbelt and scooping you into his arms with a tenderness that surprises even himself. You let out a soft sigh as he carries you into the house, your head lolling against his chest. The trust you place in him is both humbling and terrifying and the sweet little noises coming from your mouth don't make any of this easier.

He settles you onto the couch, propping pillows behind your back to keep you comfortable. You smile sleepily up at you, a smile that sends a jolt straight to his heart and many other places. "Stay with me?" You ask quietly.

How could he possibly say no?

Joel nods, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, “‘course darlin, just gonna make you somethin to eat real quick.” Joel heads into the kitchen to prepare something for you to eat. An Eggo waffle seems like a safe bet—simple and comforting in its familiarity. He pops one into the toaster and waits impatiently for it to brown, his thoughts consumed by the woman lying on the couch.

Joel returns to the living room, the scent of warm waffles wafting through the air. He sets the plate down on the coffee table, along with a glass of water and the bottle of pain medication the pharmacist had given him. "Here you go, darlin'," he says softly, offering you a small smile. "Eat up, and then we'll get you settled in with a movie or somethin."

You nod, managing a weak smile in return as you reach for the waffle with your good hand. The simple act of eating seems to revive you somewhat, though Joel can tell you're still in a considerable amount of pain. He watches as you take a tentative bite, followed by a sip of water to wash it down.

"Thank you," you murmur between bites, your eyes meeting his in a silent exchange of gratitude and concern.

Joel nods, his throat tightening unexpectedly at the sincerity in your voice. "Anything for you," he replies gruffly, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He quickly clears his throat and changes the subject. "What do ya feel like watchin’? There's some old western tapes layin around or we could find somethin else.”

“Hmmm” You think about it for a moment before responding with a slight shrug of your shoulders—a movement that causes you to wince slightly, “I'm not picky. Whatever you want cowboy.”

If only I could tell ya what I want darlin’

Taglist: @mermaidgirl30 @maried01

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x you

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deadsetobsessions · 10 months ago

Text

Listen, I know it’s not my usual thing, but I just re-read Dark Matter by mysterycyclone (iconic, so good, incredible, I’ve reread this at least ten times) and this newer work, Help Me, I Don’t Feel Like Myself Anymore by Astra_Nova_Kat (it’s off to a really good and fleshed out, very long start- it’s like 20k for the first chapter omg).

I just. Love?? Them??? They’re both, urg, so good. The writing style, the way the story moves, the natural progression of plot and their usage of tropes are so well done that rarely does it feel awkward. Amazing. Anyways, they inspired me to put my two cents into the proverbial offering hat and while this might not ever be a realized fanfic, here it is? This will have multiple parts.

Uh, I’m basing Peter’s personality off of the really tired millennial energy Tobey Maguire gives, the awkward but well meaning disaster vibes of Andrew Garfield, and the sassy acrobatic chaos gremlin of Tom Holland. All kind of mushed together with the hyper competence and maturity of both the PS4 spidey and pretty much most spider people. He’s 22, or something but that doesn’t really matter?? Background doesn’t really matter because I’m basically making my own spider-verse. Spider… past? Eh. New Peter!

Spider in Gotham AU- Pt.1

[Pt.2]

——

Spider-Man swung through the skyscrapers of his city, enjoying the winds and sounds of New York as he kept a sharp eye out for crime.

He remembered doing this without any of the fancy tech his suit had now, when he was dressed in less protective clothing. God, 100% cotton while crime fighting? The spandex was better but god ugly.

His spider-sense blared. Spider-man quickly shot a web to the top of the building, going towards the danger instead of away from it.

He goes in feet first, years of knocking common thugs to legitimate gods to the ground making short work of the people on the roof top. He flips out of the way, dodging a blast of crackling green energy.

“Heyyyy, common robbers! What’s up with shiny lasers, huh? Breaking and entering not doing enough for ya?”

Spider-Man dodges a couple more shots, flipping again to knee a guy in the face, gently. The man goes down in one shot.

“Stay still, you motherfucker!”

“Does that actually work for you guys?? Like I’m down to get killed but, man, I’m not gonna stay still to get downed by some two bit thugs?” Spider-Man kept his words light and mocking, webbing up a laser gun and yanking it out of the woman’s hands. He punches her in the face and knocks her out, using the laser gun like a mildly bulky baton.

“Eat shit, Spider-bitch!”

“Ouch! Oh no, my feelings! You’ve hurt them!” Spider-Man shoots a web at the lady who’d shouted and yanked, before smacking her straight down to the concrete of the rooftop. His hearing picked up two people coming up the stairway and Spider-Man tossed two web bombs, the metal mechanism attached itself to the wall, waiting for their unknowing victims.

Spider-Man ducked and weaved, downing goons as they piled on him while shooting bullets, lasers, and just charging at him with a bat or a crowbar. After eight years of pretty much this exact thing, Spider-Man had gotten the science of breaking up goon dog piles without hurting them too much to an exact measurement. He quipped at them until they got annoyed, which made them sloppy. Spider-Man sighed as another guy came at him with a crow bar and a gun that he was pretty sure was still stuck on safety. He crouched, kicking out their legs and dodging a swipe of a bat where his ribs would have been and webbed the guy to the floor. Yeah, he’ll wrap this up and end patrol. Maybe he still had Mac n’ Cheese at home, or he could stop by Angelo’s for a sub?

Huh. His options for dinner was limited.

“Take this!”

Even without the forewarning of his spidey-sense, Spider-Man would have ducked out of the way regardless.

“Shouting your sneak attacks isn’t actually all that sneaky, you know!” Spider-Man kept his voice cheery and mocking.

“Get him!”

God, why were there so many people trying to break into an insurance company? This definitely doesn’t smell like a regular B&E. With the shit he’s seen in New York, if it smells like a plot, acts like a plot, then it’s probably a villain with a tragic backstory with big, annoying plans.

Great.

Oh, speak of the devil!

“Spider-Man.” His senses blared.

He couldn’t move out of the way fast enough, not without risking the life of the goon he was currently fighting, so Spider-Man took the blast the punched the breath out of his lungs. The wide eyes of the goon made up for some of the pain.

“Ugh!” Spider-Man slammed into an HVAC, denting the metal. His suit, made special polymer blend from Wakanda that he saved for months to get, absorbed some of the shock. Shit, he hoped it didn’t tear. It would be a bitch and a half to dip into the back up stock he had in his hammer space.

The goons left standing quickly rushed him and held him down to face the new boss.

“You’ve been getting on my nerves, Spider.”

“Yeah,” Spider-Man coughed out, letting the two goons think they could hold him down on his knees as he recovered his breath. “I have that effect on people.”

“But you could be an asset, if you’d join me?”

“Uh, I don’t join or sign things without knowing what I’m joining or signing, my guy. My lawyer said so.”

The villain paused, helmeted head cocking to the side.

“You have a lawyer?”

“Yeah. Kind of? He does pro-bono work for the helpless cases. You know, like, a well meaning, crime fighting vigilante?”

“…Does he do cases against insurance companies?”

“Oh man, you too? Dude, this place sucks,” Spider-Man sighed.

“You’ve had trouble too? Then you must see why I’m doing this!”

This was a bit weird, but if there’s anything that brings people together, it’d be corrupt insurance companies. He’s almost tempted to let them break in, just to be extra petty.

“Nah, my neighbor? Sweet old lady. They’re screwing her out of her entire place. I totally get it, man. Hey, if you need a referral, you can tell my lawyer that Spider sent you. He’s real good.”

“How good?” The goons release him and Spider-Man stood up, stretching his limbs.

“Like, Dare Devil good.”

“You know Matt Murdock??”

“Sure do.”

“He… he’ll take on our cases?”

“Dang, all of you?”

“Yes. We can pool enough money to pay him for one or two.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure he’ll take you guys on for free. But it wouldn’t hurt if you all went to meet him, just so he can decide which one of you has a higher chance to win in court?”

“We will. Uh.” The villain paused sheepishly. Well, not a villain, more like an unfortunately angry and poor decision making citizen. “Sorry about… you know, the blast.”

“It’s cool. I mean,” Spider-Man gestured to the rooftop, the bodies of unconscious people kind of laying around where he knocked them down. “You guys might wanna check on them, yeah? I’ll let you go for now, but if you commit a B&E again, I’ll leave you webbed up for GCPD to find.”

“Got it. Sorry.”

Feeling good about himself, and plotting corporate espionage, Spider-Man went to help pry some people from his webs.

And of course, because Parker Luck kicks in only when Spider-Man felt like life was looking up for himself, Spider-Man’s senses blared once more as he knelt down to pull at some webbing.

“Oh, shit!” He heard, right before a cold blast of something slammed right into his head, knocking him out.

And Spider-Man

——

Larry looked at the the empty space where Spider-Man, the guy who took a hit from his boss’ blaster so he wouldn’t get hurt, used to be.

He twisted.

“Boss, what the fuck?!”

“Shit! That was accident!” Boss pulled herself up from the concrete, where she just ate dirt.

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know, Larry! That was the experimental warped mode! Crap!” His boss scrambled with the controls, desperately trying to see if the magic gun her magician friend had handed her years ago had a reverse button. It didn’t.

“Why would you bring a test weapon into the field?!”

“I gave you all of my other ones!” She threw up her hands. “Fuck, I feel so bad.”

Larry paled. “Dude, Dare Devil’s gonna kill us.”

“He doesn’t kill!” His boss hesitated. “I think.”

Larry pointed to the empty space. “Yeah? He might start with us. Spidey was a cool guy and you just disappeared him!”

“I know!”

Larry buried his head into his hands and tried not to hate himself for the entire situation.

——

Spider-man woke up, laid flat on the grimy ground of an alleyway.

“Ugh. Just my luck.” He kept his eyes closed for just a beat longer to allow himself time before having to pull his shit together. Why was his voice high? And a bit squeaky? He pulled himself together.

“Okay.” He whispered to himself, before sitting up and taking stock of the situation.

First thing that hit him was that it stunk to high heavens. Gagging, Spider-Man looked to the right and- yeah, that’ll do it. He stood up on wobbly legs to try to move away from the overflowing dumpster.

That’s when the second, more important and decidedly more troublesome, observation hit him.

He’s short. Shorter. And his suit was hanging off of him.

He could tell he still had his normal by now physiology, with the speeding heartbeat and the feeling of super strength. But he’s shorter. With a mounting sense of equal parts dread and resignation, he pulled at the hidden seam by his nape, relying on his both his enhanced senses and spidey-sense to tell if anyone was nearby or looking at him. He pulled the Spider-Man suit off, blankly folding it neatly as he stared dumbly at his hands. They’re small too. Shit. He stumbled to a nearby mud puddle and stared down, seeing his younger face in the contaminated water. Double shit.

He’s starting to loose his composure. He’d gone through a lot of bizarre things over the last eight years. But getting accidentally Detective Conan’ed by a person he just helped was a new low.

The black under layer of his suit, a slash proof and fire resistant polymer Peter had designed himself in MIT’s lab, was in a similar state.

With one hand, Peter Parker numbly rolled up his sleeves and pant hems. Great. Okay. Now what?

Ah. Shoes. He did not want to walk around in his too-big Spider-Man boots. He looked around. Well, there’s the laces of what looked to be like a pair of dumpster shoes. “Yeah, no.”

Shit. Does he still have access to his hammer space?

Peter reached into his pocket, and tried to reach for a pair of normal sneakers. His shoulder slumped as he produced a pair. Fuck yes. He still has access! And shoes! They’re ones he took off of a power line for a well off kid who didn’t want it anymore. He was going to donate them to F. E. A. S. T. but he’s thanking the stars he procrastinated a bit on swinging by the center. He put them on. They’re a bit big, but it’s better than the giant-in-comparison ones he normally wears. You know, as an adult.

He hesitated with his mask. He should at least figure out where he is. He hoped it was still in the states. His mask blinked, the HUD in his lenses informing him that it was trying to find a connection. “That’s weird.” He paused, grimacing at the sound of his voice. But it is weird, because he had his mask automatically connected to the world wide satellites Tony Stark had sent circling the globe for citizens without internet access as a back up option. So either he was somewhere even the Stark Satellites couldn’t reach or…

Peter swallowed, his mask pinging as it found a connection to piggy back on. He clicked his tongue twice to activate the voice controls.

“Connect to the local maps. Where am I?”

His masked followed the order. [Gotham. New Jersey.]

Peter stared at the words, gut churning.

Good news, he was still in the States. Bad news? He’s shrunk, in a totally different state, and possibly in a different world because he’s not connected to the Stark Satellites he knew operated in New Jersey.

Peter Parker tilted his head back and allowed himself one verbal, panic level six and up, curse word.

“Fuck.”

He took off his mask and leaned against a slightly cleaner part of the wall before hyperventilating.

——

Half an hour later, Peter smacked himself on the cheeks and pulled himself together.

“You’re Spider-Man,” he hissed to himself. “Have a mental breakdown somewhere warm, you dumbass.”

Peter Parker was a champion, world class expert at compartmentalization.

He slipped his mask back on, and pulled up his “So You’re Stuck in an Alternate Universe” list he had made with Ned so many years ago when they were high school kids and going through comic books to make contingencies because Peter was a little idiot vigilante hero.

“I didn’t think I’d actually ever need this kind of thing.” Peter muttered. He slipped his black back up gloves on to connect to his mask’s display in order to type.

“Okay,” he glanced at the side by side screens in his lenses. “Money.”

Five things.

1) The emergency cash he’d stashed on him thankfull matched the pictures of cash he’d found on this world’s internet. Yay!

2) He had $1000 tucked away. Not yay. Not if this might be a long term stay before he got back to his own dimension. Not if he wanted a place to sleep.

3) Luckily, thanks to his earlier search of where the hell he was, Peter figured out that due to the high crime rates- “Dang, that’s worse than New York on New Year’s Eve,” he had marveled- Gotham was dirt cheap and that that meant 1k dollars could actually last him a while and he could afford a room for a month on $250. A whole ass apartment for $550. Peter seriously considered staying in this universe just for the rent prices. So what if there’s rampant crimes? He’d deal with it if the rent was that cheap.

4) Problem? He’s fucking tiny. Who would rent to a person that looked like child? Not anyone upstanding, that’s for sure. He’s more likely to get mugged. Counterpoint: he’s in a city where apparently shady people are all around. Also? He doesn’t have an identity.

5) If the fact that he couldn’t connect to the Stark Satellites didn’t convince him he was either in another universe or an alternate dimension, the visual graphics of the websites he visited would. It was like looking at Windows in the early way before Stark Co. bought them out and improved the design. Nauseating.

Okay, so, money’s not too urgent of an issue. Next on Ned’s list: Places of Interest.

Namely, libraries, homeless shelters, crime hotspots, and the like.

Peter snorted when he came across an opinions article talking about how Park Row became Crime Alley. And then he frowned, because that story was not painting this place to be even remotely nice. Then again, considering the crime rates and the various Rogues this place seemed to have in spades, that wasn’t much of a surprise. Peter marks the place in his new mental map of Gotham as a potential area he could either disappear to or get a new identity at. He then marked the libraries, Gotham City Public Library and its many branches all funded by generous donations from a Bruce Wayne, the Martha Wayne foundations’ shelters and charities, two supermarkets near the library, and a coffee shop he thought looked warm and cozy from the shitty pictures they have uploaded online. He needed coffee, dammit, and he needed it hours ago. Alas, he probably wouldn’t get to go to one until he secured his finances.

Well, it’s not like he doesn’t have practice being poor.

3) Which brings him up to Ned’s next, surprisingly reasonable for a teenager hoped up on a mountain load of sugar, point. Level of Tech.

Peter hid next to the dumpster, melding in with the shadows, as he continued his research.

Tech here was… well, he probably wouldn’t have to worry. The thought of not having a Starkphone, even his older model, was painful considering the new versions of these WaynePhones were really… behind. Peter doesn’t remember the last time he had buttons on his phone or let alone a touch screen that didn’t use facial tracking and biometrics or even have a holographic display mode.

“Ugh. Okay. Not the end of the world, Parker.” Peter muttered.

Now… People of Interest.

This was underlined three times with Ned’s red pens, with extensive subcategories.

Subcategory A? Villains, because “what if they put out a warning for a known villain and you get your butt kicked because you didn’t know about them, Peter? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

He had replied, half focused on the list and the other on savoring the Millennium Falcon Lego set May had saved up for months to get him for his birthday, “I feel like if I was getting my butt kicked by a villain, I’d probably have better things to worry about than my utter humiliation, Ned.”

“True that,” Ned had snicked and jotted it down anyways.

And… well, Gotham had a lot of villains. The Joker (ew, that’s a crusty man in crustier face paint. This guy could learn so much from the cool mimes busking in Central Park. Like, how to do face paint. Or how not to be a massive murderous jerk. There’s Clayface, Two-Face, a bald guy in “Metropolis” (a name Peter couldn’t help but snort at because a city named city? That’s like na’an bread being bread bread. Or chai tea being tea tea) named Lex Luthor, and Scarecrow. He tabbed all of them and marked them for further perusal at a later date. From experience, he knew villains with a prominent M.O. and themes usually did more damage. Case in point: Rhino, and the million dollars of property damage the guy did everytime he escaped the Raft. Peter was seriously considering petitioning for the Raft to be placed further out just so he could have more warning the next time some assholes decided to free the prisoners and helped them escape.

He narrowed his eyes at the screen, his mask’s lenses following the movement. He’ll have to pick up a gas mask. Apparently bio-weapons are just a regular thing here and he really didn’t want to get dosed with this “fear toxin.” It’d be dangerous for everyone involved. Maybe if he gets his hands on a sample, he could build up tolerance and see how his immune system and metabolic rates affected the normal progression of the toxin. Ah, off topic. He’s gotta focus.

Subcategory B: Local celebrities.

“Why would I need to know local celebrities?” He’d asked.

“If someone came up to you and asked “Who’s Tony Stark?”, wouldn’t you clock that as super weird? You gotta blend in, Peter. Plus, you gotta keep up with the pop culture, dude. It’s important.”

“You just want alternate universe memes,” Peter grinned.

“That too. If you ever go to an alternate universe and come back, you’d better bring me a truckload of memes or I’ll never forgive you.”

Yeah. So. Wayne? Super important. Like Tony Stark levels of important. He found threads about them and the local vigilantes and their charity works. Peter’s brain instantly catalogued the info, all but memorizing the deluge of pictures he found of Bruce Wayne and his kids. Maybe the man had an adoption problem? Conspiracy threads and memes popped up alongside his research. He tabbed one on secret societies, because as Spiderman, he had fought a disturbing amount of secret societies that, on hindsight, had been theorized about on threads he’s read on his free time. Somehow, somewhere, somewhen, a conspiracy theorist could be right. Peter’s not about to dismiss that. He also saved like thirty different memes to send to Ned when he got back. If he got back.

Peter smacked that thought away. He’ll get back to his city or die trying.

Subcategory C, underlined and starred: Other Superheroes and Vigilantes.

Yeah, Peter’s excited about this one too. After Matt stopped being Dare Devil (but did he actually ever stop?) and Wade dipping in and out of NY, Peter’s gotten lonely as Spider-Man. He missed training with them. Of course, the fantastic four were still operating, but he doesn’t actually interact with them or the Avengers at all. Miles hasn’t been cleared (by his mom) to go out as Spiderman with near as many hours as Peter cleared a night. Peter stood behind that because he remembered how horrible it was to work as Spiderman and try to balance school on top of it. Also, he was terrified of Mrs. Morales and would never endanger her son more than he already does. He did wave to Black Widow from a rooftop once, spider to spider, and that was pretty much the coolest moment of his life.

So. Uh. The amount of vigilantes and heroes in this world? Amazing. In Gotham? There’s like, a whole team of them.

Batman, Nightwing (who, Username: Draken Draken had theorized, was the first iteration of Batman’s sidekick Robin), Red Hood, Black Canary, Huntress, Red Robin, Spoiler, the “day vigilante” Signal, the current Robin, and whispers of a “Black Bat.”

And their unfortunate “No Meta” rule with the singular exception of Signal. Peter figured their term of Meta was essentially the same thing as his world’s mutants. He’s not sure which term he liked more. Eh, he’ll worry about that later.

And there’s a Justice League! Which, to Peter, is just a bigger Avengers. There’s aliens on this world too. Superman. Martian Manhunter.

Peter grinned from his place crouched next to the dumpster. Yeah, this is awesome. He quickly memorized everything he could find, cross referencing posts and picking out the nuggets of truth or at least popular truth from the posts he viewed. Like, Red Hood operated in Crime Alley and was a crime boss with morals. Cool.

He’ll go down the spiral later. He mentally thanked Ned who was the best guy in the chair a teenage vigilante could ask for. He should really text his friend when he got back.

For now, he’ll head to the library and see if he could use their computers. He might need a card though… Peter quickly pulled up the search engine and found an Internet cafe. Ah, 24 hour internet cafes, the savior of his college days. There first, and then library, Peter decided. He memorized the instructions and pulled his mask off, tucking it away in the hammer space.

He walked out the alley and turned left, only to double take at his reflection in a shop window that was partially boarded up. Holy shit, he’s a baby. He’s like. 10!

Oh my god.

Peter twitched, tearing himself away from the window before the shop owner decided he was less curious and more potential mugger before promptly remembering that he looked less of a threat than ever. Mixed feelings.

Peter hurried his way to the internet cafe, paying the guy at the front a little extra so he’d ignore the obvious minor without a guardian thing Peter hasn’t gotten used to. Ugh. That was going to be annoying. He only paid for two hours and pulled up as many listings for a room as possible. By the end of it, he came out with $1 worth of fliers printed out and having funneled some billionaire’s offshore accounts into a new bank account he’d made by hacking into the bank servers. Does he feel bad about stealing? Yeah. But Peter’s a vigilante. He’s done worse than nabbing a monthly sum of a couple of hundreds from Lex Luthor’s off shore accounts. He’s not gonna get caught, and considering the guy’s rants on meta humans, Peter’s not feeling particularly guilty about it. He’ll do something good later to make up for it. Once he gets his footholds and can prepare his way back, he’ll even return to the rest of the money. Probably.

Peter left the cafe with his sheaf of flyers, stopping by an informational stand with free tourist maps and plucked one quickly from its plastic holder. He’ll pick something up from the food vendors on his way to the apartments. Peter began walking, taking in the sights of the gargoyles and-

“Nope!” He caught the wrist of a pickpocket. It’s a kid and he immediately felt bad.

“Lemme go. I ain’t done nothing to ya, ya Yorker tourist.”

“Okay,” Peter shrugged. “Don’t get caught the next time?”

The kid gaped at him. “Shi’, you must be really good at it. I’ve never been caught before.”

Peter wisely refrained from telling the kid it was due to his spidey-sense. He let go of the kid’s wrist and let a bit more of his accent out. “Why’d you need money anyways?”

“Food, duh.”

“Dude, I’m starving. Tell you what. You show me the best sub shop nearby and I’ll pay for your food. Deal?”

The kid stared at him, wide eyed. “You’re fuckin’ nuts. Why’re you being nice?”

“I’m hungry? Do we have a deal, kid?”

“… Fuck it. Fine. And don’t call me kid, shrimp. You’re like what, eight?”

Oh. Yeah. Peter’s a kid now. He shrugged.

“I’m older than you. I’m twelve.”

Peter blinked, frowning at how thin the kid’s wrists were.

“I’m Peter!”

“… Frank.”

He let Frank lead the way. Stranger danger doesn’t apply to him, he’s a grown ass man. In the body of a ten year old him, but still. A couple of minutes, four sandwiches and a load of chips later, Frank was watching wide eyed as he demolished three four dollar subs.

“Holy shit. Where are you packing that away? You’re a stick!”

Peter took a big bite of the sandwich as an answer. Frank looked down at his meal.

“Uh. Hey.”

Peter made a muffled noise of question, mouth stuffed full of steak and cheese.

“Sorry about. Uh. Trynna nick from ya.”

Peter chewed faster.

Frank continued, looking like he hated himself. “I wouldn’t… normally steal from shrimps like you but I was desperate and… really hungry, so. My bad.”

Peter finished chewing. “All good, dude. Eat your sandwich.”

Peter had the sudden urge to adopt Frank. Unlike Wayne, he’s not a billionaire, so he smacked that urge down. He could use a friend though. Now… how to be friends with a literal child!

“If you feel that bad about it, you could… be my friend?”

Peter took in the wide eyed gaze from the twelve year old in front of him. Abort! Abort! That was too direct!

“You’re fucking weird. But… okay.”

“That was easy.”

Frank scowled, kicking Peter’s shin.

“Ow!”

“Whatever, shrimp.”

Peter scowled. On his baby face, it came out as a pout.

Do not start beef with a twelve year old, Peter. You’re a grown ass adult.

“Hey, you know I’m new here, right?”

“Duh.” Frank took a bite of his food.

“Can you tell me which one of these are legit?” Peter handed Frank the flyers. He took them, an odd look passing his face.

“You’re looking for a place?”

“Yeah? Why?”

Frank stared at him. Looked back down. He instantly got rid of four listings out of the ten. “These are too close to the Alley. They’re probably traffickers.”

Peter hummed in agreement. Frank paused.

“You’re just gonna trust me on that?”

“Yeah? I can tell when people are lying.” Well, his spidey sense could, when he cared enough about the subject.

“What the fuck.” Frank shoved the rest the papers at him and guiltily munched on his food. “Are Yorkers all just like you?”

“Dunno? Probably not.”

“… Whatever. The rest of the places should work. They probably won’t ask questions.” Frank flapped a hand at Peter’s new situation. Yeah, the shortness was getting to him too.

Peter nodded. Obviously, they were the more expensive places, but considering the new found resources he’d… acquired during his time at the cafe, it doesn’t really matter.

“Cool! Wanna go see it with me?”

Frank immediately took on a suspicious glare. “Why?”

“I dunno? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought since you know your way around…”

“Ugh. Fine. But if there’s anything shady, I’m fucking dipping out.”

“Okay!” Peter grinned for the first time the couple of hours he’d been trapped in this new world.

——

They’d found an apartment with a landlord that got a weird, sad face when she was talking to them about the apartment. After like, an hour of walking around and Peter’s spidey sense screaming at him not to even go near the places Frank had left in the pile of maybe’s.

“We walked all the way here. Ya not even gonna go in?”

“The vibes are off. It’s a no.”

And because Peter’s a genius idiot with no self preservation, he’d marked the places to investigate later.

Frank had blinked at him, mildly offended and nonplussed. After a while of spluttering, he just gave up. Eventually, they got here.

“I don’t normally rent to kids,” the landlord lady said. Peter immediately liked her. “But I’ll make an exception if you’ve got the cash.”

“I’d like to see the unit first, please” Peter said. He’s not stupid, and Gotham’s renting scene is both easier and harder than New York.

They toured it. Peter? He’d seen worse. He’d lived worse. Also, it had two bedroom and was $620. Yeah, Peter was really considering just staying here full time and commuting to his New York when he wanted to be a vigilante.

“I’ll take it, ma’am.” The landlord and Frank both snorted, sharing a Gothamite look.

“It’s Georgie, to you, brat. You just need the first month’s rent, since I’ll wave the deposit for you shrimps. Utilities included. Your friend stayin’?”

“No-” Frank had started.

“Yep!” Peter beamed, interrupting his new friend.

“What?” Frank turned, gaping again at this weird little kid who had enough money to rent a place and then invited a whole ass street kid he just met to live with him. “Are you stupid?! What if I rob you? Huh? I don’t need charity!”

Peter slowly looked around the empty unit.

“Uh.”

“No, that’s not the point!” Frank pointed a finger at Peter. “That’s how you get yourself killed!”

“But that’s why you should stay! I don’t know my way around Gotham so…”

Peter looked up at Frank, using his shortness for maximum devastation. “Please?”

Georgie leaned back on the heels of her feet, silently laughing. It’s not every day she sees a Gothamite street kid get out stubborned by an outsider, but she knows better than anyone that Gotham is weak to genuine kindness. And this Peter kid, the one that reminds her so much of her own? He’s practically filled with it.

“Yeah, kid,” she said to Frank, snickering. “Look at him. He’s gonna get mugged two steps into the Alley. Or anywhere.”

Frank flailed, but eventually, Peter handed over the money to an amused Georgie who gave them two keys in return and a move in gift of a pot pie.

“I gotta. Uh. Go get my stuff.” Frank had mumbled, dazed at whatever the hell just happened.

“Okay! I’ll see if I can go get furniture!”

“And lift them with your shrimpy arm? You wish.”

“I can use a cart.”

And really, he could, because Gotham had a lot of abandoned carts laying around. Like a concerning amount.

“Can you even reach the handle?”

“I’m not that short!”

Frank snorted, Georgie’s own chuckles following a beat after. Peter scowled at them.

“Be right back,” Frank promised, holding the key like it was treasure. He had been homeless for two and a half years now, so in his eyes, that key was as good as gold. He had somewhere warm to stay. Trying to pickpocket Peter was the best mistake he’s ever made in his short life. But he didn’t want to take advantage of that, well, no, he did want to, but he doesn’t want to take the genuine kindness for granted so he’ll see if there’s any street furniture he could haul back on his way.

“Okay!”

Georgie watched him go and turned to Peter.

“If you need stuff, there’s a thrift store and a grocery store that way.” She gave him the directions.

——

As soon as Frank and Georgie left, Peter immediately left his new place (and holy shit, he really didn’t expect things to be this easy. In New York, he had to spend at least a week checking out places because he had to figure out whether the problem that cause subtle twinges with his spider sense was worth living with. Here? It’s too obvious.) to buy supplies. He had $400. Until his new card came in, at least. He’d put his new address into that bank account addressed to a “Anthony Benjamin” before ordering a “replacement card.”

Peter ran to the thrift store, hurrying before the last traces of the sun dipped below the smog of Gotham. A frankly absurd amount of blankets, towels, pillows, clothes, packaged boxers, socks and shoes around his size went into the cart. To his chagrin, Peter couldn’t actually see much over the cart. Why the hell was he such a short ten year old? He blasted through the store, also guesstimating Frank’s sizes. He tossed in curtains, a used set of glow in the dark stars, and a lamp.

He also grabbed mismatched mugs, bowls, a bundle of cutlery, and a dented microwave he casually pretended to struggle getting onto the bottom part of the cart. It’s like lifting grapes for him, but he looks like a ten year old so…

He, guiltily, bought a mildly fancy camera in a set, with two separate lenses, even if one was cracked.

Not bad, for $150 total. Peter is going to definitely seriously consider commuting to New York. They didn’t even care when he walked out with the cart! Well, that might be because of the cashier who gave him a pitying glance.

He stopped by a general store on the way back, parking his cart in a rapidly shadowy alleyway. He swung by the new section of the store that reminded him of a Dollar Tree and got cleaning supplies, toiletries, and two pans and a pot. He grabbed some canned food and a couple of frozen meals in the back. Seasonings, ramen, general pantry staples went in. A role of paper towel. Nice. Venom would have loved this store. With half of his budget blown for essentials, Peter quickly cut his spending off and

He quickly gathered his stuff and went back to the apartment, using his strength a bit to lift the full cart up the stairs at the front doors and into the elevator. It creaked like the first time they used it to go see the apartment, but it worked. Peter set everything up in the living room, pillow and blanket wise, and put everything in its proper place. The lamp was put up, giving more light than the old bulb in the ceiling light.

All Peter wanted to do was pass out, but since his dumbass took in a child, he couldn’t sleep until this place was relatively fit for a kid to live in. He also wanted to wait for

So, that’s what he did. Taking a sponge and the cleaning supplies he’d picked up earlier, Peter tackled the living room, scrubbing away at old stains and spraying mildew. He marked trouble spots- like that splinter worthy piece of floor next to the doorway leading to the hall between the bedrooms. Then the kitchen. By the time Frank cautiously peeked his head in from the front door, Peter had already finished scrubbing the over.

“Hey.”

Peter turned, grime on his face but grinning. “Hey!” I bought some stuff!”

Frank snorted at his face before glancing around the living room, eyeing the cart parked neatly on the side.

“So you did. Didn’t get mugged, did ya?”

“Rude. No, of course not.”

Frank gave him a… frankly… unimpressed look and dumped his bag next to the pile of blankets and pillows Peter had piled onto the floor. Sue hi’, they didn’t have beds yet.

“Got somethin’ for ya,” Frank said neutrally before dragging in…

“A coffee table!” Peter bounced towards Frank, hugging him before lugging in the heavy wooden table in. “You’re the best! Where’d you find it?!”

The tension, anxiety about Peter’s reaction, in Frank’s shoulders relaxed and the kid grinned. “Alley. Some asshole just left it there for anyone to hit with their car so I took it.”

“Nice! We can eat on this!”

——

When they were getting ready for bed, Peter insisting on showers for both of them, Frank had reared up at the clothes Peter bought for him. Peter pretended like he didn’t see anything and shove a whole tube of toothpaste and a new toothbrush at him.

“Ew. Do I have to?” Frank asked, wrinkling his nose but taking the items anyways.

“Yeah.” Peter said seriously. Frank gave a moment to wonder why he was taking orders from an eight year old before shrugging. He could brush his teeth in exchange for a roof over his head, food, and clothes. It’s not even a fair trade, for Peter, anyways. Frank was enough of an alley rat to take advantage of that.

——

When Frank passed out, Peter couldn’t sleep. He’s exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep.

So he took his new camera and climbed the fire escape to the roof top.

An hour later, he met his first vigilante.

“Hey, kiddo. I’m gonna need you to back away from the edge.”

“Woah!” Peter startled, jolting slightly off of the ledge he was balanced on. He twisted around to see Red Robin, hand outstretched and panicked look in his eyes.

“Dude. Warn a guy!” Peter said, even though his spider sense warned him of an approaching person that was actively watching him.

Red Robin held his hands up. “My bad. Would you- uh, not be on that ledge?”

“Yeah, sure. My bad, bro.” Peter obligingly stood up and stepped away from the ledge. Red Robin relaxed then did a double take. Peter frowned. Is there something on his face?

“What are you doing up here, kiddo? It’s late.”

Peter decided to scope out the vigilante. “Couldn’t sleep,” he held up his camera. “I’m taking pictures.”

“Oh. That’s cool! Can I see?” Red Robin approached warily, but relaxed when Peter didn’t spook and try to take a shortcut to ground floor.

“Sure! It’s a new, well, not new but new to me, camera so I haven’t had all that time to mess with the specs but the pictures turned out pretty good-”

“Oh, woah. This one’s great. That composition? Amazing. You caught the light perfectly,” Red Robin complimented. Peter brightened, knowing a photography fan when he hears one.

“Photography buddy!” He cheered.

They talked for an hour after that, but Red Robin quickly sent him to bed once he remembered the time.

“Ah, shi- crap. It’s like 2AM. You’ve gotta go to bed.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry if I interrupted your patrol, Mr. Red Robin!”

“No problem, kid.” Peter slipped back down the fire escape, not caring if the vigilante saw where he lived.

——

Up on the rooftop, Red Robin pressed a hand to his comm.

“Red Robin to Nightwing.”

“What’s up, Red?”

“Do you have a kid you don’t know about?” Tim said, bluntly.

“… What?”

“Oracle, can you share my cowl footage?”

“Copy. Oh, that kid…”

“Looks exactly like Wing?” Tim said, peering down at the empty fire escape. “Yeah. Talked like him too.”

“Oh my god, he’s adorable.” Oracle said. Tim agreed. That curly hair? Baby face? Adorable. A bean. “Did you get DNA?”

“Ah, shit, I knew I forgot something.”

“Do not break into his place and nab a hair,” Nightwing reprimanded, but his voice sounded distracted.

“Holy shit, you guys nerded out about camera placement and lighting for an hour?” Hood piped up.

“Get some rest, Red Robin. You’ve been working too hard,” Batman grunted through the comms. Awkward… but he’s been getting better at communicating his worry for his kids.

“Sure thing, B. Heading back to the main cave. Red Robin out.

——

Peter: lay low and get home

Also Peter: talks to a vigilante

None of them think Peter’s Nightwing’s yet. Peter will know before them… eventually. Once this world’s version of him gives up his memories to be absorbed by AU Peter.

884 notes · View notes

tadpolesonalgae · 6 months ago

Text

The Burn Marks of Possession

Dark!Azriel x reader

a/n: heads up, reader’s slightly obsessive, and Az is slightly on the dark side. Not as dark as usual but better safe than sorry with things like this :) I also haven’t written in a while so this is a vague practice attempt at getting back into things 🫠

warnings: kind of dark!azriel, smut, arguably dubcon due to reader’s mental state, sadism, overstim, light breeding kink, implied somnophilia

Word count: 3,407

——————————————————————————————————————————————

It’s perplexing, when it begins shifting. Building again after years of managing to be suppressed. Coming to a simmer, gently bubbling while it remains constrained.

A heavy sigh falls from your lips, secondary to the unhelpful tremor in the tips of your fingers, shaking your knuckles. The boiling water spills over the lip of the cup, dripping over your thumb, and you wonder if it burns the same.

You remain quiet, reaching for the hand towel to dry the liquid, before putting it away again, stirring the cup absently as the metal begins heating, steam warming then stinging at your fingers.

Azriel

How your jaw clenches at the first syllable of his name, teeth grinding as if with frustration. How your tongue caresses the backs of your teeth upon the second, grazing the inside slope of the roof of your mouth. A slow trace of a feather-light touch, as if to soothe rise of tension.

Azriel

If you repeat it enough, you can remove the stress of his first part, softening the pronunciation until it’s no more than swallowing a light touch. A suggested whisper as it drips from your tongue.

A snake would say it better. With a friendly flicker in between, rolling the letters from its serpentine mouth. You wonder where he is.

It’s easy to picture him in your kitchen, lazing at the coffee table, sprawled across a chair, while watching you with slitted pupils, the corners of his mouth too sharp for a smile.

Tension in your body abates, muscles loosening as that familiar spread of warmth courses down your arms, easing in your chest—like inebriation has just been pushed into your bloodstream, feeling woozy and soft, lips curving a little. Fingers slide through the roughened handle of your mug absently, allowing the steam to rise and brush your mouth, the tip of your nose, feeling how his shadows do whenever they brush against your skin.

You feel cold and clammy as you lower it. Already missing its heat.

The sun has long since been swallowed by the night, removed from the sky to allow reprieve to morality. Nobody can always be perfect—it’s good to have moments to relax. When secrets can be committed.

The latch of your front door clicks, and you smile, taking another drink from your cup, settling back into its boiling heat as the liquid scalds your throat on the way down, swiftly spreading throughout your body, heating your fingertips.

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have made another cup,” you murmur slowly, eyes closed as you listen to his approach. The almost inaudible rasp of shadow, the whisper of feet over carpet. Roughened hands slide softly around your ribs, solid muscle gathering at your back, gently bringing himself into you. Tucking you beneath his chin as shadows swirl and circle peacefully.

“You knew I was coming,” he replies lowly, feeling the slope of your shoulders, how your body becomes smaller as breath leaves your lips, exhaled from your lungs.

You’re glad he’s here again, reassured of his presence. You spend so much time together that the hours apart stretch painfully, like limbs being steadily plied from a torso over a matter of days, until at last they pop out, sockets splitting. It’s a warning you should know how to recognise by now, but every low of his absence encourages the high of his return, the sweet flutter of your pulse, the hitch in your breathing as his fingers stroke across the skin of your collarbones placatingly.

“At some point,” you agree quietly, shifting in his arms, revelling in the rasp of his clothes against yours, the counter top now pressing just shy of the base of your spine, his hands shifting to brace on the surface at your back. “Where were you?” You ask lightly, eyes scanning him attentively. He doesn’t doubt that if he could feel the abrasion of your gaze, his skin would be left slightly raw.

His shadows darken with pleasure.

“Out,” he murmurs. “Away.”

You frown at the answer, lips shifting with displeasure at the vagueness. “Where out?”

“Does it matter?” He asks coyly, hazel eyes gleaming as he peers down at you, kept between his arms. “I’m back now.”

You tilt your head, brows slightly narrowed causing the hairs at the nape of his neck to rise. He likes it when your curiosity is blatant. When you can’t manage to hide to your intrigue.

“You were doing something for the court?” You push, causing him to smile faintly. He doubts you’re even aware of your refusal to apply names to other people, as if it’ll ruin the purity of the moment.

The smile has frustration growing in the pit of your stomach, irritated by his lack of answer.

“You can tell me,” you urge lowly, still cupping the scalding mug of tea. “If it ever strains on you, too. You can always talk to me about it.” Does he not want to tell you about it? Is it private? Is there some reason he can’t tell you?

His smile widens a little, head dipping down so he can peer at you closer, inky strands of hair flopping over your brow as his nose brushes your own. “It’s not for your ears,” he answers lowly, that faint smile still on his lips, anger growing back into that simmer over his lack of sincerity.

“I want to know,” you reply, brows dipping down as you grip the mug tighter. “Come on, Az. You always do this.”

“Do what?” He replies, a spark in his eyes.

“This,” you snap, jerking your chin at him sharply. “Either answer or don’t, but stop playing games.”

“But you’re so enjoyable to tease,” he chuckles roughly, and you’re aware of how his shadows are stroking against your legs. Slow, lulling strokes as they wrap around the curve of your calves, over the bump of your knees, skimming the exposed skin just above them. He’s closer than he was before.

Your jaw tightens, the familiar rise of aggression burning your insides, the desire to lash out and maim over something so small. For making you so volatile. Turning the spiked pulse of your blood from peace to destruction so swiftly, like whiplash.

He’s so attentive, you’re certain he knows your frustration, how you crave his company, desperate for him to confide in you like you do with him. And yet he’s blatantly ignoring it—it’s cruel. Out of character for him, who’s usually so ready to listen, so perfect at providing comfort, seeming to understand you effortlessly. Why then, does he insist on pretending otherwise. Does he just not care any more? Does he not care that he’s your favourite? Does his world no longer revolve around you?

His smile softens as he feels the heat warming your cheeks, shadows reporting the grip you have on the ceramic mug. The dilation of your pupils.

“I’m here now,” he murmurs, liking how your breath hitches as his palm presses lightly against your spine, encouraging you to press into him. “You know I’ll always come back. That’s all that matters isn’t it?”

You’re silent, mouth set in a sullen line, eyes dark and resentful as they glare up at him. All that emotion. All for him.

Satisfaction settles deep in his chest, shadows flicking higher in reward.

He likes how malleable you are—for his hands only.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes lowly, a hint of amusement in his eyes as they skate across your own. “I’ll stop.”

His palm slides lower, making the slow descent over the curve at the base of your spine, hazel eyes practically pinning you to the ground, keeping you from moving.

Your pulse flutters, wanting to bite at his lip, lips that are dipping lower, your breath shallowing as he draws nearer…nearer… The tremor in your fingers becomes more pronounced as his mouth slants softly against your own, and you’re unable to help yourself as your teeth settle against him, eyes locking as you drag across his lower lip slowly. He doesn’t pull away, just watches you idly, as if interested in what you’ll do next.

Why didn’t he want to tell you where he’d gone?

You pull away, mouth feeling cold, before returning quickly, seeking the heat of his lips to warm you again, to burn like the scalding liquid in your mug. A pleased noise drags roughly from the back of his throat, rumbling in his chest, and his hand slides lower, settling over your rear, shadows wrapping around your thighs.

You inhale deeply, pulling his scent into your lungs. Committing him to memory—the slight roughness of leather that mixes with his scent, the dampness of the outdoors clinging to the strands of his hair. The cruel softness of his mouth as it presses deeper, wanting more from you, wanting to have more, to take more as he plies you open, swiping over the tingling skin of your tongue, numb from the burn of tea.

Azriel groans lowly, hands lifting you to sit upon the counter, moving you without asking so he can step between your already open thighs, shadows playing curiously beneath the cover of your skirts, grazing the soft skin of your hips, the pronounced curve of your stomach now you’re sitting.

Shakily, you bring your arms to wrap over his shoulders, keeping careful hold of the mug, heat biting into your fingers.

He pulls away, lips looking bitten and slightly raw where your canines have dragged over him, reddened from abrasion.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks lowly, voice rough and gravelly.

Both of you know the question is insincere, a purely superficial ask, inquired out of courtesy rather than genuine concern. This isn’t something either of you are in a place to stop. Neither of you want it to stop.

“Maybe,” you answer anyway, nails scraping against the nape of his neck. “Do you want it?” Do you want me? “Yes.”

Your insides flutter, but you…

Your brow narrows, hearing the doubt in your mind. Something holding you back from the male before you. “Where were you earlier?” You ask quietly, intently.

He blinks slowly, shadows pausing their exploration at the question, his lips curving.

Frustration ignites beneath your skin, and the mug slants in your hand.

He snarls in pain, hands gripping you with such force you think he might crack something as the scalding liquid streams down his back, hitting the nape of his neck and dripping over his shoulders into your lap. You slow the pour, righting the mug again as he presses his face into the crook of your neck, his arms like iron as he keeps you crushed against his front, gripping onto you desperately, furiously, obsessively. Finger biting into the tendon at the top of your spine painfully, breath catching in your lungs as your legs wrap around him.

His shadows hiss and whisper viciously, tightening brutally around the tops of your thighs, squeezing your waist like a serpent set on swallowing its prey whole.

Azriel pulls back, fury and hunger darkening his hazel eyes as they lock with your own, cheeks flushed with heat, tension abating now he’s understanding what he subjected you to in denying your question. He opens his mouth to speak, and you pour the rest of the mug down his back.

His eyes go wide, skin paling a little with fury, then his brow is narrowing, eyes squeezed shut as his head dips, hanging as he pants heavily, hand leaving your back to settle over your thigh, biting at the soft and supple flesh in a way he knows will bruise deliciously.

The liquid splashes when it drips onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, the only noise aside from his heavy breathing, and you wait from him to open his eyes again, at last feeling satisfied, justified now the unpleasant emotion has been expelled.

Slowly, he raises his head, meeting your heated gaze, his tan skin warm and flushed, lips parted invitingly as he evens out his breathing. “Happy now?” He breathes lowly, raggedly, so close you can feel each syllable over your mouth. So close to where he needs to be right now—all it would take is a slight incline of your head and your lips would meet again.

Teeth prod at your lower lip as his shadows at last pry the empty mug from your hands, feeling shy and warm all over, head dipping a little with the intensity he’s watching you with. Shy at having acted so boldly, so brazenly before him. Like walking past him in little more than your underwear and expecting not to get grabbed.

“Answer me, pretty thing,” he breathes, gripping your jaw lightly to tilt your head.

You nod, toes curling as one hand threads through his hair, damp at the ends, the other tracing down his back, making small, make-believe patterns. “I’m happy now.”

————

He’s had you bent over the table so long your bones hurt, thighs aching from the sharp angle, on your tippy-toes to find some kind of support, though the cotton of your socks keeps slipping over the smoothness of the tiles, making it difficult.

That’s no doubt something he intended, though.

You babble, tears wet on the wooden surface of the table, lips gleaming with saliva and…something else…

His scarred hand wraps beneath your throat as he leans over, pressing to your back as he pries you from the table, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Ready?” He taunts lowly, the chuckle rasping from his chest as you feel the bare heat of him between your legs, thighs sticky with steadily drying release, gleaming with swiftly refreshening arousal.

You try to respond, but nonsense gushes from numb lips, babbling as words bubble on your tongue, simmering in your mind but unable to wrap your fingers around their slick wetness, springing out of your grip and bouncing away.

“Answer me,” he laughs roughly, squeezing lightly at your throat in reprimand, thumb and fingers pressing beneath the softness of your jaw, adding pressure without impeding your ability to breathe. “Tell me you want me,” he urges, rolling his hips against you tauntingly, free hand returning between your thighs, fingers lightly circling your clit, making more tears drip from your cheeks and fall onto the table.

“A— Az…” you cry, nails dragging over the surface, squirming as you tremble, so worn out and so tired. “Az—… I— I can’t—!” He releases you abruptly, allowing you to flop forward, shadows cushioning the drop.

Instead his hands take up a bruising hold on your hips, and you cry out when he lifts you from the table, hands scrambling for purchase as you struggle with balance. It’s not very far…maybe the length of your forearm…but your feet can no longer touch the floor, and you struggle for some kind of stability.

“Az…” you whimper, panting heavily, squirming as you feel him press his tip to the soft, wet dip between your thighs. “Keep still,” he instructs hungrily, voice deep and rough, making your toes curl. You can’t take anymore…you can’t take another one. He’s forced too many into you, dragged them out with his teeth, plied them gently with his fingers, shoved them in with his cock and shadows. So full and empty you can’t think straight anymore.

“Or don’t,” he breathes, darkness tracing down your spine, pinching at your breasts as you leverage yourself on your forearms. “Struggle all you like.” Then he’s shoving the breath from your lungs as he fills you up in one swift motion, pushing shy, soft noises from your lips to make room for his cock.

You babble, spine curving as you squeeze him, toes pointed as you seek stability, but he’s holding your hips so effortlessly, as if you really are just a toy he can fuck and breed for as long and as hard as he likes. Even while his cum is spilling out of you, dripping down your silicon-made thighs.

Your arms tremble at the thought, as he keeps his hips pressed tight against the backs of your thighs for a minute, basking in the wet heat, the grip you have on him, so eager to take him while you’re trying to protest.

“How many more can you give me, hm?” He muses roughly, shadows stroking down your spine affectionately, soothing the jitter of your muscles as you begin to soften again. Reassured by the gentle touch, even if it won’t last long. That’s all it takes from him—a few gentle touches, a few gentle words, and he can have you like this.

“Two? Three?” He questions idly, moving slightly behind you, causing him to shift inside of you, cock pressing against a spot—saliva pools on the table, spilling over slightly parted lips, panting heavily, giving up and letting him hold you above the floor.

“Az…” you mumble softly, blinking away tears. “I can’t…I can’t do anymore…I’m tired…” Shadows raise from the table, rubbing gently at your cheeks, and you tilt into them, allowing them to cup your jaw, moving like his hands would if they were brushing the wetness away.

“No? You won’t give me anymore?” He asks lightly, as if he doesn’t particularly mind what your answer will be—it’ll have no affect on what he chooses. He knows what he’s going to do with you, and he knows you will let him. “You were telling me a moment ago how good it felt. How full you were and how badly you wanted me to—”

“Azriel!”

A flush of humiliation warms your cheeks, thighs trying to press together, heat bubbling away, already prepared for him.

“Embarrassed?” He chuckles lowly, your breasts peaking at the sound. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about around me. You deserve to be fucked full, don’t you?” Your toes curl, nails lightly scraping over the wood of the surface. Head dipping as heat flushes your cheeks more intensely.

Azriel hums, dragging his hips back slowly, and you squeeze him tightly, trying to suction him back in, already feeling so cold and empty without him heating you up. “Don’t you?” He repeats encouragingly, hungrily taking in the curved plain of your back—thinking how he could trail the knuckles of your spine with the soft flat of his tongue.

You swallow thickly, knowing it will please him to answer. “I deserve it,” you mumble into the table, head dipping lower to muffle your words. But of course it isn’t enough.

“What was that?” He muses roughly, pushing ever so slightly back in, urging more filthy confessions from your tongue.

The heat builds, and you push your face into the crook of your elbow, lips practically brushing the table top. “I can’t say it,” you mumble, features burning hot. “It’s embarrassing…”

“You’re not getting anything until you do,” he drawls, making to draw out of you entirely. Leaving you cold and empty on your kitchen table.

“I—…” you begin, panicked and rushed, whimpering when shadows pull your head from the table, tugging lightly on your hair. “I deserve it…I deserve to be fucked full,” you repeat, getting a strange sense of his pride at the confession, squeezing him hard in return. You’ve done your part…he has to fulfil his side now.

Azriel curses beneath his breath, before easing back into you, watching how your back shifts as you desperately pull air down into your lungs, feeling breathless no matter what you do. “Gods, you should see yourself right now,” he utters roughly, gazing down at your joining point, the broadening of your hips where you’re bent over.

“Fuck, you take me so well…” he groans, grinding against you. So much deeper now he has you suspended like this, his hands still gripping you tight.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom, shall we? Since you’re so tired.” He murmurs, able to hear the deep-throated hunger in his voice, slightly mocking of your stamina. Despite how long he’s been working on you. It’s not even light out anymore.

“Pass out if you’d like,” he adds, dipping down to nip at your ear, and you squirm against him, wishing he’d start moving again, now that he’s reignited the arousal between your thighs.

“I’d like to see what you do, when I fuck you back into consciousness.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

dark!az taglist: @honeyandhalfmoons

#azriel x reader #azriel x reader fic #azriel smut #azriel x reader smut #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger

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le-chevalier-au-lion · 17 days ago

Text

meaning upon motion: rosquez [e]

Marc catalogues those things that keep showing up.

The rosé wine he likes—God, Valentino used to give him so much shit for that, him and his girly drinks. Sugar next to the coffee pot. A room for himself, but Valentino’s door is always open. The towels are 100% cotton, silken soft to the touch.

It says—something, maybe, or it’s the heavy roll of all that fucking wine in his stomach.

Marc doesn’t want to look too closely into it, so he doesn’t. Everything is still there.

Valentino makes a noise, that cross between kissing his teeth and clicking his tongue. “Tomorrow, eh?” He says, pointing his chin to the window, to the track outside.

Rain had turned it into a slippery hellslide, all brackish puddles and mud banks. He’d been thinking about that track for ten years now, give or take. Dreading it, picturing it, loving it. If they go to shit tomorrow, if racing does to them what it likes to do, he’ll have gone up on a dirt bike there anyway.

It helps. A little.

“Yeah,” Marc mutters. He goes for another sip, finds his glass empty.

Valentino is right there, though. Their calves are touching. Their knees. He lets out a soft ah, let me and fills it again for him, just a couple of fingers, almost like a fancy restaurant. It’s funny, because a couple of minutes—hours—ago, they were pretty far from each other on this ratty couch.

Marc snorts. Doesn’t want to linger on this either. “Who else is coming?”

“I tell you, no? Just the two of us.”

Valentino’s expression stutters, his baby-fine eyebrows twitching and his mouth pursing. Marc wouldn’t have noticed if they weren’t so close.

“Did you? Sorry, I forgot.” It comes out easy, that harmless little lie.

Problem is, Valentino is bright like a knife between the ribs. “You are alone,” he points out. Then, less sharply: “I think, allora, for sure he brings Álex this time.”

Marc pulls a face, and Valentino breaks into a chuckle. He’d considered it, for a brief, panicky half second, right before he boarded on the plane to Bologna.

But Álex is already unhappy enough with this whole thing.

So Valentino is right—he is here alone. No Ducati mechanics, which he could’ve demanded, back to their usual tune; no Álex, which was expected; none of his branded bikes.

And the Ranch is empty.

“He wouldn’t leave the dogs,” is what Marc settles on saying rather than why don’t you have any of your staff here? Where are your Academy boys? Why are you doing this? Am I being stupid again? Is it funny? Another little harmless lie.

“All the better for me.”

Marc smiles. “Isn’t it usually?”

And that’s how the night goes, the two of them not quite talking, brushing against the heat of each other, edges dulled on rosé wine. Marc allows himself to wonder if tonight, maybe, but nothing happens.

The disappointment only softens the next morning, when Valentino shows up at his door at an insensate hour and drags him to the garage. He shepherds Marc along, a hand splayed on his back, between his shoulder blades, to show him—

“So?”

Valentino is basically bouncing. Trying to play it cool, with another impatient tsch sound, but his eyes are too keen, and there’s something jittery about the sway of his long, spindly arms.

Marc swallows past the tangle in his throat. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

It is an MX Honda, a red and orange 93 emblazoned on the front, two stroke engine. Not his model, but close enough. Everything about it is smooth and new and polished. If he tried, he thinks he would be able to smell the leather, the freshness of undented metal. His stomach rolls, light and airy like a frizz of champagne.

What an odd, expensive thing to do for a one-off guest when you have dozens of bikes around. Marc would’ve ridden any of them.

“It is,” he fishes for a word. Any word. Everything he feels is the hook of affection tangled in his guts, tugging. His mouth might as well be stuffed with cotton. “Good. Tell me the specs?”

“Always the hunt with you,” Valentino says.

It sounds mean—a little. In that way of Valentino’s of prodding bruises. Fond too, with him squeezing his arm, fingers lingering on the crook of his elbow. Marc wants to get on it already. Wants to race. Wants to freeze this instant, Valentino golden in the morning sun, just the two of them, talking about a dirt bike’s innards.

Leathers, gloves, boots, helmets. They hop in, and the track unfurls ahead of him. Dejavu threatens to kick Marc off the first five or so laps, where they aren’t exactly racing yet. It’s not that different—except the angle of a few corners. Too narrow here, too wide there, places where it’s either his memory fumbling or Valentino, shockingly, making changes.

“Still remember it?” Valentino prods, shouting over the engines rumbling. Marc can picture it, the slanted curve of his grin.

He scoffs. “Of course.”

Then they are racing, reckless with it. Valentino slides on a half-dried mud patch when he gets off the usual line to try and overtake him. Marc goes down too low on a corner and loses the front. They kick up dust and dirt, laughing uproariously, and Marc allows himself to think, just once, that Valentino has to be up to something.

It is easy anyway, to have fun, even if he knows that Valentino is shrewd, no stitch without a knot, even if he’s prickling, restless, unkissed. They didn’t come up with rules, so the excuse of racing becomes a graceless overtake fest, round and round and round, until their bikes start to splutter without fuel.

Valentino leads them through a final show, a victory lap on the colosseum, bathed by the infernal midday sun. Leads them to the kitchen after that—chipped plates, an atrocity of a tablecloth, horrendous yellow flowers on a green field. Another world from the track, it looks like.

There’s escabetx. The fish is soggy—reheated—but it tastes good. Familiar. Way, way, way above Valentino’s cooking skills.

Dishes left on the sink for later or tomorrow or whenever, they circle back to the couch. It throws Marc off more than the changes to the track, more than his growing catalogue of things that don’t quite add up. Last time he was here, there wasn’t a moment to think. The Ranch was full of cameras, and events, and eager-hungry Academy kids, and personnel, and PR stuff.

Valentino brandishes a small chocolate bar like a parrying knife. Breaks off a piece for himself, shoves the rest in his hands. Marc can’t pretend to not want it. He’s always liked sweetness.

He can’t pretend to not have something on his mind either. It lingers, red-hot.

Might as well do it. Make it real.

“Valentino,” he starts, gets cut off.

“Are you having fun?”

Marc’s mouth clicks shut. He prods his tongue against his teeth, the chocolate sticking there, to not laugh. The weave of them sitting so close feels like crystal in his grip. Fragile glass. It’s very Valentino. A bit myopic. He’s immortalized moments less gentle than this. Cradled them close and kept them with him forever.

And really, fun.

Was fun ever the issue?

“Of course,” he answers, smiles. The corners of his eyes are crinkling, he knows, but so are Valentino’s.

There’s a suspended beat, Valentino inching closer, about as subtle as his neon merch. “But is it fantastic—the best you’ve ever had?”

Marc does laugh this time. Valentino aims for smug, hits it pretty well.

“Almost.”

And it’s a mindfuck, that he sees the way Valentino straightens up in real time. Now that he isn’t so young anymore, buzzing with the chance of touching a streak of the divine. Now that he can recognize the man in him—which is no less devastating, truth be told. The little frown on his forehead, deepening the wrinkles there.

Tell me, he says without saying, spreading his hand on Marc’s ankle. “You used to be pushier when I was twenty.”

Valentino’s breathing does something funny. A convulsive little wheeze.

“You,” he starts, has to try again. “In Argentina.”

Marc looks off to the side.

Argentina, right. His arm had been hurting, chainsaw teeth to the old wound. Álex had been watching, a worried, unhappy tilt to his lips—one in a sea of pinched-tight faces, going from the jerky seesaw of his shoulder to Valentino standing there, close. Too many cameras, too many eyes, too many points he could win. Did win.

And Marc is as superstitious as he can afford to be.

Nothing good can come out of Termas, of Sepang—like nothing good can come out of Galilee.

Marc doesn’t remember what he said, exactly. Only that he’d been clenching down on a razor blade for the whole weekend and very, very tired of being in pain. If Valentino touched him then, it’d have hurt too. But now he has Marc’s ankle, and a bike for him, and Catalan food, and chocolate, and soft towels, and everything rattling in his mind for the past thirty-something hours is—

Kiss me.

“But it’s fine, now.” It isn’t.

It categorically isn’t, but it’s stupid to worry about that. Why tempt this into breaking? Marc licks chocolate off his fingers, Valentino’s eyes burning on his hands, his mouth. He clambers into his lap with the sugar sharp on his tongue, their knees knocking together.

Careful, mild, it never lasts, not between them. Valentino gets both hands on his waist, thumbs digging on the sliver of skin where his undershirt has ridden up.

The small bite of pain is exquisite. Barely anything, but still.

“Cannot be easy, hm?” Valentino hums, lilting, bemused, closer than they’d been since that odd week between Sepang and Valencia.

“Like you want it easy.”

He spits out the word, and Valentino laughs. Runs his fingers over the jut of his hipbones. “Allora, we can say we try, it is boring.”

It’s that small sway of movement that gets him. His head is spinning. He surges into the kiss he’s been hungry for a humiliating stretch of time, catches the noise Valentino makes ravenously. Marc likes it more than he thought he would, making out like teenagers—nipping at Valentino’s lower lip to make him hiss, licking into his mouth.

The kisses start melting together, one after the other after the other. They’re greedy, unashamed. Marc only realizes they’re grinding against each other when Valentino breaks off, groans, sweat beading on the edge of his thinning hair.

“Do you want—” Valentino skims his hand over the knobs of his spine. Marc wedges them closer together, leaning in to suck a bruise on the hollow of his throat.

“Not yet,” he mumbles there, hidden, safe as it gets. “No. Sorry. I am not—I do not know what—”

“Alright,” Valentino tells him, brusque but not unkind. “Alright.”

Is it, Marc wants to ask, but instead he takes his time pressing his teeth to Valentino’s jaw, leaving a red imprint there. Marc can feel him hard against him, pressing against his belly. There’s a gasping noise, but Valentino shakes his head at his inquisitive look.

It’s exactly as ungainly as the past thirty minutes and thirty hours were, Valentino pulling their cocks out. Takes some shuffling. Marc ends up with his hand on the half-melted candy bar, stumbles over half a dozen curses, and Valentino tugs at wrist to lick it clean before managing to get his underwear down and spitting on his own palm.

His hand is still dry around them both. The callouses there scrape. Marc chokes on a whine, closes his eyes, then forces them open again because he has to watch this.

“Vale,” Marc moans, hips hitching. Valentino’s other hand surges up, grabs his chin tight to force his head back. There’re teeth, his tongue soothing their sting.

Marc jolts, their cocks rubbing together—and God, it’s only everything he wants. After that, they don’t settle into a rhythm as much as they crumble into one. Valentino’s hand hot and tight around them, and his mouth insistent against Marc’s for a kiss, two, ten. The slide gets easier, wetter. There’s the fucking noise it makes, damp, obscene.

And there’s Valentino, looking at him. Softer, maybe, than either of them should risk.

“Are you—wooing me?” Marc asks, halfway to a laugh. He doesn’t stammer. Much.

It’s there, behind his teeth—were you wooing me this whole time? Are you being gentle?

Valentino has the gall to grin, makes his grip a little firmer when Marc tries to pretend to be annoyed. “I am a romantic,” he says, all showmanship that shatters when Marc bucks against him, grinds them together. “Stop that, Christ.”

He doesn’t.

So Valentino clamps down on his nape, wound tight, biting on his throat. There’s zero fucking finesse to any of it, Marc fumbling for air, for the string of his sanity, digging into Valentino’s skinny, sharp shoulders. It’s ugly, too fast. Valentino jerks at the bite of his nails. Marc is so hard his vision that starts to wobble.

Next time, they can get on a bed, they can be sweet—maybe.

Right now, Marc wants to come so much he’s unraveling, drool pooling inside his mouth.

“Good?” Valentino asks, strained. He could make it sound cruel—there was a time when it was the only way he spoke. But it’s plaintive instead. Small.

“Fantastic. Best I’ve ever had.”

God, he tries for a joke, for wryness—it comes out too honest, instead. Marc vows to be ashamed about it later.

Or not at all. Valentino buries whatever he was going to say next in a bite, hard and mean on the swell of his chest. Marc catches a fraction of what his face looks like, shocked, hungry, mouth tight. He comes over his hand, his stomach, shaking with a keening groan.

It’s—Christ. Marc ruts against Valentino and his lax, sloppy grip until he’s twitching and whining with oversensitivity, cock fully soft against his thigh. But those flashes of pain get Valentino back online, have him wrapping his come-streaked fingers properly around Marc.

He doesn’t take that easy, either. Fucks Valentino’s fist, pants heavily. It’s burnt with hot iron in his mind, how Valentino’s expression had turned raw like a bruised nerve ending. Marc chases his own orgasm wildly, babbling—Spanish, Catalan, Italian, whatever. He comes in a kaleidoscopic fritz of color, everything narrowed down to the slack line of Valentino’s mouth.

His bones are loose, liquid. If he tried walking, he thinks his feet would sink in clouds. The minutes tick by around them, a string of flowing, round pearls slipping from his fingers.

Marc blinks—once he feels marginally more human again—and stretches his neck. Smooths his hand over Valentino’s crooked collar, his skinny chest. There’s come on his stomach, drying on a viscous patch over dark gray fabric.

“Your shirt is dirty,” he says, feeling clumsy, feeling golden.

Valentino clicks his tongue. “Ah, who cares.”

“Uhm, okay.” Marc decides against safety, tucks his face into the crook of Valentino’s throat. “It is an ugly shirt anyway.”

There’s laughing, the sound punched out and disbelieving. A hand comes up to cradle the back of his neck. Outside, it’s raining, a soft, gray security blanket over the everything else that they’ll one day be able to say.

#motogp #rosquez #marc marquez #valentino rossi #chev fics #hahahaha #what if i didn't either write any of the pieces that i said i'd write #and instead sunk six hours into this #adhd rizz #anyway vale the service top manifesto but he isn't very sex service top #and more like “i want you to be happy and to have fun and to think i'm the best at taking care of everything you want”#anyway

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qwimblenorrisstan · 2 months ago

Text

Surprise Pt. 4 | Soap x Reader

Summary: Taken by someone from your past and tortured for information, memories from long ago, and truths unspoken begin to resurface.

Word Count: ~ 2.5k

Warnings: water boarding, torture, gas, dead bodies, guns, blood, grenades, flashbacks, injuries, kidnapping, yknow, the usual

A/N: (in matpats voice) the LOOOORE bonus: can you guess the two people at the end?? if you can you get extra creditt <3

Requests are open!

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Your head was pounding.

The first thing you registered was your aching wrists, rubbed raw from what you assumed to be a rope around them. You slowly tried testing out your body, trying to find any injuries or at least a general feeling of what was still functioning.

Your fingers were cold, but still movable. Arms worked all right. Your torso was sore, especially your ribs and your cheek was throbbing as well. Feet, legs, and toes still seemed to work, from the feel of it, though they didn’t feel great either. A thick blindfold lay over your eyes as you tried to open them.

Your memory slowly started to come back, and you quelled down the panic that rose within you. The accent of the men that had taken you…it sounded as if they were vaguely Iranian. And with the slight roll of their r’s? Maybe a hint of Mexican.

Not good.

Forcing yourself to focus on something else than the mind-numbing pain of your ribs, you strained to hear anything that could give you more information. You could loosely hear a fan in the background, or some sort of AC at the very least. A steady dripping, probably from the roof to the floor. Sounds of scuffling outside what must’ve been a thick door, before the sounds of metal creaking reached your ears, and you heard footsteps. Walking closer.

Very not good.

“Well, well…we meet again, compadre.”

A mocking tone. One you recognized all too well. You tried to focus on anything else, trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking nervous or afraid. You stopped your fingers from fidgeting, and your wrists from squirming beneath the ropes.

“Aw, not going to talk? That’s alright, we have some convincing methods in store for later.”

A lilt to his tone, the accent still there. The black canvas blindfold was ripped off, and your eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room.

He paced around the four stone walls, occasionally glancing at the tiny, barred window too high for even you to reach. The steady dripping continued. A constant melody.

“I have a few questions for you, mainly about those new roommates of yours, or that little plan you’ve been putting together for so long.”

Drip.

The puddle seemed to echo.

You wouldn’t tell him a thing, not when he’d already taken Nalani — oh god, poor Nalani.

Who would find her body? Would the boys come home from a mission and find it? Or would other friends come to visit and find her sickly dead form, contorted with a hole in the back of her head? How long would it be before her family knew?

She hadn’t known anything about it. About you. Who you were, what you were. She’d been innocent, a mere pawn in the game, and she’d still been crushed and pushed aside. No hesitation, no mercy.

“They had no idea, did they? Who they were living with. You really fooled them, didn’t you?”

Your gaze focused on the puddle.

Drip.

These walls became a cage all too quickly. A familiar cage, one you’d been forced in before. A cage you’d escaped before, spreading your wings and taking off. But now, your wings were clipped, and there was nothing to save you. No one to help.

“So,” He drawled, pulling out a rag and a watering can full of a liquid you assumed was water.

“Why don’t you tell me all about the reason behind your little trip to America?”

Your lips remained sealed, even as you mentally began reciting what had happened leading up to this, up from the very beginning. The boys had no idea. You’d tried to lay out hints, clues, a breadcrumb trail, but they hadn’t caught on.

He gave a tsk, wetting the rag with the water, and placing it over your face. It was cold and damp, biting against your skin. His hand slid to your throat, where he shoved your head backward, to tilt back, before pouring the watering can down.

Drip.

Water was filling your nostrils and your mouth opened to gasp for air, but-

You couldn’t.

There was no air.

You turned to one side, gasping, getting half a breath in.

Before the water came down again.

“Let me know when you’re in a talking mood.”

He said, continuing.

Even as you thrashed in that chair, a bit of your mind began reminding back, reflecting on events without telling. It had all started two months earlier, in the meeting.

“We have reason to believe a terrorist group is taking refuge near [REDACTED], we want you to find cover in a nearby area, assume the role of a new transfer student, and keep your eyes peeled. This won’t be quick, and it won’t be easy, but you’re the most qualified we have.”

“Bullshit. What about my men?”

“They’ll be taken over by [REDACTED].”

“You’re sending my team to that American pussy?”

“Are you in or out?”

“…”

“Wasp?”

“I’m in.”

Water poured down.

Drip.

Your senses filled up with what felt like cotton balls, and you only got a moment of reprieve, a few seconds to breathe before the water began pouring down again. The cloth was heavy and irritating against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

Memories blurred together in your mind, too disoriented to tell what from what, you let yourself fade back into that dark space. The little cave that became your refuge when it was all too much to handle.

The back of your mind, where you’d buried some of those memories so far deep that they could barely be coaxed out now. Older memories.

Drip.

Gunfire reigned everywhere.

You ducked behind a pile of sandbags, gun held tight to your chest. Your hair was dirty, tied back with spare rope. Two magazines left. You needed to get to him.

“Grena—“

Your ears rang as dust exploded into the air, bodies of your brethren shredding as angry Arabic made it to your ears. Some Spanish, too, but not as much.

The main building was to your left. You couldn’t cross over.

That was, until, that grenade had gone off and given you all the cover you needed to sprint into the building.

Gunfire that narrowly missed you, and your finger pressed down on the trigger, putting holes in the bodies of more soldiers. You moved, running, up the stairs and clearing it if you could. You were running off of pure adrenaline at this point, and you knew it.

A few more minutes, and you’d be out cold, dead, or worse.

Five doorways in this hallway. He was in one of them.

You opened the first one, unlocked. Nothing more than an office, much like the second and third.

The fourth was a weapon’s room of sorts, five men inside. As soon as you opened the door, they were shouting. Numb fingers unclipped a grenade, pulling the pin, throwing it in before shutting the door.

Shouting. A loud pop. Silence.

Moving to the fifth door, you heard it. His voice, in there.

“Hermanos mios, esta escoria no nos puede desanimar!”

Kicking the door open, you found him seated at a wooden chair, talking on what looked to be a live video. He turned, whirling around, brandishing a small gun that he didn’t get a chance to use before you smacked it to the ground with your gun.

Shoving him into the chair despite his screams and struggles, you took another grenade from your belt, or the poor excuse of a belt you had, anyways. The last one left.

Forcing his jaw open, you pushed it in, shoving his mouth closed around it even as he began muffled begging and a bit of tears as well. You had no pity. Not when you’d seen what this man had done to people, these people in this camp. You leaned in close, right near his ear, looking him in his soulless eyes.

You began humming, a simple song, even as you pulled the pin out. A song he would understand despite any language gap.

“Round and round the cobbler’s bench, the monkey chased the weasel,”

He began crying, shaking his head in a silent expression of horror, begging for something, anything else. He wouldn’t get it.

“The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun…”

The live continued going. He knew this, as he frantically glanced towards it. You wouldn’t turn it off. Let them see the truth behind their ‘fearless’ leader.

It was only a matter of time before…

“Pop, goes the weasel.”

“Still not eager to speak, eh? You’re tougher than before, chica.”

He gave you a moment of a break again. This time, however, he peeled the wet cloth off of your face. The drain under your chair made deep noises as it sucked all the water up. The puddle beneath your chair was large.

You blinked away whatever water remained by your eyes, and he glanced down at the now-empty watering can, making a little mocking pout.

“A shame, yes? I’ll go fill this up, and give you time to think about your roommates. I want to know all about them.”

His footsteps echoed through the now empty room that held you. Your mind began working overtime, trying to get out.

You weren’t sure how long you could last, and if you broke…it would be disastrous. On the boys. On you. On your entire team. Everyone would be in danger. So you had to get out of here.

You tried maneuvering your wrists, wincing when the raw flesh rubbed against the rope. Your ankles were left untied, for some strange reason.

Odd.

It was common knowledge to tie the ankles. You’d never exactly tied anyone down more than once or twice, but even you knew that. Was it on purpose? To make you doubt yourself? Or just to give you a glimpse of hope and snatch it away?

For whatever reason it was, you could use it.

Slipping your shoe off by pushing the back of it against the leg of the chair, you did the same and managed to push your sock off as well.

Your knife was gone, still embedded in some man’s neck, so there was no getting that back. Glancing around the room, you tried to notice anything nearby. Anything that could be used. The very basics of guerilla warfare, use anything around you to your advantage.

Nothing much in the room. The puddle, the dripping, your chair…

The chair.

There was a small piece that was fraying off down on the bottom of one of the legs, and if you managed to get that sharp wood off, it might be your ticket out of here.

Using your free foot, you trapped the piece of wood between your toes, and began pulling against it as hard as you could. A few cracks. Some more footsteps. Shit, you needed to get out of here.

Shouting from down the hall.

The wood splintered but didn’t break all the way.

Almost there….

Frantic Arabic, Spanish, and even a few other languages you didn’t catch became more than apparent throughout the building, a hissing sound releasing faintly somewhere else.

The wood broke free.

It cut the sole of your foot open, but you grabbed the piece of sharp wood with your toes, somehow maneuvering your leg over to put it in your hand. Your numb fingers grasped it as that one foot began struggling to slip the sock and shoe back on amidst the slippery blood now coating the floor.

You began moving the sharp wood against the rope. It began fraying before….you were free on one hand. Immediately moving to the other wrist, you freed that one as well.

The shouting slowly went further away, and your head began feeling fuzzy. Your shoe was back on now, at the very least. Getting up, you rushed to the door, pulling it open, immediately being greeted with a thick green gas in the air, wafting through.

Gas.

You broke into a sprint down the hall, looking for any sort of gas mask there was. The people in the hall’s cells were coughing before collapsing, their eyes brimmed red and some throwing up stomach acid. There were no gas masks.

One struggling soldier who had fallen behind was around the corner. The only reason you knew was because you heard the heavy breathing of him.

Crouching down, you tried to wait, before deciding there was no time and lunging around the corner. He fell to the ground as you tackled his legs, groaning, reaching for a gun, but too late as you lodged the piece of wood in his throat. He gasped, fingers fumbling still, but you grabbed the gun first, yanking his gas mask off as you shot him in the head.

You shoved the gas mask on as quickly as you could, holding the gun close, trying to force your weak limbs to move. Your head throbbed from the injury you’d relieved earlier, aching in pain.

Maybe you’d already inhaled too much of the gas. It might be too late already. Your knees gave out five steps into the exit, and you began crawling, arms and hands hauling your otherwise limp body across the floor. Your arms gave out about six feet in.

Two people came rushing in, gas masks on, guns up. A woman, and a man.

You tried to signal that you were still alive, to barely any avail, only able to twitch and try to crawl to them. They didn’t look like the rest of the soldiers.

“Bastards tried to gas us out. Killed their hostages.”

The man spoke. He sounded American.

“Not all of them, look..” The woman had a thick accent. She reached down to you, feeling for a pulse, and getting one. Their words slowly faded in and out.

You were being dragged. Your body limp. Someone eventually took your mask off even as you tried to protest, your tongue a dead weight in your mouth.

Minutes, maybe hours later, you were gulping down fresh air as you were pulled into a truck and sat up against what felt like maybe a seat in the back. Seats on the sides.

“…you hear me?”

Voices flitting in and out as you toed the line between unconscious and conscious.

“Find…-ntification.”

“..ma’am.”

The more air you took in, the more everything came back to you. Someone was digging around in your pockets. The American. They pulled a silver necklace out, but not just any silver necklace.

A silver necklace that wasn’t a necklace at all.

“Ge’ your’ bloody hands off ‘at.” A raspy voice spoke. Your voice, you realized. Much more British than when you’d been in that school.

The American didn’t flinch, reading the dog-tag aloud.

“Y/N “Wasp” Riley.”

He said, before dropping the dog-tag into your buzzing hands. He cocked a brow at you.

“Well, Y/N, why were you-“

“Don’ call me that.”

The woman driving the vehicle upfront spoke.

“What do you want us to call you, then?”

A pause.

“It’s Captain Riley to you.”

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cottonlemonade · 8 months ago

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How To Comfort People by Tsukishima Kei

word count: 961 || avg. reading time: 4 mins.

pairing: Tsukishima x chubby!Reader

genre: angsty fluff, rivals to… whatever this is

warnings: horrible social skills

request: small-medium strawberry-passion fruit lemonade with extra ice and a slice of ginger for Tsukishima Kei || angsty-fluff, forced proximity and getting caught in a storm with rival Tsukishima

Tsukishima said Goodbye to the rest of the team and walked down the road alone. The thought of spending a whole bus ride with the others who were still downtrodden from their loss against Aoba Josai was too annoying. Instead he called his older brother to pick him up. Thunder rumbled above and the steely gray sky matched his mood. Tch, it was just a club. No reason to care so much. Hands in his pockets he spotted the small corner shop his brother told him to meet him at. It was still a little ways away but Tsukki didn‘t mind the walk. He kicked a pebble along the path. Then something wet hit his neck and when he looked up, big drops of rain splattered his glasses. Cursing extensively he fell into a jog, his limbs still screaming from the exertion of the match.

He sought shelter at a run down bus stop halfway to the intersection. Still swearing he shook his hair, brushed at his clothes and then took off his glasses, feeling around for a somewhat dry spot on his shirt he could wipe them on.

Once he could see again, he noticed a figure standing with him under the rusty, slightly leaking roof.

The thought that he had seen you before clung to him much like his wet jacket. Then when you nodded and smiled politely he realized that you were that pudgy manager from Aoba Josai. Just his luck. When he decided to simply ignore you until his brother came, the ribbed roof creaked and a small wave of icy rain water splashed into his collar, running down the back of his neck. He gave a decidedly embarrassing shriek and jumped to the side. To add insult to injury he stumbled and bumped into you. Perfect.

Muttering an apology with a small bow he turned to stare stoically out onto the slowly flooding road. After a minute or so he heard you take a deep breath.

“You guys played really well.“, you said, awkwardly holding onto the strap of your bag, “It was pretty impressive seeing so many first years on the starting team.“

Tsukki guessed you meant it as a compliment and he was not about to tell you that it was simply lack of team members that influenced the roster significantly.

In his opinion, it would have been perfectly fine to stand there in silence but his proximity seemed to jump start some kind of rambling in you because now you just wouldn‘t shut up, “I‘m sure you‘ll have better luck next time.“

Tsukki was certain you were just taunting him at this point.

He bit back, “Your oh so „Great King“ is not unbeatable. Everyone has a weakness and next time we‘ll find yours and destroy you.“ Where the hell did that come from? It seemed that the loss did bother him more than he thought. He almost sounded like Hinata.

Even worse, your expression changed from - what he had interpreted as - patronizing to shocked. He pressed his lips together. So what if you had been sincere? He would rather listen to Hinata babble about the Little Giant for two hours than apologize. But then again… you did look genuinely confused and even… hurt (?) at his words.

Long silent seconds dragged on between you two, the downpour on the thin metal roof drumming in his ears. He threw another glance in your direction and a little triceratops figure dangling from your bag caught his eyes. It was the same make as the parasaurolophus he had on his house keys.

Tsukki let out a small breath, then looked around, needlessly making sure that no one would see or hear him and then mumbled “sorry“ being 110% sure that it was entirely drowned out by the heavy drops hitting the metal above.

Lightning flashed across the sky and he saw you flinch and retreat a little into the corner. Great, apparently he was trapped here with a five year old. Thinking of the triceratops he pressed out a rather lukewarm “there there“.

When the thunder clap followed you seemed to shrink even further and Tsukki saw that your hands started to shake.

… What would his brother do if he was here? Akiteru was always the one with the social skills. He would make sure that you were okay and comfort you. Tsukki definitely already did that. And then he would probably prevent you from getting scared again. Resisting the urge to groan loudly at the pathetic display in front of him he reached up and took off the headphones around his neck. You looked up at him with impossibly big eyes when he placed them over your ears. They were top of the line so excellent noise cancelling was a given. Stepping a little to his right, he was now standing directly in front of you - tall enough to block your view of the sky and of the next lightning flashing through the clouds.

Teary eyes aside you were actually not that horrible to look at, he thought. Even… even quite cute, especially with the way his headphones seemed to squish your chubby cheeks together a bit more. Plus there was the triceratops. Always a sign of good taste, really.

A honk behind him ripped Tsukki from his thoughts. Akiteru‘s beat-up car waited in front of the dingy bus stop, engine running.

In one swift motion, Tsukki collected his headphones again and with a curt nod (more towards the key chain than you) he hurried to the passenger side.

His brother offered a sort of happy frown when he closed the door.

“Shouldn‘t I give your friend a ride?“

“No.“

And with that, the brothers drove off, making way for the bus behind them.

✨ @s4lemsstuff ✨ thank you for the request - it was lot of fun to figure out! 😂 hope you like it!

For requests see here

#sunnys lemonade stand #tsukishima kei x chubby reader #tsukishima x chubby reader #tsukki x chubby Reader #haikyuu x chubby reader #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei #haikyuu tsukishima #tsukishima fluff #tsukishima angst #chubby reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #hq tsukishima #hq tsukki #haikyuu tsukki #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x curvy reader

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barrierboss-fencing-ltd · 2 months ago

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Top Benefits of Installing Decorative Metal Fence Panels

Decorative metal fence panels are becoming increasingly popular for both residential and commercial properties. Their sleek designs, durability, and security features make them a go-to choice for homeowners, landscapers, and property managers. Unlike traditional wooden or vinyl fences, decorative metal fence panels offer a modern aesthetic appeal, superior strength, and low maintenance requirements.

In this blog post, we’ll explore the top benefits of installing decorative metal fence panels and why they’re a great investment for your property.

Image Source: Google

1. Enhanced Curb Appeal

Decorative metal fence panels come in various designs, styles, and finishes, allowing homeowners to enhance the overall appearance of their property. Whether you prefer intricate patterns, minimalist designs, or ornate details, these panels can be customized to complement any architectural style.

Aesthetic Flexibility: From modern and sleek to vintage-inspired designs, decorative metal fencing adds a unique touch to your property’s exterior.

Boost Property Value: A well-maintained and visually appealing fence can significantly increase your home’s curb appeal, thereby boosting property value.

By choosing decorative metal panels, you invest in a long-lasting, stylish fencing solution that can transform the look of your outdoor spaces.

2. Durability and Longevity

One of the key advantages of decorative metal fence panels is their durability. Unlike wooden fences, which are prone to rot, warping, and termite damage, metal fences can withstand harsh weather conditions and last for decades.

Weather Resistance: Metal fences are highly resistant to rain, snow, and wind. They won’t warp or split, making them a superior option for regions with extreme weather conditions.

Rust Resistance: Many decorative metal panels are made from materials such as aluminum or galvanized steel, which are resistant to rust and corrosion, ensuring a long lifespan.

The longevity of these panels ensures you won’t need to worry about frequent replacements or repairs, saving you money in the long run.

3. Low Maintenance Requirements

Decorative metal fence panels require very little maintenance compared to traditional wooden fences. Once installed, they need minimal care to stay in top condition.

No Painting or Staining: Metal fences don’t require regular painting or staining like wood fences. A simple cleaning every now and then is all that’s needed to keep them looking pristine.

Resistant to Pests and Rot: You don’t have to worry about termites, mold, or mildew. Metal fencing is impervious to these common issues, unlike wood.

This low-maintenance feature makes metal fence panels a hassle-free option for busy homeowners and commercial property managers.

4. Increased Security and Privacy

Security is a top priority for many homeowners, and decorative metal fence panels offer both beauty and protection. These fences act as a strong barrier, deterring potential intruders while also providing privacy.

Sturdy Construction: The strength of metal fences makes them difficult to break or damage, offering enhanced security for your property.

Customizable Privacy Levels: You can choose panels with closer spacing or integrated privacy screens to increase the level of privacy for your outdoor spaces.

Whether you want to protect your home or simply create a private outdoor oasis, metal fences offer the perfect balance between aesthetics and security.

5. Sustainability and Eco-Friendliness

Decorative metal fence panels can be a more environmentally friendly option compared to other materials like wood or vinyl. Metal is often recyclable and has a longer life cycle, making it a sustainable choice for eco-conscious homeowners.

Recyclable Materials: Many metal fences are made from recyclable materials, meaning they can be repurposed at the end of their lifespan, reducing environmental waste.

Energy-Efficient Production: The production of metal fence panels often requires less energy compared to the processing of wood or plastic.

By choosing metal fence panels, you’re not only enhancing your property but also making a more sustainable and eco-friendly decision.

6. Versatility in Design and Function

Metal fence panels are incredibly versatile and can be used in a wide range of applications, from residential homes to commercial properties.

Customizable Designs: You can choose from an array of designs, patterns, and finishes to create a fence that fits your style and needs. Whether you want a sleek, modern design or something more ornate, metal panels can be tailored to meet your preferences.

Multiple Applications: Decorative metal fencing is ideal for a variety of uses, including garden borders, pool enclosures, property boundaries, and even decorative features within your landscaping design.

This flexibility allows homeowners to use decorative metal fencing in creative ways, making it a functional and attractive addition to any outdoor space.

7. Cost-Effectiveness

While the initial cost of installing decorative metal fence panels may be higher than wood or vinyl, their long-term cost-effectiveness makes them a smart investment.

Long-Term Savings: With minimal maintenance, superior durability, and a long lifespan, metal fences save you money on repairs, replacements, and upkeep.

Value for Money: Given their durability and aesthetic appeal, metal fences provide excellent value over time compared to other fencing materials.

Investing in a metal fence may require a larger upfront investment, but its long-term benefits make it a more economical choice in the long run.

8. Customizable Features

Decorative metal fence panels can be customized with additional features such as gates, lighting, or privacy screens to meet your specific needs.

Gate Options: Metal fencing can be paired with custom gates that enhance both the security and style of your property.

Integrated Lighting: You can incorporate lighting into your fence design to create an illuminated, secure perimeter that enhances nighttime visibility.

These customizable options allow you to create a fence that is not only decorative but also functional and tailored to your personal preferences.

Conclusion

Decorative metal fence panels offer numerous benefits, making them a popular choice for homeowners and property managers alike. From enhanced curb appeal and security to long-lasting durability and low maintenance, these fences provide both aesthetic and practical advantages. Their sustainability, versatility, and cost-effectiveness make them a wise investment that will stand the test of time. If you're looking for a fencing solution that combines beauty and functionality, decorative metal fence panels are an excellent option to consider.

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pookalicious-hq · 1 month ago

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blue velvet... jinx x reader

next | masterlist

synopsis: two girls trapped within a world full of hate would do anything for eachother. too bad they're both crazy. tags/tws: mentions of mental health illnesses, mention of suicide, blood and gore, mc has split personalities word count: 2.5k a/n: this is a start to my jinx x reader series that i'm planning on making, lmk if you like it loves mwah.

You laid flat on the rooftop, the rain pouring down in heavy sheets, each drop landing with a soft patter before joining the steady flow that ran across the stone. The water soaked through your clothes, turning your skin cold, but you barely noticed. The downpour was like a thick, weighty blanket, wrapping you in a cocoon of sound that muffled the world beyond. The constant rhythm of the rain against the roof matched your heartbeat, slow and steady, while the distant rumble of thunder vibrated through the air, a low and soothing hum.

Above you, the sky was a swirling mass of dark, ragged clouds, woven tightly together and swallowing any hint of light from the city below. The scent of wet stone and earth filled the air, sharp and fresh, mingling with the metallic tang that came with every crackle of lightning.

Water pooled around your body, gathering in shallow dips on the rooftop, but you didn’t shift or move to avoid it. Huge wings lay limp at your sides, the once-soft feathers plastered to the surface, weighed down by the relentless rain. They felt heavy, but not in a way that burdened you—more like the sensation grounded you to the earth beneath.

You closed your eyes, the cold wetness of your soaked clothes and skin fading away. In its place, warmth blossomed in your chest with each roll of thunder, spreading through your limbs like a quiet fire. The storm was a comfort, a reminder of who you used to be. Here, exposed and uncaged, with the sky as your only ceiling, you felt a sense of peace she rarely found in Zaun’s suffocating depths.

A poor bird with no room to fly had found solace within your element. The rain could not trap you; the storm could not harm you—it was part of yourself, the only place where you felt free.

If not for the nagging bruise forming on the side of her torso, you might as well have fallen asleep. With a tired sigh, you tugged your shirt up slightly, just enough to inspect today’s damage. The faint glow of distant lightning illuminated the angry purple blossom spread across your ribs, each raindrop that hit the tender skin sending a dull ache through your body. It wasn’t the worst injury you've had, but the soreness lingered, a reminder of the fight.

Nothing had been broken—just your pride, really. The job was supposed to be simple: in and out. No one should have touched you. Yet somehow, they’d managed to land a hit. You winced, not so much from the pain but from the fact that you let it happen.

The rain pattered against your exposed skin, a cold contrast to the heat radiating from the bruise. You laid your hand over it, as if willing to take the pain away. But the storm, for all its comfort, couldn’t heal what was beneath your skin. It could only distract you from it.

You closed your eyes again, letting the sound of the rain drown out the frustration still swirling inside you. The job wasn’t a failure, but it hadn’t gone smoothly. And now, lying on the rooftop, you were trying to forget the adrenaline, the chaos, the way your powers surged uncontrollably for a moment when things went wrong.

In the distance, the thunder grumbled like a low growl, echoing the storm within your mind. You sighed deeply, letting your body relax further into the cold stone beneath you as if you could become part of the rooftop itself and disappear into the sky.

The storm continued its relentless downpour, the city below a blurred mess of shadows and rain. You barely registered the sound of footsteps splashing through puddles behind you. You were too lost in the corners of your mind, too focused on the rhythmic thrum of rain against skin.

But the familiar voice, always loud enough to cut through anything, broke through the storm’s lull.

"Birdie!" Jinx’s voice rang out, playful and teasing. You opened your eyes, blinking through the raindrops as Jinx approached, her figure a blur of wet blue hair and mismatched clothing. "You really pick the weirdest places to hide, you know that?"

You didn’t move, letting your head rest against the cold stone as she watched Jinx saunter closer, completely unfazed by the rain. "Not hiding," you muttered, though your voice lacked its usual edge. "Just… being."

Jinx dropped down beside you with a huff, legs crossed beneath her, her bright eyes narrowing in curiosity. "Being what? Wet? Miserable? Extremely lonely since I’m not with you?"

You chuckled softly, chest rising and falling with the effort. "Something like that."

Jinx tilted her head, and for a moment, the playful sparkle in her eyes dimmed as she noticed the way your hand hovered near your ribs, just below the edge of your shirt. Without asking, Jinx leaned forward, brushing your hand aside with a featherlight touch, her eyes sharp as she inspected the bruise. By now, there were no lines that hadn’t been crossed between the two girls.

"Well, shit," Jinx muttered, her voice dropping an octave. "Looks like they got a good one in, huh."

You sighed, letting your hand drop into the pool of water beside you. "It was dumb. They got lucky."

"Lucky?" Jinx’s brows shot up, her grin returning as she sat back on her heels. "Birdie, they didn’t get lucky. They got stupid. Anyone who lays a hand on you is just asking for it. And by it, I mean getting zapped into a pile of dust, super duper dead."

You gave her a half-hearted smile in return, your eyes drifting back to the sky. "Maybe next time."

Jinx shifted closer, lying down flat beside you, her shoulder brushing against your arm. For a few moments, you both laid there in silence, the rain continuing to pelt down, soaking you both. Jinx let out a small sigh, her voice softer now. "You know… I could’ve helped, right?"

You turned your head slightly, meeting Jinx’s eyes. "I know."

"You should’ve told me," Jinx’s voice had a hint of something uncharted in it, something she didn’t often let show. "You don’t have to do everything alone, you know?"

Your gazes met—a soft union between your own foggy grey eyes and Jinx’s cobalt blue, tinged with navy highlights from the stormy sky above. The rain slid down your faces, unnoticed, as if the world beyond the rooftop didn’t exist for that brief moment. There was a weight in Jinx’s eyes that you hadn’t seen in a long time—something deeper than the usual spark of chaos.

You hesitated, lips parting but no words coming. You were supposed to be the strong one, the one who could handle whatever Silco threw your way. The one who didn’t need help. But here, under the clouds, lying beside Jinx, that strength felt more like a burden.

"I…" your voice faltered, the confession stuck somewhere in your throat. Your mind raced for a way to explain it, but all that came out was, "I didn’t want to bother you."

Jinx blinked, the corners of her mouth twitching into a lopsided smile, though there was still that trace of vulnerability in her expression. "Bother me? You? Birdie, come on…" She nudged her gently with her elbow, trying to pull out the usual banter, but her heart wasn’t fully in it this time. "You're never a bother. Not to me."

You could feel your chest tighten, the words sinking in. For so long, you'd been on your own, dealing with the pain, the chaos, and the aftermath of everything done to yourself. You had always tried to find an escape. But now... now you weren't sure if you wanted to escape anymore. Not when Jinx was here.

"I didn’t think you'd care." The words came out quieter than you intended, almost lost in the rain.

Jinx’s smile faded, her eyes widening just a little as if the admission had surprised her. She stayed quiet for a moment, studying your face like she was piecing together a puzzle. Then, with a soft sigh, Jinx shifted closer, her arm brushing against her side as she rested her chin on her hands, lying on her stomach now.

"Of course I care, you dummy," Jinx murmured, her tone unusually soft. "I care way more than you probably realize."

Her words hung in the air between the two, heavy with meaning that you weren't entirely sure how to respond to. The familiar warmth that the storm usually gave you was now radiating from Jinx, the closeness between them bringing a different kind of comfort.

“You know I love you more than anything in the whole world, right?” Jinx said as she propped her head on top of your chest, voice light but with a warmth that you always found comforting.

You chuckled softly, fingers absently running through Jinx’s soaked blue hair. “Yeah, I love you too.”

The words felt easy between you—familiar. To yourself, it was just how they you: two best friends who stuck together through everything. You didn’t notice the way Jinx’s smile faltered for just a split second before she buried her face in your chest, hiding the small sigh that followed.

Jinx had given up on trying to explain how she felt. She’d tried before, more times than she cared to admit. But you were so... broken it was like trying to explain the stars to someone who’d never looked up. Where did all your love go? Yet, lying there, wrapped in the storm, something shifted in the air between them.

“Good,” Jinx mumbled, her words muffled by your shirt. “Just making sure.”

You smiled, closing your eyes again as the rain drummed softly against your skin. You didn’t realize how much weight those little words carried for Jinx. You just knew that, with Jinx beside you, the thunder felt less chaotic. Less like something you had to run from.

For Jinx, that was enough. It had to be.

She looked at you beneath herself, watching you relax into the rain, face peaceful. If this was all she’d ever get—a friend who didn’t mind when she crashed on top of her, who laughed at her jokes and let her stay close—then that was more than most people ever got in Zaun. She could live with that.

As long as you were happy, Jinx would be too.

The sound of the rain became a gentle backdrop, creating a world where they were just two girls finding solace in each other’s presence. You could feel Jinx’s breath against your shirt, warm and steady. It made your heart swell in a way you couldn’t fully grasp. The tension you carried in your chest began to ease, slowly replaced by the warmth of Jinx’s affection—a connection that was undeniable, yet uncharted.

“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like?” Jinx’s voice was muffled, her chin resting against your chest. “If we just… left all this behind?”

“Zaun?” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes. But where would we even go?”

“Anywhere!” Jinx exclaimed, her enthusiasm peeking through the softness of her tone. “We could go to the surface, see the sky for real. Or just find a place where nobody knows our names, where we can be whoever we want.”

You considered it, the idea stirring something inside. “It sounds nice,” You said slowly, “but it’s not that simple. You know that.”

“Why not?” Jinx’s voice was firm, a contrast to the rain’s gentle cadence. “You don’t owe Silco anything, Birdie. And you sure as hell don’t owe anyone else anything. You’re stronger than literally anyone. We can do this together, you know.”

You let your fingers tangle deeper in Jinx’s hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers like the rain. “I don’t want to put you in danger. Not again.”

Jinx lifted her head, their eyes locking in a moment that felt both fragile and electrifying. “You think I care about danger?” she scoffed, though her voice held a playful edge. “I’m literally a ticking time bomb. And as long as I’m with you, I’m not afraid of anything.”

“But I am,” you admitted, your voice a quiet confession. “I’m afraid of losing control. Of becoming someone I can’t recognize. Someone who always hurts people.”

“You’re not that person,” Jinx said, her tone unwavering. “You’re not Silco. You’ve got a good heart. Just look at how you took care of me when I was—” She paused, her voice trailing off as a shadow of memory crossed her face. “You’ve always taken care of me.”

“And you’ve always been there for me, too,” you replied, your heart swelling at the realization. “I don’t want to lose that.”

“Then we won’t,” Jinx said, a determined fire sparking in her eyes. “You’re my Birdie. I’ll fight for you. We’ll get out of all this together. I promise.”

The sincerity in Jinx’s gaze struck you with an intensity that made your breath catch. It felt like a lifeline, like a bridge spanning the chasm of fear that threatened to swallow you whole. In that moment, you saw not just Jinx, but a future—one where they were free, one where they could carve out their own lives.

“I just—” you hesitated, the weight of your emotions threatening to spill over. “I’m too weak.”

Jinx leaned in, her forehead resting against yours. “We’ll figure it out together. And if you ever feel lost, just look for me.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth radiating from Jinx wrapping around you like a shield. You felt the storm inside you start to settle, the chaos slowly fading. For the first time in a long while, you felt like you could breathe.

With a small smile, you whispered, “Okay. Together.”

Jinx’s grin broke wide, her eyes sparkling with mischief and joy. “That’s the spirit! Now, if we’re gonna run away from all this, we need to come up with a plan. And maybe a cool name for our adventure.”

“Adventure?” you chuckled, spirits lifting. “Like a real one? I’ve never had an adventure.”

Jinx sat up, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she launched into a grand idea. “We’ll be the legendary duo! The Storm and the Joker! Together, we’ll conquer the world! We’ll make people remember us!”

You laughed again, the sound bright against the backdrop of rain. “The Storm and the Joker? Might hafta re-evaluate your naming skills.”

“Shush! It’s perfect!” Jinx cackled. “Come on, don’t you feel it? The energy? The potential for power!”

You felt the warmth spread through you, the playful spirit in Jinx infectious. “Alright, alright. I believe you,” you agreed, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

Jinx’s grin widened as she bounced to her feet, pulling you up beside her. “We’re not going to be just any duo—we’re going to be the best duo! And the world won’t know what hit it!”

You couldn’t help but grin, the rain still pouring around them but feeling lighter now, as if the storm had shifted into something else entirely—something exciting. Maybe it was the promise of freedom or the bond they shared. Whatever it was, it felt right.

“Okay,” You said, a newfound determination blossoming within. “As long as you're with me.”

a/n: hi loves, i hope you like this little intro to the mc and her relationship with jinx. sorta gives some backstory cues but you don't need to focus too hard on that.

thanks for reading pookies, lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist <3

#jinx x reader #jinx arcane #vi x reader #vi x caitlyn #arcane x reader #vi arcane #powder arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane

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