#not only for a man of burr's size | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luckycharms1701 · 1 year ago

Note

Headcanons on flirting styles for the rise boys? Fave pick-up lines? Do they even use those? How often to they ignore their dad’s advice lol

okay anon-chan. you deserve better than this tbh. but i have been staring at this shit for over 12 hours now. this is as good as it's gonna get right now. sorry.

Raph:

This poor boy. He tries so hard. But for some reason he can’t understand, he only ever gets numbers when he’s not trying to flirt. (It’s because when he’s genuinely himself, he’s super attractive, but when he flirts… well.) He’d be a natural if he didn’t try so, so hard. But then he wouldn’t be himself, so it’s an eternal catch-22 for him.

He becomes super aware of his size when he approaches someone, and tends to hunch in on himself. This can sometimes come across as condescending, especially if whomever he approaches is sensitive about their height. Never ends well.

If you flirt with him, he’s probably going to look over his shoulder to make sure you’re talking to him and not someone else. He’s going to get shy, probably rub the back of his neck, and blush a lot. It’s going to be absolutely adorable.

He wants to listen to what Splinter tells them about flirting. Unfortunately he doesn’t have the same confidence, and it shows. He uses the right words, but they come across wrong because of tone, body language, or vibe.

Raph would never touch a pick-up line. He’s too straightforward. He will pick his moments to set the mood instead. Waits for a particular song to come on in the club. Makes sure to bump into you in the park while you’re admiring the scenery. It definitely helps sometimes, especially when he remembers to be genuine.

Leo:

So. Leo. He thinks he’s so smooth. I hate to say it, but he can be. He’s managed to score his fair share of numbers. But for every four numbers he gets, he leans on the counter, slips, and falls flat on his face. He gets better as he ages though. He uhhhh gets a lot better as he ages. Smooth like butter even.

He has this way of smoldering at you that either makes you swoon or laugh your ass off. There is no in between. A lot of his flirting relies on his body, because he knows he looks good. He is the face man, after all. So he is incredibly careful with his body language. He also gets this burr in his voice that his brothers make fun of him incessantly for, but really, really does it for whomever he approaches.

If you flirt with him, it’s going to surprise him, but only for a moment. Then that smirk will grace his face and he’ll turn on the charm. It’s going to be hard to tell who approached who after a while.

Lives and dies by Splinter’s flirting advice. Leo of all his brothers is in the best position to follow said advice, and he knows it. It works pretty well for him. He is especially good at the ‘lowering glasses and winking’ trick.

Pick-up line king! It takes a lot of trial and error and workshopping. He is a quick study when it comes to people though so he manages to figure out when and what kind of pick-up line to use. Once that happens he is devastatingly effective with them.

Donnie:

Donnie almost never flirts. He has more important things on his mind. He is covered in bitches (gender neutral) anyway. Does not understand. Usually he gets rid of them with his bluntness, but that makes it worse with some of them? Needless to say he doesn’t go out much.

When he does flirt though? He takes a page from Leo’s book. Or tries to. Clearly he must have the body too, or people wouldn’t flock to him. Unfortunately, his sense of drama is different from Leo’s, so the same tactics don’t work. He doesn’t realize that it’s not necessarily his looks that attract people (they definitely help though).

If you flirt with him, prepare to be at it for a long time. You need to be diligent to get anywhere with him. It’s much easier if you’re cute but mean though, that gets his attention really fast.

Donnie doesn’t even know that Splinter gives them flirting advice.

He tried a pick-up line once. Once. He might outlive the restraining order if he stays healthy.

Mikey:

Mikey is a cutie pie youngest child and he knows it. He can and will use it to his advantage. Unfortunately the type of people that tends to attract- well, they’re not the ones he’s hoping for. Can and will do little tricks with his mystic powers to try and impress the flirtee, much to Draxum’s chagrin.

He studies how Leo flirts a lot, and it helps him attract people who are more his type. He uses cutesy nicknames for people, and he finds that helps too. When he can make them look at him differently with a spicy look or comment, that’s when he knows he’s got their number in his pocket.

If you flirt with him, prepare for the cuteness to be turned up to 10. He’s gonna try and emphasize whatever he thinks brought you to him. You will absolutely fluster the fuck out of him if you call him ‘handsome’.

He listens to Splinter sometimes, and he’s tried a few of the tricks with mixed results. He needs to adapt them in order to match his own personality before they do much for him.

He LOVES cheesy pick-up lines, and uses them liberally. There’s no way he’s interested in someone who doesn’t like cheesy pick-up lines. Although, if they protest but hide a smile, he’s going to try and see what he can do to get them to break. He’s a handful.

#tmnt #rise raph #rise leo #rise donnie #rise mikey #talking tag #theory tag #so #i have never flirted with anyone seriously and i tend to run away (literally sometimes!) when someone flirts with me #so again not really the person to ask this #but i did my best #and it's midnight and i can't look at this anymore

115 notes · View notes

sassenach77yle · 4 months ago

Text

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 09 || THE BIRDS & THE BEES ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

The light outside was dazzling after the taproom’s gloom. Brianna blinked, eyes tearing at the shafts of sun that stabbed through the shifting greens of a screen of maples. Then a movement caught her eye, below the flickering leaves. He stood in the shade of the maples, half turned away from her, head bent in absorption. A tall man, long-legged, lean and graceful, with his shoulders broad under a white shirt. He wore a faded kilt in pale greens and browns, casually rucked up in front as he urinated against a tree. He finished and, letting the kilt fall, turned toward the post house. He saw her then, standing there staring at him, and tensed slightly, hands half curling. Then he saw past her men’s clothes, and the look of wary suspicion changed at once to surprise as he realized that she was a woman. There was no doubt in her mind, from the first glimpse. She was at once surprised and not surprised at all; he was not quite what she had imagined—he seemed smaller, only man-sized—but his face had the lines of her own; the long, straight nose and stubborn jaw, and the slanted cat-eyes, set in a frame of solid bone. He moved toward her out of the maples’ shadow, and the sun struck his hair with a spray of copper sparks. Half consciously she raised a hand and pushed a strand of hair back from her face, seeing from the corner of her eye the matching gleam of thick red-gold. “What d’ye want here, lassie?” he asked. Sharp, but not unkind. His voice was deeper than she had imagined; the Highland burr slight but distinct. “You,” she blurted. Her heart seemed to have wedged itself in her throat; she had trouble forcing any words past it. He was close enough that she caught the faint whiff of his sweat and the fresh smell of sawn wood; there was a golden scatter of sawdust caught in the rolled sleeves of his linen shirt. His eyes narrowed with amusement as he looked her up and down, taking in her costume. One reddish eyebrow rose, and he shook his head. “Sorry, lass,” he said, with a half-smile. “I’m a marrit man.” He made to pass by, and she made a small incoherent sound, putting out a hand to stop him, but not quite daring to touch his sleeve. He stopped and looked at her more closely. “No, I meant it; I’ve a wife at home, and home’s not far,” he said, evidently wishing to be courteous. “But—” He stopped, close enough now to take in the grubbiness of her clothes, the hole in the sleeve of her coat and the tattered ends of her stock.

“Och,” he said in a different tone, and reached for the small leather purse he wore tied at his waist. “Will ye be starved, then, lass? I’ve money, if you must eat.” She could scarcely breathe. His eyes were dark blue, soft with kindness. Her eyes fixed on the open collar of his shirt, where the curly hairs showed, bleached gold against his sunburnt skin. “Are you—you’re Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?” He glanced sharply at her face. “I am,” he said. The wariness had returned to his face; his eyes narrowed against the sun. He glanced quickly behind him, toward the tavern, but nothing stirred in the open doorway. He took a step closer to her. “Who asks?” he said softly. “Have you a message for me, lass?” She felt an absurd desire to laugh welling up in her throat. Did she have a message?

“My name is Brianna,” she said.

He frowned, uncertain, and something flickered in his eyes. He knew it! He’d heard the name and it meant something to him. She swallowed hard, feeling her cheeks blaze as though they’d been seared by a candle flame.

“I’m your daughter,” she said, her voice sounding choked to her own ears.

“Brianna.” He stood stock-still, not changing expression in the slightest. He had heard her, though; he went pale, and then a deep, painful red washed up his throat and into his face, sudden as a brushfire, matching her own vivid color. She felt a deep flash of joy at the sight, a rush through her midsection that echoed that blaze of blood, recognition of their fair-skinned kinship. Did it trouble him to blush so strongly? she wondered suddenly. Had he schooled his face to immobility, as she had learned to do, to mask that telltale surge? Her own face felt stiff, but she gave him a tentative smile. He blinked, and his eyes moved at last from her face, slowly taking in her appearance, and—with what seemed to her a new and horrified awareness—her height. “My God,” he croaked. “You’re huge.” Her own blush had subsided, but now came back with a vengeance. “And whose fault is that, do you think?” she snapped. She drew herself up straight and squared her shoulders, glaring. So close, at her full height, she could look him right in the eye, and did. He jerked back, and his face did change then, mask shattering in surprise. Without it, he looked younger; underneath were shock, surprise, and a dawning expression of half-painful eagerness. “Och, no, lassie!” he exclaimed. “I didna mean it that way, at all! It’s only—” He broke off, staring at her in fascination. His hand lifted, as though despite himself, and traced the air, outlining her cheek, her jaw and neck and shoulder, afraid to touch her directly. “It’s true?” he whispered. “It is you, Brianna?” He spoke her name with a queer accent—Breeanah—and she shivered at the sound. “It’s me,” she said, a little huskily. She made another attempt at a smile. “Can’t you tell?” His mouth was wide and full-lipped, but not like hers; wider, a bolder shape, that seemed to hide a smile in the corners of it, even in repose. It was twitching now, not certain what to do. “Aye,” he said. “Aye, I can.”

He did touch her then, his fingers drawing lightly down her face, brushing back the waves of ruddy hair from temple and ear, tracing the delicate line of her jaw. She shivered again, though his touch was noticeably warm; she could feel the heat of his palm against her cheek.

“I hadna thought of you as grown,” he said, letting his hand fall reluctantly away. “I saw the pictures, but still—I had ye in my mind somehow as a wee bairn always—as my babe. I never expected …”

His voice trailed off as he stared at her, the eyes like her own, deep blue and thick-lashed, wide in fascination. “Pictures,” she said, feeling breathless with happiness. “You’ve seen pictures of me? Mama found you, didn’t she? When you said you had a wife at home—”

“Claire,” he interrupted. The wide mouth had made its decision; it split into a smile that lit his eyes like the sun in the dancing tree leaves. He grabbed her arms, tight enough to startle her. “You’ll not have seen her, then? Christ, she’ll be mad wi’ joy!” The thought of her mother was overwhelming. Her face cracked, and the tears she had been holding back for days spilled down her cheeks in a flood of relief, half choking her as she laughed and cried together.

“Here, lassie, dinna weep!” he exclaimed in alarm. He let go of her arm and snatched a large, crumpled handkerchief from his sleeve. He patted tentatively at her cheeks, looking worried. “Dinna weep, a leannan, dinna be troubled,” he murmured. “It’s all right, m’ annsachd; it’s all right.”

“I’m all right; everything’s all right. I’m just—happy,” she said. She took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “What does that mean—a leannan? And the other thing you said?”

“You’ll not have the Gaelic, then?” he asked, and shook his head. “No, of course she wouldna have been taught,” he murmured, as though to himself. “I’ll learn,” she said firmly, giving her nose a last wipe.

“A leannan?” A slight smile reappeared on his face as he looked at her. “It means ‘darling,’ ” he said softly. “M’ annsachd—my blessing.”

41 JOURNEY’S END

#the frasers #outlander #outlander starz #outlander series #outlanderedit #jamie fraser #outlander fanart #samheughan #sophie skelton #brianna fraser #jamie & bree #outlander books #outlander book #outlander season 4 #outlander 4x09

19 notes · View notes

sunflowerfatty · 11 months ago

Note

that’s such a nice way of thinking about it and i’m kind of the same way

if you dont mind me asking, what are the kinky aspects of it you like? (if you’re comfortable answering tho!)

Oh man, where do I start 😅

So I guess there’s three categories: Things I like doing, things I fantasize about and want to try, and things that are fantasy/role play only.

I haven’t gotten to do much in person stuff, but these things I have and like: I love being teased for my size, and how little self control I have at times. I like being touched, especially in public. Having someone’s hands on me just feels good. It feels like they’re happy to be seen with me. I also really like modeling and showing off. Watching someone lose their mind just at the sight of me is super exciting.

As for things I want to do/only want to do in fantasy, I’d want to try them first so I know how I feel lol. Actually gaining is here, as I’ve never really intentionally gained. And as part of that I like fantasizing about funnel feeding, having quotas for food/weight gained, and slight degradation. I really like the idea of some pretty girl totally taking charge of me and treating me like a pet/toy. Thinking about stuff like that makes my brain go burr. Theres a lot more, but those kinds of things come to mind first. I’m a kinky little weirdo underneath all my awkwardness.

#ask me questions people #I’m weird and idk how to describe it

12 notes · View notes

wolfhednn · 9 months ago

Text

　—　in lieu of flowers ,　send me your metaphor for sacrifice.

a package is waiting for you at the mail room. please retrieve it at your earliest convenience.

he frowns at the routine print of the academy delivery notice, attached with a fresh owl feather to the crisp parchment, marking its legitimacy. something for him that needed to be picked up? why? he can't imagine anything he might receive that couldn't just be delivered to his room.

he'd have to stop by later, after training.

notice is set aside, and muscle memory resumes the quotidian routine of preparing for the day. textbooks for his classes, coins for the errands he'd be running later, stock of laundry to see whether, and when, he'd need to fit it into his schedule. but in spite of his earlier, easy dismissal, he can't help the curiosity that remains in the back of his mind, trailing it time and time back to the conspicuous summons on his desk — stuck, like a burr, unsated until it's been met.

the old man almost never sent anything. save for the predictable quarterly letter, droning on about affairs back home and reminding him of his responsibilities ; but besides that, he'd never been the type to forward gifts or packages like some parents. self-sufficiency ran in the family blood, he supposed.

beyond that, there was no one else. anyone he could imagine might consider writing was already here.

right. after training.

. . .

the day passes slowly. not because of the potential package — in fact, it's not long before he manages to forget about it entirely. training is brutal, demanding ; exactly the way he likes it, but it has the additional welcome effect of banishing everything else from his mind. any worries, any frustrations, any anticipation. all that remains is him and his sword, and his next move, his next strike. lecture is boring, not one of his favorites ; but it's one he can't afford not to take seriously, so he doesn't let himself become distracted. and errands? more of a hassle than he anticipates. there's a hold up with the materials he'd requested ; there's additional costs the merchant adds on that they hadn't told him about ; there's a suffocating crowd at the market for discounts at the start of the week that makes it nearly impossible to navigate through.

by the time he makes it back to the dorms, the delivery has been put completely out of mind, and even his stamina and discipline are reluctant to drag him to the mail room to retrieve it.

but something tells him he should. one last thing for the day. or maybe: outstanding tasks shouldn't be left hanging.

there'd always been a saying in his household that diligence would go rewarded. perhaps not immediately, perhaps not even in a way you could see or understand, but it was a fact — the way ' you'd be sore after the first time you ride a horse ' was a fact, and ' aim here, and you'll cut your opponent's hamstring ' was a fact.

so, coolly, when he gets back to his room and finally opens the package, he wonders with a bit of irony: is this his reward today for that diligence?

he's not sure how he's supposed to feel.

but after almost a minute of just staring, he takes the large, pristine heater shield in both hands by the flanks and lifts it carefully up. . . and every time, he's surprised by how light it is for its size. but the sturdiness of its weight, the curl of his fingers into the grooves along its underside. . . even through his gloves, he can feel that familiar, intangible sensation start to rumble under his skin. that indescribable, primordial feeling, like knowing you need to eat, or the sense of some instinct telling you where to go.

it makes sense now why they wouldn't deliver it to his door.

but as to why this, why here, he's left with only more questions. obviously, it'd been sent by his father. did the old man think he needed protection? or was something going on back home.

without answers, he can only guess. for now, though, unreadable eyes pan over the relic's bulging lines one more time, its sloping ridges, the angular protrusion at its honor point — and he slides his weak arm through the hand strap, curling dull fingers against polished, reinforced leather.

foreboding sinks into his gut like deep lead — and stays.

felix has obtained the aegis shield.

#﹙ ˙ ˖ × ﹚ + ╱ THE HOUR AT WHICH THE WILDERNESS GLEAMS BLUE .#would you believe that after almost 5 years #felix is finally getting this shit ALSKDJGNAKSDGA #i remember when i was setting the prfs and their reqs and Laughing bc i knew i would never take a point in h. armor for the life of me #anyway we're finally caving now that he's leveled the ranks i wanted #congratulations felix :relieved:

10 notes · View notes

purplesigebert · 1 year ago

Text

WIP Wednesday Week #16 - DW Crossover

Hello, hello everyone, I'm back!

This week we are stepping inside Miss Rose Tyler's mind. She's new to the TARDIS, and is still finding her way around.

Caroline helps her.

The past few days had been mind boggling. Her job had been blown up, she had been threatened by window shop dummies, and a bitchy trampoline had declared herself “the last human” at the end of the world.

Oh, and "Toxic” by Britney Spears had been described as a “classic Earth ballad.”

The future was weird.

But if the future was weird then the man who brought her to it was weirder.

Honestly, he thought he was so impressive, she rolled her eyes, a tiny smile coaxing its way onto her lips. She looked around the room that the machine, the TARDIS, had provided her, amazed that it very nearly matched the one in her mum’s flat. The only difference was the view - instead of the roofs of London, there was a lush waterfall.

As Rose left her room, she bumped into Caroline. She wasn’t sure what to think of the twelve year old that travelled with the Doctor. Clive hadn’t known much about her, but she had appeared in a few of the pictures and drawings that the conspiracy theorist had. What was disturbing was that in some of the pictures, the Titanic one in particular, Caroline looked even younger then she was now. How long had she been travelling with the Doctor?

“Hi Rose!” The younger girl grinned. “How are you settling in? Do you need anything? If you do then you just have to ask the TARDIS and she can get or make it for you! Or you can ask Dad!”

Rose was overwhelmed by the amount of information and questions that the other girl flung at her.

The box was alive, and female? The Doctor was Caroline’s father? And what was going on with Caroline’s accent. It shifted from the Northern burr that the Doctor had to an American one. What was that about?

“Er no, thanks Caroline, I’m fine at the moment, still getting my bearings,” she aimed for a reassuring smile. Inside her thoughts were still whirling.

“Cool, just let me know if you need anything.” She paused, seemingly deciding whether or not to ask another question. Rose sent her what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

“So, what you did to save all of us from the Nestene Consciousness was fantastic!”

Caroline started to walk down the unending hallway that already Rose had gotten lost, twice in her brief time aboard, the other blonde looked perfectly at home here, like she could walk around blindfolded and still find her way.

“You mentioned that you were a gymnastics champion?”

“Yeah, I got the bronze.”

“That’s so cool! I was wondering if you could teach me some stuff? I’ve always wanted to learn how to do a roundoff!” Caroline was flushed with excitement as she rambled.

“Sure, I can do that.” Rose sighed in relief. “We just need a big enough space.”

They stopped in front of a door that didn’t look any different than the ones that had come before it. Caroline smiled and opened the door.

Rose gasped and nodded when Caroline asked if the room was big enough.

The door led to a large gymnasium that was easily three times the size of Jericho School’s.

Rose didn’t think she would ever get used to her new life.

****

She wouldn’t.

#klaroline wip wed #klaroline #the vampire diaries #dw crossover #gabby writes #my writing

17 notes · View notes

writer59january13 · 1 year ago

Text

Unrequited car rearing paramours of yesteryear

Ford score and...Chevy five years ago,

my Model A strapping handsome big bro,

(who sped like one speeding Triumph font lee, crow), wing, & swooping Thunderbird, with bold face observers whistling Geronimo (Holy Jeep), this meant war whooping Comanche

decked out as armadillo kicking up red feathery

colored dust devils rivaling the fastest Alfa Romeo (while choking, gagging, loo sing russett sputum flecked with true grit mouthful size of Colorado) easily mistaken for masked Zorro speeding across rugged

terrain of Durango,

ah recall and reminisce, and if cup ear just so can still hear (albeit faintly), a toy Yoda Echo

wing nsync with Lake Woebegone prairie home companion, the little known no nonsense visiting drag queen racer Noah N. Gin poe

cur face (born that way) originally from Malibu, a beautiful Corvair with Corsair, now resembling groveling growling Gremlin, in slow-mo

what with his Smashface ugly enough to scare Apollo

the ghost of David Buick, a poor entrepreneur, who never did make good profit re: Coupe, and could not Dodge nor shoo

away, the Stealth fearsome curse of Aries nibble Viper moo

ving fast as greased lightning, (whereby an Eagle Talon flashed like Spitfire akin too Austin-Healey Sprite) full Caprice out of the (sir really yon) blue

celestial vault outer limits, hue mans avoided only

brave Caravan Voyager Goo Goo

Doll dared (only fools rushed in, ignoring, and dodging Fiat, where angels feared to tread), a Motley Crue

shielded with Fisker Karma (credit), no matter last payments way overdue

sought out (with Escort in tow) - actually two

yup, that ever elusive Holy Grail, thus needed to Focus with much ado about nothing, while

brows scrunched – mad as Jew pitter by Zeus snorting like angry red Taurus bulls - do

tee fully kicking up Tempo

like nobody's business ready to serve their Mazda at heart,

a Legacy Sub (burr rue) tricked up as a gnu that's all Volks-wagon bidding adieu before I Escalade from ridiculous to the sublime.

1 note · View note

kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Text

Okay babe, I need to get a few things out of my system, pls just bare with me while I lose my mind over your writing

First of all, why did you have to make this so realistic and beautiful...? This is top tier writing. You're not throwing unhinged prose around every other sentence for the sake of it, and still, this reads so flowy and poetic... How?? I need to live inside your brain please.

And how about the fact that you made Ghost appear so strong and distant, you made him mysterious... and you made him vulnerable? He's not artificially, mythically superhuman in every situation or outwitting and capable at every single turn (such as when they're playing chess gah 💖) He doesn't save the day all the time, how fresh is that? And he almost got killed??

How you managed to pour so much genuine emotion into breathtaking smut, how you portrayed reader's (and Ghost's!) traumas so realistically and eloquently, no one will ever know. This fic absolutely DEVASTATED me.

His tactical pants don’t even rustle when he walks and you’ve seen the size of his thighs (there’s no way they don’t chafe in the summer in shorts).

Seeing him after countless weeks apart, that first sighting always like a Fata Morgana.

It's details like these that make your writing stand out, my god

Soap’s charm is that he lays it on so thick and so readily that it’s impossible to feel cornered.

How did you manage to describe John MacTavish's character with one single sentence? Also, the way you portrayed Soap as a sharp and methodical soldier when things get ugly and dire choices must be made... It just speaks volumes of your skill as a writer. The depth, the research you've put into these characterizations really shows.

This is a man who’s lost so much and trusts no one now—works himself to the bone as if in penance or maybe because it’s the only thing tethering him to the real world. You know he sees other people as somehow different from him, like they’re fundamentally incompatible.

And what about Ghost then? FOR FUCK'S SAKE GIRL

You’ve known for weeks that there’s been something brewing between the two of you. It’s evident in the way his body moves with yours, encircles it, welcomes it in—lets you sleep against his arm on the long drives back to base, lets you pick the burrs from his mask when he’s come back from treks through the woodlands, seeks you out when he comes home after weeks away. Always gravitating to you.

I want to cry from how beautiful this is

He goes a little wild right before he comes. Now you have to live with that knowledge for the rest of your life—you could be seated across from him in the canteen or on a ship in the middle of the Pacific and you’ll know that Simon Riley goes completely quiet in the seconds before he comes, draws the whole weight of his body across the length of your back and bottoms out inside of you.

Mayday please someone I need help here

You think you’re special because you cheated death? You haven’t done anything worth noting. You’ve died innumerable times in innumerable universes; in this one, someone walked in the room and broke the pattern.

This isn't a fanfic this is ART

“Mine, huh?” he grunts, pounding into you and leaving you mindless. “Wan’ to keep me all for yourself? That why you dragged me home?”

“No, that’s—that’s not why—”

“Gotta take responsibility for your actions, pet. M’yours now, yeah? You don’t bring something home and let it loose—gotta keep it close so no one takes it.”

I AM CRYING

I'm sorry but I can't form sensible sentences right now. I just want to say a humble thank you for writing and sharing this with the world 🙏❤️

saltwater

He’s there in the room when the terrible thing happens.

Or: You and Ghost trauma bond over weeks and months.

17k, rated E, one-shot

[READ ON AO3]

#fic rec #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #absolute perfection

737 notes · View notes

yr-obedt-cicero · 2 years ago

Note

What is your opinion of the Ron Chernow book on Hamilton? I'm reading it now and it's informative but I don't know how I feel about it yet and we're already almost at Hamilton's wedding. Thoughts?

Oh boy, that book...

Honestly, I hate it but I also quite appreciate it. It's one of the only Hamilton biographies that goes so in-depth about Hamilton's life, and almost covers everything. Like, it's the size of a Bible for a reason and I really did enjoy the background checks on all the figures that were brought up (Like especially Faucette, or Maria). But also it's entirely bias, and filled with inaccuracies. I haven't read the book in a year, and no longer have it in my possession but here are a few things I remember that I hated about it;

Rambling — oh God, does Chernow have a tendency to go on and on and on. He often repeats the same thing several times throughout the book, especially in regards to praising figures in the book, but I'll talk about that and his glorification a bit later. I completely understand the habit to ramble on, but there is the opportunity to edit over your work. I swear after Hamilton did anything, Chernow would copy and paste the same sentence about how “hAMilTOn WAs JUst sUch aN InsPiRaTiOn wIth hIS iRrepresSiBLe pAsSiON aS An ImMiGrANt” I get it. I know. I would go on about how rising from your poor status wasn't anything new or unheard of, but I'll spare that for today.

Glorification — Chernow has a terrible case of glorifying the historical figures mentioned in the book, mainly Hamilton - as he is the protagonist, I suppose - but also Washington. He paints everyone else that is featured as these evil, big, bad villains that are just out to ruin poor, innocent Hamilton's life. And that if Hamilton did anything wrong; it was obviously all their faults and they somehow influenced him into this terrible decision. Chernow glosses over so many times Hamilton ruined other's lives, and throughout it portrays him as this inspiring hero.

Misogyny — you'll notice pretty quickly on; Chernow portrays all the women in the book as pathetic, (Or evil if they ever wronged Hamilton). He does a great injustice to Maria Reynolds, and makes out the affair to be all her and her husband's malicious influence. Because poor Hammy Ham, and not the oppressed woman getting abused by her husband, right? He even has the audacity to frame Elizabeth as a villain throughput a lot of it as well, claiming she wasn't doing her “wifely duties” and drove him to commit the affair (Jesus Christ). It's worse than the portrayal of these women in the musical.

Homophobia — Chernow quite often dismisses the homoerotic undertones throughout Hamilton's life. I'm not saying he has to do an essay on the plausablity of Troup and Hamilton having something more than friendship, but man, you could at least say anything but “lol but they were very no homo”. But the case that pisses me off the most is the complete dismissive attitude towards Laurens's and Hamilton's relationship. Chernow only scaps the surface of their relationship by quoting the April 1779 letter, and then shrugs it off and says that men just had those flowery - platonic apparently - sext letters during those days. Oh, but don't worry, he can dedicate half a chapter in regards to how true the debunked Angelica+Hamilton love affair was.

Inaccuracies — I don't know what I was expecting from a guy who has a very questionable education, but Chernow makes many inaccuracies throughout the book. I can't name them all off the top of my head but; he claims Jefferson said nothing on Hamilton's death when he did, he got Hamilton's children baptism dates wrong, made the same stupid mistake of calling William's portrait as actually Philip's, and misinterpretades many letters. If you want more on the subject, @runawayforthesummer literally has a tag called “Chernow was wrong”. And speaking of villianizing, I urge you to read about Burr outside of Chernow because that is the worst portrayal you'll read him as. Chernow made up this whole betrayal backstory for Burr and Hamilton, when they were actually never friends, or anything beyond acquaintances or political rivals.

Chernow isn't a historian — he's a journalist and a biographer. But biographer doesn't necessarily mean he has taken any studying in regards to being a historian. I'm not staying if you didn't go to college for a four year institution, that you're immediately unqualified to write a biography. But. You should take some initiative to get some education in that matter. Because we have things like this where Chernow makes glaring mistakes.

Phew, okay, that's a rundown of everything I found wrong with it. I'm sure I'm missing other things, but these were the major issues in my opinion. I mean, if you've gotten that far in the book, might as well finish it. Just remember to do your own research, and fact check before you take someone else's claim on something. Once again, Chernow's biography has some good aspects, like how detailed it is. Just remember his major flaws with it too.

#amrev #ron chernow #alexander hamilton #queries #sincerely anonymous

127 notes · View notes

blazewatergem · 2 years ago

Text

Sweet Story - Trick or Treat

“Just a little longer, Bella baby, I gotta get it right.”

Cleona chuckles at the whine Bella gives out, and patiently waits until the toddler is no longer puffing her cheeks to continue putting on her makeup.

It’s Halloween night, and already the camp has done all the greatest hits - pumpkin carving, decorating, and baking Eleanor’s famous pumpkin swirl cinnamon rolls.

They even had breakfast outside by the lakeshore, enjoying the crisp air as Fall’s last stronghold fell to winter’s army.

Now, though, it was time to go out and get some candy. Which is why Cleona was currently doing Bella’s makeup, listening as the others got ready outside the bathroom.

“Kitty, why can’t you come with us?” Bella asks, and while she still has a pout on her face the rest of the makeup goes on smoothly.

“I can’t wear my Glamore for that long, little queen.” Cleona is careful when planting a kiss on her forehead, before setting the tiara on it, “It doesn’t work as well at night, and only in emergencies. Besides, you’ll be out with Charlie, Alex, Phil and the Marksman.”

That sure is a deeply dramatic sigh from a six year old, and Bella is happy to demonstrate such an act.

“Oooookkkkkkk.” She drones out, but is back to smiling soon enough.

“Think I’ll fill up my pail?”

“Totally, bumblebee.”

🎃

Cleona wanted to laugh at seeing everyone’s costumes. As much as she has always wanted to go out trick or treating - her body wouldn’t let her, she couldn’t fake anything, not like the others - there was something nice about staying home.

Bella was dressed up as a Queen Bee - a frilly, Victorian dress and crown on her brow with swiped Tinker Bell wings - while Alex was her Valkyrie guardian, complete with an armored dress, because Alex never does things in halves.

Sabella had instead decided to turn in early - the drop in heat was making her more and more tired, draining her energy like a slow leak in a boat.

Charlie…

There was no easy way to describe what Charlie was dressed up as. He was wearing his human disguise, which looked so fake he could pass off as wearing a costume. Tonight was one of the few nights he could pass it off instead of freaking others out.

Cleona always thought he looked like he was wearing someone’s skin - a mannequin styled creature, puppeteering itself - but hey, that works on Halloween.

The Marksman - an adult who no one has ever seen or properly heard - was wearing his cloak and mask like always. No big surprise.

Finally, Phil was dressed up as a game show host. He was a middle aged, kindly blond man with a sweet smile.

Everyone called him Old Man. No exceptions.

As she waved the group off, watching them head into the truck and off to neighborhoods beyond…

Cleona walks back into the camp boundaries, out into the forest, and runs.

🎃

Later, when she returns picking leaves out of her hair and burrs in her fur, Cleona sees the truck pulling in and smiles. No, grins. She loves a lot of stuff about Halloween —

But this has to be the best part.

Bella barely pauses when the truck door swings open, jumping out and sprinting for the front door, even tugging on it a couple of times before turning back and shouting wordlessly for Phil. He has to shut off the truck before joining her, letting Alex and Charlie out of the back seat.

They join Cleona in watching, Charlie slowly letting his human-suit plop off and Alex with his arms crossed, smirking.

“Old man is about to lose so much.”

“Oh, yeah? Good trick or treat night then, huh?”

“Hell yeah. You got a stick in your hair by the way.”

“Oh, dammit.”

🎃

The Halloween ritual between Phil and Bella goes as follows; After a long night of trick or treating, Bella brings her bag into the kitchen to be checked out. The candy is dumped onto the countertop, and Phil helps her sort through it.

The candy goes into three piles. One pile is for anything labeled King Size, or is considerably large enough to count as - Phil likes to eyeball it, Bella’s the stickler on these rules.

The second pile is any candy that is sugar free. This candy will be set off to the side, and not be counted.

The third pile is…everything else. The Reese’s, the Hershey’s, the Kit-Kats and Snickers. The gumdrops, the lollipops, the knock-offs and strangers.

Anything with sugar, really. Which, for the most part, Bella couldn’t eat without getting sick. It used to be such an awful thing, especially around holidays like Halloween. It wasn’t her fault, just part of her bee-like biology.

So, he came up with an idea. Which leads to the next part of the ritual, where Phil kindly puts all the pile three candy back into Bella’s bag, and sets it on a kitchen scale bought just for this.

He laughs, “Oh, dear, Bella, how’d you get this to…roughly ten pounds, love?”

She crosses her arms and smirks, a look he recognizes from none other than the golden-winged teen outside, “I got it myself!”

He dutifully doesn’t admit to seeing Alex and Charlie trying to shove their candy into Bella’s bag, or hearing her giggle at their exaggerated acting the entire way home.

“Well, then. That’s ten pounds of regular candy, plus…oh, look at that, five king sized candy bars. Look at that, buzzy baby, I think that’s more than last year!”

And thus, as Phil pats the girl on the head, he realizes with a sigh that - Yep.

She definitely likes this system just a bit more than she should.

🎃

The three teens look up, seeing the triumphant look on Bella’s face, and laugh when she holds one tiny child fist up with glee.

“I GOT TWENTY DOLLARS!”

#talking fire #surefire camp universe #Bella goes trick or treating!#love this one haha #happy halloween

10 notes · View notes

clarythericebot · 5 years ago

Text

headcanon: “that would be enough” is when alexander actually falls in love with eliza

In a Winter’s Ball, it’s pretty clear that Alexander’s motivation for marrying a Schuyler is utilitarian.

If you can marry a sister, you’re rich, son.

Is it a matter of if, Burr, or which one?

Also, just LOOK at that face. :P

I think it’s understandable, the way he goes about finding his wife.

I mean, it’s pretty sad, considering Angelica takes her attraction towards Alexander seriously [this is not a game]

and Eliza [I do I do I do I do!] is just so genuinely, earnestly in love with her husband.

But from the beginning of the play, it’s clear that Alexander believes that he has to fend for himself and everything that he wants. And so he does with blood in his mouth and the skin of his teeth. He’s utilitarian with pretty much everything--his time, his effort, his life, his self. Everything for the cause of America and leaving a name. To an extent, I think he believes everyone acts the same way.

Angelica does, though we hear her wish sometimes that she doesn’t. Her first question, after composing herself from the whirlwind shock of meeting Alexander, is where’s your family from? Her instinct is to size people up and take the best course of action with regard to her family name.

I’m a girl in a world in which

My only job is to marry rich

My father has no sons so I’m the one

Who has to social climb for one

(sidenote: my heart aches when I hear that the first and primary reason she takes this upon herself is because I’m the oldest)

He’s after me ‘cuz I’m a Schuyler sister

That elevates his status, I’d

have to be naive to set that aside

But Eliza doesn’t.

He seems to believe she does. After securing permission from her father to marry her, his first words are about everything he can’t/can offer her:

Eliza, I don’t have a dollar to my name

An acre of land, a troop to command,

A dollop of fame

All I have’s my honor,

A tolerance for pain

A couple of college credits and my top-notch

Brain

It’s clear from his wording, though, that he believes that last thing would be sufficient to secure the rest. He’s marrying her with the knowledge of the wealth she’s bringing, his status as Washington’s second-in-command, and the expectation that his actions during the war will bring him prestige.

At the beginning of That Would Be Enough, look how ashamed he is. He can barely meet her eyes.

He’s just been proven wrong. By being sent home in disgrace, he’s pretty much lost his honor and any chance of future promotion.

Would you relish being a poor man’s wife, unable to provide for your life?

I relish being your wife.

The fact that he’s enough doesn’t sink in, even as she promises it over and over. Not until she takes his hand and says that she knows who she married does he even glance up. There’s an implication there, I think, that he believes she married him because of his potential, and not as he is.

If he’d married Angelica, that would’ve been true--not because she’s shallower (Angelica outright says that knowing he’s penniless doesn’t affect how much she wants him), but because that’s how she believes she must act and move in the world. An Angelica that married Alexander probably wouldn’t have been less loving, but would have definitely been more conscious of their status, as she’d have probably seen her marriage as taking a chance on someone who had aptitude and potentiality but little to no security. In Eliza’s place, this would’ve been a blow for her.

Eliza just doesn’t care. On the bench in the garden, she cuts right to the heart of the matter: So long as you come home at the end of the day--that would be enough.

We don’t need a legacy.

We don’t need money.

Watch how low-key flabbergasted he is when she says that. A legacy and money had been his primary goals in life.

We could chalk it up to naivete, of course, considering that she was born privileged and rich. She’s been married to Alexander for months, though, in a war where her side was losing and in dire need of resources. Even before that, she wasn’t tucked away in a mansion--she was just as enthusiastic as Angelica about going downtown and slumming it with the poor in “The Schuyler Sisters”. She’d have been seeing everything through, again, a very privileged lens, but the emphasis here is that she wasn’t sheltered, or at least only as sheltered to the same extent as Angelica was.

I’d err on the side that she knew exactly what she was getting into--even the part that Alexander didn’t love her to the same extent that she loved him. Why else would she ask him to let her inside his heart, if she knew that she wasn’t already there? Why else would her voice break, just a little, at the hope that maybe she, and they, could be enough for him?

Oh, let me be a part of the narrative!

In the story they will write someday

Let this moment be the first chapter

Where you decide to stay

That’s all Eliza wants: Not anything that Alexander promised her, but Alexander himself. This is the face of a man beginning to realize that.

(Bonus: The little swirling melody after where you decide to stay is when I believe he genuinely falls in love with her.)

We know how their story goes, of course. It takes years for Alexander to shake off temptation, to truly recognize how she is, in fact, the best of wives and best of women, and to understand that the best version of him is and will always be in the garden, Alexander by Eliza’s side, her taking his hand. I’m glad he eventually does.

#clary scribbles #Hamilton #Alexander x Eliza #Alexander Hamilton #Eliza Schuyler #That Would Be Enough #meta #Hamilton meta

2K notes · View notes

strawberrysoup · 5 years ago

Text

Pocketful of Posies || Chapter 4

You’d been hiding for years and years now; from your family, from society, from alphas and packs. Suppressants were dangerous but effective and necessary for an omega who refused to be owned—but no suppressants were strong enough to fool the nose of a super soldier, who together with his pack would stop at nothing to bind you to them forever.

pairings: dark!Avengers x reader chapters: 4/? status: WIP warnings: A/B/O dynamics, power imbalances, noncon and dubcon sexual situations, loss of autonomy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat — this is a dark!fic, read at your own risk. not beta read (AKA there may be additional changes)

hey guys! i made a ko-fi! if you enjoy this and have some cash you could spare to help me out with my bills, id really appreciate it!

You wondered idly at his eyes, glancing between the brown and the blue with the kind of intent that betrayed the anxiety welling in your chest. His hair was short too, the last time you’d seen him in the papers it had been long. He was incredibly, uncomfortably handsome and your heart pounded, that stupid bitch lurking in your hindbrain was practically preening under his stare.

“Are you coming back to me little love?” He asked softly, frowning when you flinched back—you were so traumatized, the alpha couldn’t imagine what had happened to you, “focus on me now.”

“Her eyes clear?” Peter’s voice echoed slightly, coming from above, “they were so cloudy earlier.”

“Much clearer,” the blue eye and the brown eye crinkled at the corners, the blond smiling down at you in his arms as he made his way up a set of stairs, “I’d wager you’re even listening to me by this point.”

“Everyone needs to go through their clothes and pick out some things to offer up for the nest,” Steve didn’t sound like he was talking to anyone, rather to the room at large, but the prime’s voice coming from further than Peter’s, “she’ll need lots of options, we might have to fix them up for the first few weeks.”

“How is your nest building instinct, my love?” Thor rumbled, the sound traveling through his chest and vibrating down to your bones, “hopefully better than your submissive instinct, hm?”

There was a snorted laugh you couldn’t ascribe to anyone in particular and the whole thing made you bristle, every hair on your body was standing on end. Did they think it was funny? You were shattering into pieces, shards swept into a hurricane and scattered. You weren’t wearing your own clothes, your own skin didn’t smell right. Everything was wrong, sitting 10° off the proper axis. The thoughts spiraled —they would find all of your suppressant stashes, all of your weapons, the few things you’d taken when you ran away from home. Every second you spent in this house, your odds of escape plummeted.

You were transferred to a different pair of massive arms, Steve carefully restraining yours to your sides when you started to squirm and hushing you softly, “shh, precious, you’re okay. Let’s get you settled in. Thor, Nat just texted Carol that she and Clint should be here in the next half hour. Any ideas on Loki?”

The surface he laid you on was one of the softest things you’d ever felt. Your body practically melted over the ultra-comfortable mattress, white noise filling your brain with static for several long moments. When you came too, you instinctively inhaled deeply through your nose before yawning so hard your jaw cracked. If only there wasn’t a fucking alpha prime laying on his side directly next to you, one arm settled with a comforting pressure over your waist while the other propped his head up, you’d be quite comfortable.

A sudden flash of light jolted you from your fuzzy state, sitting upright abruptly only for the blond to firmly and smoothly force your back to the mattress again. His fingers traced swirls into the skin of your waist while he shushed you and you winced when his hand travelled higher over your ribs, thumb brushing a goosebump inducing arc over your flesh.

“S-stop,” your voice cracked as you reached down, pressing firmly against his arm—blood draining from your face as you realized his arm kept the hem of the oversized shirt you wore pulled far over your waist, “oh my God, get off—”

“Loki should be here shortly, I contacted him just after she ran out of the lab,” Thor stated from where he stood at the edge of what you realized was a bed the size of most bedrooms.

It was built into the floor in the corner of the room, a sea of pillows scattered across the surface and mixed in with blankets and sheets. It smelled—you realized you felt lightheaded almost, surrounded by the scent of the two alpha primes and their entire pack, it smelled so overwhelming. The back of your mind screamed that it smelled good, it smelled painfully and damningly good.

“I brought up some bags.”

Your head snapped to the stairs, watching a man with short brown hair come into view. He was shorter than Steve or Thor but still taller than Peter, built similarly to the finely toned young alpha. There was no extra bulk to the man, although you could see the bulge of his muscles through his long sleeved shirt. A delta, you would guess at a distance; there was plenty of dominance in his stance, but the he looked built to seduce rather than restrain.

Steve’s arm tightened around your torso, fingers carefully cupping the curve of your ribcage and pressing you more firmly into the bed. The prime was all too obviously meant to restrain, especially as he shifted, manipulating your uncooperative limbs until you were cradled in his lap while he sat against the wall behind the bed. His grasp was so entirely inflexible that you wondered what his bones were made of, his muscles—he didn’t strain for a moment, not even when you attempted to throw your entire body weight to the side.

“Any of those got a collar in ‘em, Buck?”

The prime’s hand came down over your mouth just seconds before you shrieked. The muffled noise sent shivers down the spines of the alphas in the room, the one holding you no exception. It wasn’t sufficient though, the pitch was critical to the sound’s efficacy and you couldn’t reach the proper volume. Lips pressed firmly into the side of your head, Steve still holding you so carefully you could barely move.

“Got a couple, here,” the brunet man, Buck, dug through the plastic shopping bags he’d set on the floor near the wall.

“Hey, hey, come on baby,” Peter had an obvious and serious aversion to your discomfort, emphasized by the way he quickly slipped onto the bed and plastered himself against Steve’s side so that he could wrap his arms around you, “they’re not choke or shock or spike collars, I promise they’re just pretty omega collars Bucky and Carol picked out. You’ll feel so much safer with a collar on, omega. Just hold still.”

The shift from Steve holding you down to Peter was almost unnoticeable, a shocking revelation. You swore you could sit on the kid and he’d end up a pancake, there was no way he should be able to hold you in place while you tried to thrash. One of his legs crossed over yours in Steve’s lap, the young alpha contorting you both until your forehead touched his and your body was curled with your neck extended. The hand over your mouth shifted and the scents changed, the newest addition belonging to the delta who must’ve been on the bed behind you.

“Here you go doll,” his voice was gravelly, a strange tone that sounded almost underused with a very slight burr that reminded you of an alpha’s purr—minus the calming pheromones.

“In the meantime,” Thor joined the crowd on the bed, shifting to settle just to Peter’s right and carefully avoiding Steve’s outstretched legs, “No shrieking, little love.”

The alpha command washed over you like tar, your chest seizing. Your vocal cords felt suspended, the more you tried to shriek the more painful the sensation got. The hand that hand been over your mouth slipped down to your chin, tipping your head back carefully as leather circled your neck. A reedy, whistling whine escaped your lips and Peter’s cheek was immediately rubbing against your face, down your neck and over the collar being tightened around your throat. He was scenting you, trying to provide comfort by drenching your skin with a protective perfume.

“Oh baby don’t make that sound,” he murmured, lips brushing over your face as the others shifted around the pair of you, “it’s for your own good, omega—”

“No!” Your voice rasped with the cry, “get it off! I won’t stay here, I won’t—”

“Regulate your breathing, precious, the collar will make you feel more secure,” in the shift Steve had ended up with you sitting on the bed between his legs, his ankles crossed to trap your lower body tightly while his fingers twined with yours to restrain your arms, “maybe it needs to be tighter? Bucky, is it pressing the hormone glands firmly enough?”

There was some shuffling and mumbling and you whined as the collar got a notch tighter, only slightly restricting your breathing. It was just this side of uncomfortable, walking the edge of distressing and you were forced to quickly calm your frantic breaths lest you hyperventilate—there was no telling what they’d do if you passed out, if you couldn’t control your breathing and fainted. You could feel the leather pressing the nodes on either side of your neck, causing a reaction that pumped your body full of chemicals. They were meant to induce intimacy and trust in an omega while alleviating stress, the constant oxytocin and endorphin production that flooded the system resulting in a low-grade addiction. Or so you’d hypothesized.

Omega physiology was a trash compactor of undesirable traits but the hormone set up was abhorrent, the limbic system an evolutionary disaster—two pituitary glands, two scent glands, and the thyroid were all located in the neck, the hypothalamus in the brain with the hippocampus and amygdala. You didn’t know the history of the collars, you didn’t have a head for timelines, but you knew that omega subjugation wouldn’t be so easy or convenient without them. It was like long term sedation with highly addictive chemicals; omegas didn’t stand a chance when their own body’s chemistry was used against them.

“This is inhumane,” you managed to choke out, between the rage and fear and high the collar caused you could barely keep your teeth from chattering, “I’m a human being, of sound mind—I can think for myself and protect myself—I don’t need or want a pack, I don’t—fuck, please listen to me!”

Your voice was weak and raspy, no wonder the omegas you always saw were so docile; your breathing was somewhat restricted, your vocal cords unable to reach full range. Even if Thor hadn’t given an alpha order you wouldn’t have been able to shriek, speaking was exhausting. The command would wear off in an hour or two and it wouldn’t even make a difference. How were you supposed to argue your suitability for autonomy if you couldn’t talk?

“Of course you’re of sound mind, love—”

“No, shut up!” You croaked, eyes flashing to Thor’s surprised face, “listen. Would you treat a beta this way? If I was any other presentation this behavior would be abhorrent—it would be illegal! Please, you’re superheros aren’t you? Be rational, for a moment, please!”

You didn’t realize Bruce had joined the group in the attic until he spoke, “betas don’t have a physiological requirement for physical contact with other presentations, sweetheart.”

A green light went off in your brain, a shine in your eyes as you looked at the doctor, “w-wait, wait I would argue—” your voice cut out for a second and you cleared your throat the best you could, desperation sitting in your stomach, “I would argue that your wording is inherently biased. Omegas don’t have a physiological requirement for contact with other presentations; their bodies require chemicals that it doesn’t naturally produce, the same way we require amino acids to survive—”

“You know your stuff, don’t you princess? Where’d you go to school?” Tony Stark emerged into the attic, still wearing the immaculately pressed suit he’d been in earlier, “you know, before you dropped out and went into hiding.”

“It’s disrespectful to interrupt someone when they’re speaking, you duplicitous bastard,” you spat, the presence of yet another delta setting your teeth on edge.

“Oh yeah, hey Buck did you meet y/n? She really hates deltas,” he was grinning, the asshole.

“Is y/n your real name, sweetheart?” Bruce asked, tossing Tony a stern look, “We found several IDs in your things, all different names. The contract we got from the cleaning agency listed your name as y/n.”

It took you a moment to think through the question—and another minute after that to remember which name you used while in Ontario. You real first name, fake last name. Fake age, maybe? Or was that the Quebec ID? Did your real name even matter at this point? It had been so long since it had meant anything to you (other than being the easiest name to respond to properly, but you could train yourself to answer to anything).

“My name is inconsequential,” you finally responded, eyebrows furrowing, “we’re debating the ethics of kidnapping people, remember?”

“That sounds like biased wording if I’ve ever heard it,” Stark snorted, “try preventing a vulnerable omega from being killed in the streets.”

“Over dramatic, no basis for fact, denied,” you snapped angrily, quickly turning your attention to Bruce, “come on, listen man! You’re subjugating the entire omega population based on inherently incorrect medical assumptions from two hundred years ago or something! The only scientific causation between modern omega theory and actual omega statistics is that the overall population of omegas has dropped dramatically since the induction of Omega Law!”

“There’s no proof that’s causation, sweetheart,” Bruce’s arms were crossed over his chest, “the odds lie in the favour of correlation.”

“We would know if any studies had been done! There have been less than twenty official studies regarding omega biology in the last ten years!” Begging—you were begging, you could hear it, “there haven’t been any studies done regarding the effects of the other presentation’s interference in omega behavior on their physiology! We know more about Olinguitos than we do omega’s chemistry and those’ve only existed in main stream science circles for the last six years!”

“You need to calm down omega,” Steve’s voice was one octave away from a purr, “you’re getting frantic and your heart rate is through the roof. You’re going to hyperventilate.”

“Y’all think she might be more comfortable if she wasn’t being surrounded on all sides by strangers?” Sam asked sarcastically from the stairway as he came up with a tray, his facial expression riding the fence between irritated and amused, “Peter, Bucky, back up guys. Thor, you really gotta be right there when Steve’s got the poor thing completely restrained?”

Hope was like a gut punch, bile rushing up your throat only for you to swallow it back down—gulping with the collar around your neck caused enough discomfort that you realized eating was going to be difficult. Your eyes locked on Sam as the bodies around you shuffled once again. Bucky and Peter both slipped off the bed, the young alpha sulking while the delta calmly returned to the bags he’d left sitting in the corner. Thor wasn’t so gracious as to outright back off, but he did scoot about a foot back on the bed.

“Alright sweetheart, first things first, are you hungry? Dinner’s gonna be about an hour so I brought up some snacks. If Steve let’s go of you, do you promise not to try to run off?” The man approached the edge of the bed, holding the tray against his hip, “we can have a discussion.”

Suspicion lanced through you, there was no way the offer was as innocent as it seemed. Most of the time engaging with people who wanted to have discussions didn’t go well but you weren’t sure what your alternative option was. There was no reason to test their patience at this point so you nodded slowly, feeling Steve’s chest press into your back as he sighed. He lifted you carefully and set you down onto the mattress, far more gracefully than any alpha prime had the right to be as he climbed off the bed.

“Now can at least some of you get out?” The alpha turned to stare back at his packmates still cluttering the attic, “please?”

They were all still for several seconds before Thor and Steve exchanged a heavy glance and both nodded, turning respectfully and walking down the stairs—another shocking display that made your heart stutter. An alpha prime silently acquiescing to the request of an alpha in front of their pack, signaling that others should follow, was a sign of an incredibly strong pack. It meant strong, competent leadership, respect, and consideration. Too bad they still considered you little more than an animal.

Bucky and Peter followed with mournful back glances, Tony moving to join them looking more exasperated than saddened. Bruce went to follow but you immediately felt a prospect of hope leaving with him.

“W-Wait, Bruce—right? Bruce, you’re rational, a scientist? Please, stay, let me debate this with you—”

“Hey! I’m a scientist too! I have PhDs!” Stark balked immediately, tossing his hands up as if to emphasize the aggravation her attitude was causing.

“Tony, don’t—”

“No, you stay too!” You cut Sam off when the alpha began to admonish his pack mate, “you’re an asshole but you understand fucking logic, I’ll take it.”

“What about me?” Peter squeezed eagerly back onto the landing, “I have three masters and—”

“Peter no, no more alphas in here please,” Sam stared the younger alpha down for just a moment with a stern eye, “please?”

Peter groaned but turned back, trudging down the stairs like a teenager. The air felt clearer when all that was left in the room was a three people other than yourself, the two scientists and the alpha. Part of you felt increasingly panicked, as if somehow the quiet setting was more ominous than the previous. The other part of you realized that this particular group was far less likely to violate you while you sat half naked on a bed than the others.

“Okay now,” Sam toed off his shoes before stepping onto the bed, carefully bringing the tray with him to set on your lap before he sat down, “let’s slow down for a few minutes. I know I don’t understand what you’re going through, but my little sister is an omega so I do have a little more knowledge than most of the pack. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on from your perspective.”

Burning frustration lit a path down your spine—this alpha might’ve seen omegas as more than pets, but he certainly spoke down to you like you were an irrational child. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on from your perspective?

“From my perspective I’ve been assaulted and terrorized and falsely imprisoned for I don’t know how long now!” You spat, practically vibrating in irritation, “you’re trying to justify this treatment because I’m an omega but my designation doesn’t mean I deserve to be treated like something to be caught and stolen! I want to leave, I want this horrible collar off my neck, and I want my stuff back! And if you tell me to calm down, so help me God—”

Sam’s mouth snapped shut from where he’d started to speak, immediately folding his hands into his lap and clearing his throat, “right, no telling you to calm down. Got it. Now, where are you from?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you grit your teeth slightly when the alpha sighed, “I want to leave, now.”

“You can’t leave sweetheart, not unless we get everything figured out. If you have an alpha, we’ll need to get you back to them. If you don’t, we certainly can’t just let you go back off on your own—it’s way too dangerous.”

“No it isn’t, I’ve been on my own for years and I’m fine! Not once have I had any problems, not until now!”

“Yeah, unfortunately for you our beta here has an alpha rage monster inside of him who managed to catch your scent beneath the suppressants,” Tony looked almost proud as he slung his arm over the beta’s shoulders, tugging him slightly, “if Bruce didn’t tip off Steve, who knows if he would’ve caught it.”

“Wow—Jesus Christ, you make me want to punch you in the face,” you snarled, hands clenching into fists in your lap, “I’m not a helpless omega, I’ve been happy, do you understand that? Do you know how rare it is for an omega to get to be happy? It’s like winning the lottery. Please, I like being happy. Please just let me go.”

“Sweetheart it isn’t rare for omegas to be happy,” Sam was frowning like you’d dropped a suicide note on his lip, “there are so few of them, they’re taken care of like royalty, baby.”

“Plus, omegas in packs are statistically less likely to suffer mental illness—”

“God, would you shut up about that?” Bruce’s eyes went wide when you snapped at him, “that study was trash, the bias was overwhelming and it hasn’t been replicated since. Omegas in packs wear collars that force their bodies to over produce oxytocin and when that’s removed they go insane from withdrawals. The same happens with the chemicals produced by the other presentations’ pheromones; instead of being given supplements to make up for the absence omega’s bodies are left to wilt. It has everything to do with medical malpractice and nothing to do with omega nature! There’s nothing happy about that!”

“Look, there are obviously places where the known biology of omega’s has holes,” Stark admitted, one hand in his pocket while the other was held aloft, “There’s a lot we don’t know, but what we do know is that when omegas are left to their own devices they end up dead.”

“They end up kidnapped, raped, and forcibly bonded by alphas!” If the collar had allowed the pitch you would’ve been shrieking, “By alphas who’s packs rape and bond the omegas, too. The only danger to omegas are the other presentations!”

“That’s why they have to be protected,” Sam emphasized his words with a dose of calming pheromones, and you snarled.

“Stop trying to manipulate me! All your doing is inhibiting my ability to think and feel for myself—do you not see how cruel and insane that is? That you’re literally attempting to—”

“This is a lot of ROR rhetoric,” Bruce sighed quietly, obviously aiming his words to Tony but you picked it up.

“There’s no such thing as ‘radical’ omega’s rights! We just want to be allowed to exist without our lives and hormones being constantly controlled by outside forces that we never chose!” Your voice broke towards the end and you realized tears were welling in your eyes—this conversation was not going your way and hope was dwindling rapidly, “why is that so hard to understand? That chemically controlling another human being is inhumane?”

“Alright, alright, let’s take a second and calm down,” Sam requested sternly, eyes widening when you immediately hissed, “Not just you, ‘mega. Everyone, including me, okay?”

It was truly a battle to fight down the ire rising in your throat, nearly choking you at the collar. You wondered cruelly if he’d treated his sister like she was an infant her entire life, if this was his bedside manner for omegas. The poor thing was probably so addicted to oxytocin she was barely alive.

“Please, let me go,” you begged quietly, squeezing your eyes shut against the tears, “if you have any humanity in you, let me go.”

When you looked up at him again, the doleful look on his face made your heart crumble to pieces.

“Lots of omegas are apprehensive at first, baby,” his voice was gentle, low and forlorn, “when you first present… my sister was seventeen. She was in so much pain and she begged for help, for almost a full week. When she came out of it she could barely remember how bad it had been but we remembered. The agony she’d suffered because she didn’t have an alpha through the process—we couldn’t let that happen over and over again, could we? As her packmates how could we let her endure that? She was upset at first, but now she has a pack that waits on her hand and foot, a whole slew of babies, anything she could ever ask for at her fingertips.”

“She was upset at first,” your heart broke for Sam’s sister, where ever she was, “you realize she was only able to be upset at first, right? Because after a while, she probably stopped being able to process the usual scale of emotion she enjoyed before you allowed her to be given a chemical lobotomy and sold her off—seventeen, God, she never even got to live and you’re talking about her like she’s some sort of success story?”

The look in the man’s brown eyes was getting darker and darker the longer you spoke but a dam had broke and your mouth kept moving, hoarse sounds barking borderline cruel words in fast succession.

“I hope her ability to feel betrayal went first so she didn’t have to deal with the memory of her family auctioning her off like fucking cattle. Success story,” you scoffed, lips lifted in a fang flashing snarl, “that wasn’t a fucking success story you knottedheaded piece of shit, it was a cautionary tale.”

#avengers x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #sam wilson x reader #tony stark x reader #carol danvers x reader #clint barton x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #bruce banner x reader #thor x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #dark!avengers #dark!avengers x reader #abo dynamics #pocketful of posies

944 notes · View notes

fourmarkdove · 5 years ago

Text

Fawn.

Title: Fawn.

Words: 2.8k

Summary: Geralt stops into ye locale brothel expecting one the ladies to soothe his battle weary soul. You aren’t meant to be there and have no idea how to handle his needs.

Paring: Geralt x reader

Warnings/Triggers: Smut.

A/N: This is a multi-chapter beasty. I’m already up to 10k so I’ll be editing and breaking it up into chapters to post in the next couple days. I’ve held onto this for 3 months (?) and I still can’t figure out where I’m going with it past chapter like 8, so I may be asking y’all what you think when we get there. (Also, I need to go back and tag some folks.) Comments welcome. Thanks for reading!

It had been weeks since the Witcher had been through town, so when his massive frame darkened the doorway of the inn, the women who worked there scattered to put on their rosy lips and tighten their bodices just a bit more. In truth, none of them would have even asked him for a single coin. Being the one chosen to bed the Witcher later that night would have been more than enough payment for keeping his plate full, his drink topped off, and some easy company with curves to fondle while he consumed and brooded.

By dusk, the leather clad man was served enough of a steady stream of ale to just barely soften the lines across his troubled brow. His demeanor was still altogether sullen, leaning over his mug, shoulders rolled forward, silver strands of hair fallen around his weary features. The hunt had not gone well.

He needed food, a bath and a hard fuck. Emptying himself out in the tight cunt of a pretty little thing would help clear his head. It might even afford him the chance to get a little bit of rest.

Mathilde, one of the more experienced women, saw Geralt always had proper company to suit his mood. Settling in next to him with a mug, she let out a labored sigh and sipped on her ale. His heavy lidded gaze glanced her way and an acknowledgement “Hmm” rumbled from his chest.

“You look tired, Witcher,” she noted, leaning heavily into his shoulder armor. “Why don’t you stay more than a night or two, my darling? Let Mathilde look after you a bit.”

“Hmm.”

That was usually enough to get him headed into a room upstairs but instead he sat back and downed the last third of his drink.

Mimicking his motions, she sighed and turned away from the room to whisper into his ear.

“Anyone caught your eye tonight, darling?”

Geralt looked in a drunken citrine haze around the room, but took pause at your figure sitting at the hearth, tending to the fire.

“Hm,” he grunted, motioning with his chin, before sipping on the fresh pint just delivered.

Mathilde pressed her lips together and slipped her hand under the table to touch his knee. Lazily lifting an eyebrow at her advances, he waited in silence for more information.

“She is new since you been here last, darling. Might not be exactly what you’re in the mood for tonight though love. Let’s maybe try Larissa? She can be bent over a sack of potatoes in the kitchen in about two minutes if you want an early night in.”

The slightest downward tick of his mouth indicated he was not pleased with her proposition. Returning his gaze to your outline seated by the fire, he grunted,

“Send the doe-eyed one up with soap.”

You’d barely seen the shadowy figure dragging his weary frame upstairs before Mathilde crossed the noisy room to where you were seated.

“You’re up, girlie,” the mistress instructed without a drop of honey in her tone. “Take a bar of soap up to the Witcher.”

Willing your hands to stop trembling, you paused and pressed your back against the wall just outside his door. Shaky breaths felt like they could have rattled your body to pieces and left you collapsed on the floor.

You’d been saved the humiliation of participating in the activities all of the other girls were involved with by staying in the kitchen for the last few weeks you’d been at the inn. Knowing absolutely nothing about cooking, you still tried to make yourself useful. Carrots were cut in odd sizes at an achingly slow pace. Onions made you weep so much that you closed your eyes while cutting and sliced your knuckles by mistake. Collecting potatoes, you’d managed to get tangled in a thicket of thistles and stumbled back to the kitchen empty handed and covered head to toe in burrs.

Having absolutely no training about local flora and fauna, you assumed all herbs were created equal. You’d never have known the herbs next to the parsley were in fact poisonous had you not washed and cut them to put in the soup yourself. Just a few sprinkles of green on top of a spoonful of broth made you immediately sick. Your body revolted and cast up everything you’d eaten that day, over and over.

So you were sent out of the kitchen. Potentially poisoning patrons was apparently the last straw. You knew it was only a matter of time before you would be sent upstairs to perform other activities. And it made your hands sweat and breathing quicken so much that you started to see stars.

Just as you were feeling your legs might give out from under you, the door swung open.

The white haired man stood as a broad shouldered wall of muscle, leather pants undone low around his hips, shirt crumpled in his hand.

You were absolutely dwarfed small by his impressive size. Upon one last shallow inhale, the soap dropped from your hand and your eyelashes fluttered closed.

Catching your waist, he tossed his shirt at the foot of the bed, swept you over his forearm and sighed. He’d heard your rapid heartbeat, like a frightened deer hiding under a brush pile, from the other side of his closed door. Of course, he was used to a cool reception wherever he went, but making you faint dead away was not his intention.

Dragging you to the bed, he hummed a thoughtful sound. He’d felt the kind of expensive green fabric you wore under his rough hands many times, but never in a place like this. Dresses this soft came from fabric woven from far away places, which meant you’d come from money and belonged in a court somewhere not collapsed on his bed in a brothel in the center of nowhere.

Fortunately, he had more knowledge of courtly dresses than most men, particularly their quick removal.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let you fall forward so your head rested against his shoulder as he reached for his silver dagger and slipped it right up your spine, slicing the ties laced across your back. Roughly tugging apart your dress, your body responded with a desperate gasp.

With a shuddering exhale, your fingers grasped onto his thick biceps, trying to ground yourself as the dizzying sensation passed.

He made quick work pulling you free from the binding garment, slipping it down your shoulders, letting it pool around your hips.

“I’m… sorry… I don’t know… what happened,” you stilted, pressing your forehead into the crook of his neck.

“Why you ladies tie yourselves up in these fucking dresses I’ll never know,” he grumbled almost imperceptibly low. Slipping a hand under your hair, he stroked along your jaw and lifted your head with his thumb. “Better?”

You straightened up a bit and released your fingertips from their death grip into his upper arms.

“Better,” you lied. “How may I… please you?”

Regarding you with amusement, he lifted a brow. “Please me? Keep breathing for a start.”

You bit your lip, and his golden eyes followed. You were uncertain how to say the things out loud that you were supposed to say. Even moreso, do the things you were in his bed to do.

You frowned in confusion when he reached around your hip and pulled back the covers.

“You can stay here tonight,” his voice resonated deep in his chest. “I’m going to wash up.”

“Can I help?” you asked meekly.

He tugged your bitten bottom lip from between your teeth with his thumb. “You can stay right here.”

Decision made, his weight lifted from the bed making the old frame creak. He went to the fireplace to add more wood before heading to the bath in the main part of the room.

Pushing your heavy outer dress down your hips, you remained in your underclothes and slipped your cold feet under the covers, pulling the wool blanket up to your neck.

Geralt groaned as he sank down into the bath. Every muscle in his body ached.

Resting his heavy arms along the sides of the bath, his tired eyes finally closed and he rested his head back against the hot water basin.

Still alert like a snoozing cat, he didn’t move a muscle when you padded over, undressed and carefully held onto the edge of the bath to climb in with him.

You settled a long moment opposite him, drawing your knees up to your chest in the warm water. Fairly certain he was sleeping, you were allowed a longer look at him without those keen eyes flashing at you. He really was stunningly beautiful. Somehow that made what you were about to do even more difficult.

You were just inches away from touching his large hand holding onto the edge of the tub but he sensed your reach and grumbled, “What are you doing, little fawn?”

You gasped and froze, glancing at his still reclined and resting form.

“I… um…” you stumbled, pushing forward despite your racing heart shooting up into your throat. Wrapping your hand around two of his massive fingers, you pulled it underwater and his palm around your waist.

“You paid for this... room…” came your breathy voice, collecting every last bit of courage left in your body. Slipping over to him, you rose onto your knees before him, letting the water just skim the underside of your breasts.

His gaze became dark, pupils dilated, as he followed the water droplets rolling down your flushed skin.

He licked over his lip and flicked his gaze back up to yours after drinking in all of the soft flesh you were offering. His hand you’d wrapped around yourself flexed and pulled you flush to his chest. You could feel the steady thump of his heart pounding like a horse’s canter under your palms. Nudging his nose to yours, you could feel his warm breath against your lips when he parted his and waited.

It was so close and quiet and intimate and it surprised you.

A man like him could take what he wanted. But he was stalled out, stroking your neck with his thumb and the curve at the small of your back, while you decided. Leaning just that tiny bit more forward, you gave his full lips a chaste kiss, long and lingering, before backing off, still just inches from his face, and gazed at him through your dark lashes.

It was more than enough encouragement for him to stretch his long neck and tilt his head just a degree, capturing your mouth with his. He kissed you like a man starved, filling all of his senses with your sweet, soft presence, inhaling deeply your scent and needing to taste your lips, feel your soft tongue, breathe the same breath with each kiss that he dipped to receive from you.

It filled your body with such heat, from your cheeks to your toes, overwhelmed with the sensation.

Dropping his head, he pressed his lips to your neck, leaving little nips down to your collarbone. Nuzzling your chest there he huffed in appreciation and lifted his gaze again, arching a brow. He had a mischievous glint in his amber eyes which you couldn’t help but smile softly at. It was then that you felt him cup your breast, massaging it gently in his strong hand. His thumb found the sensitive nub of your hardened nipple and you bit your bottom lip to stifle a whimper.

Your eyelashes fluttered closed when your foreheads touched. He nudged his nose to yours and told you in a gentle rumble, “I want to hear you.”

Pawing your fingertips at the rock hard muscle atop his shoulders, you whined and let your head fall back, your hair spreading across the water as he lifted your body inches more out of the bath, kissing down your sternum, delivering hungry kisses to your warm flesh until his mouth finally found that nipple he’d been teasing.

Your whine turned into a moan as he hugged your hips to his chest. He caught behind one of your shaky knees and helped you wrap your squirming legs around his middle, never pausing for a second on the attention his open mouthed suckling kisses were giving your breast. Once it seemed he’d gorged himself on one breast, he shifted your body slightly and dropped his head down again to capture the second nipple in his mouth.

You dug your heels into his muscular back and threaded your fingers through his hair, arching and whimpering sounds you didn’t know you could make. Flattening his tongue along the swell of the underside of your breast, he lifted it past his lips and into his hollowed mouth, drawing you deep into him and suckling at such a slow even rhythm, rubbing your sensitive nipple into the roof of his mouth. Something like lightning shocked from your nipple down to your clit, making your hips jerk foreword violently.

“Hmm,” he grunted approvingly, feeling the swell of the hood of your clit nudge against his stomach when your thighs tightened again. Even underwater he could feel your slick heat smearing against his taut skin.

The slightest flutter of gentle fingertips near your core made you gasp his name. Wrapping both arms behind his neck, you rutted into him, trying desperately to get more friction.

Thick fingers slipped along your folds, coating you in your own sex, and a desperate ache pooled in your belly. Your hips rocked making waves in the bath and some spilled onto the floor.

“Careful there,” he teased, spreading two fingers around your core to stretch your center from outside. His thumb pad completely covered and deliciously circled your almost too sensitive clit. It made you cry out when he sped up thumbing over the tip of your swollen nub and then curled a thick finger over your clit hood, drawing down to his circling thumb. It was a motion and sensation and pressure you’d never even thought of to try yourself and it made your inside walls tighten and become thick with want.

Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, not meaning to pull his hair hard as you writhed into his hand and panted into his mouth. Your eyes were shut, and an almost pained expression tensed your features as you moved into his rhythmic ministrations.

His expressive eyes never closed for a moment, however. Black dilated pupils caught in the light and he gazed at you like a hunter to prey. He wanted to see the heave of your breasts and how they shuddered against his chest at the pleasure he was giving you. He wanted to see how your eyebrows lifted and furrowed as if you were singing a song of ecstasy whose melody could only be heard by watching your beautiful features as he stroked your most sensitive parts of you. It was a melody you were writing together with every caress, kiss and muscle twitch.

You wrapped one arm behind his neck and pressed the other’s palm to his shoulder, giving you a bit of push and pull leverage against his anchored body. Your core was tightening and not willing to relax even if you willed it to.

“Fuck! Please don’t stop!” you cried trembling all over.

He growled a pleased sound, snaking his tongue into your mouth which you licked at wildly. He was doing things to your body you’d never felt before. How were you supposed to tell him it felt better than the best feeling ever without having any words fully formed coming from your brain?

“You like that, little fawn?” he purred as your mouth crashed against his again.

“Ah-hah…” you mumbled into his mouth, coveting more of his strong tongue. You wanted to taste him, every inch of him, have his scent all over your body. The need was incredible.

The forearm holding around your hips eased tension and his free hand slid down to caress over the curve of your behind. You cooed and nibbled at his swollen lower lip, still slipping into his thumb and fingers at your front.

His one strong palm pressed under you from behind almost made a seat for you, and you were able to relax your thighs’ grip on his sides.

You gasped and dropped your head down against his shoulder, shuddering when you felt his thick fingers from behind slicking along your tensed up core and began circling with increased pressure where he’d been working to stretch you before.

Falling silent, your hips stilled and warm breath panting against his neck caught in your throat.

He could no longer see the impending orgasm written across your features when you buried your face in his neck, but he could definitely still feel the hard heartbeat between your legs kissing at his bare stomach.

One slickened middle finger traced your opening, swirling over it gently at first and then pressed his fingertip into you.

His heightened hearing caught your mouse-sized whisper into his shoulder, “Please don’t…”

#Henry Cavill #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill fanfiction #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x you #smut #fourmarkdovewrites

587 notes · View notes

emf005 · 4 years ago

Text

More Expresso Means Less Depresso

Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

Warnings:Whole bunch of cussing because, I mean, why not? And Peter Parker

being the Fluffiest Puppy ever.

Being Tony Stark's daughter came with a lot of pluses. The brains, the looks, the sarcastic comments, not knowing who your mother is until the results came back from the lab. But more than that, you had the ability to ask for permission and then do whatever the fuck you wanted to do anyhow. Like two years ago when you made yourself the Iron Warrior suit. Ha ha ha… Lord was he PISSED at you. Also, your horrible habits of not taking care of yourself when you wanted something. Like tonight.

You refilled your mug for what seemed like the thousandth time since Monday (it was Friday) and took a long sip. By long, I mean looooooong sip of the scolding black liquid. It felt good. The caffeine. Thank Christ for Coffee and caffeine. You would have been long dead if it weren’t a thing.

You had been working on school work and personal projects all this week, never getting a chance to sleep. Finals were coming up, a huge mission was too and you needed to work out the kinks in your suit. It had gotten damaged during the last one and while you were fixing it you had the great idea to update it. Ha ha ha ha. Not a great idea.

“Hey, kiddo,” Steve Rogers and his fucking huge arms the size of your head said. Wait. Did his muscles talk? Was that what happened?” When was the last time you slept?” Nope, not the muscles, just the echo in your head. You took another sip of the scolding liquid before pouring yourself another mug. You hummed in though.

“I don’t know. A while?” You shrugged and put the coffee the what's it mcbob (To tired, words no come to brain) back in the maker to start another batch of it. Who knew how long you’d be here. You definitely needed to make sure you had enough to last you.

“Maybe you should get some rest. You don’t look so good,” you could tell he was worried. But it didn't take much to make the flag covered man worried.

“No can do, Mr. America. I have too much on my plate.” He didn’t roll his eyes like he normally did at your nickname.

“Kid, I really-”

“Well nice way wasn’t working,” you set your mug down and leaned towards him with murder written all over your face. You hadn;t slept in a wee, was it really a smart idea to tell you what to do right now? “Listen here, Rogers, if you attempt to drag me away from this machine or my work I will personally rip your head off and shove it so far up your perfect ass that it’ll pop up right back on top without even touching my suit. Got that?” He swallowed and backed up a bit at the murderous look you were giving him that was thirty times more dangerous than your father’s. “Good.” You poked his chest, grabbed your mug and turned around on your heels, back to your work.

You skipped your coffee that was now mixed with Red bull when your father walked in.

“Dad! Dad dad dad dad dad!” He walked over to you.

“What’s up?” He asked, not saying anything about the state you were in. He knew he should've but, as you had pointed out one time, that would consider him a hypocrite.

“Ok ok ok ok ok ok. So, there's this thing that goes burr in my suit and it won’t go bop bop bop any more! And then for my essay, how many plays did Shakespeare actually perform himself? Also for chemistry-” He put a hand over your mouth and held up a red bull can. You thought you hid those better.

“First off, I can’t understand you, you're talking so fast. Second off, I thought we agreed that if it came to mixing Red bull and Coffee it was time to stop.”

“I know I know I know I know. But we have that mission coming up. And finals are right around the corner. And I have this essay due. And this chemistry is for enhancing Peter’s webs so that they are forty percent stronger and sticker. Plus, they’ll dissolve in water, too!” He sighed and set the can down.

“No getting you to stop, huh?”

“No. Now out, I’ll figure it out. I wasted too much time listening to your pointless lecture.” He was about to reprimand you, but remembered you were his daughter and that would only make you sass back more. He ruffled your hair and left to leave you to your work.

You had completely lost it by Sunday evening. You were running around the lab incircles muttering things when Peter came in, all happy and chipper to see his crush/best friend. But he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the state of disarray everything was in. You heard the doors shut and looked up at him with wide red crazy eyes.

“Peter! Hi! What's up?” You went back to reading whatever it was while running to your computer to type in a few commands for your suit upgrade, forgetting he was here already.

He noticed the forty empty cans of Red bull on the table and all the large cups of old expressos. He saw you headed to the coffee machine and intercepted your path, he wouldn’t be able to stop you if you had more espresso or red bull, he wasn’t even sure if he would be able to stop you now.

“Hey, Y/N. I was hoping we could watch a movie!” You looked up from your notes, completely disoriented. He had seen you like this too many times to count. You got worse than Tony did. And while Pepper was the only who could stop him, he was the only one who could stop you... most of the time

“Movie? Is it about the chemical reactions of toothpaste and hggyuagd-” whatever you tried to say mashed together so much that no one, not even you, could make it out.

“Uh. No. How about Star Wars?” You shook your head and buried it back in your notebook.

“Sorry, Peter. Can’t. I’m too busy here. Can I get to the coffee machine? More espresso means less depresso” You felt the energy leaving you. He could see it too and was ready to catch you when you fell.

“Uh, no.”

“Why?”

“Because-”

“Of you are trying to stop me from working, Peter, I swear I-”

“I wanted to ask you out.” He blurted out.

You two went silent, staring at each other. The energy was practically out of you and your brain was short circuiting from hormones and lack of sleep and proper nutrition. Had you just heard him correctly? Peter Parker. The Spider Man. Him. This adorable puppy with large brown eyes in front of you. Wanted to ask you, the definition of a human disaster, out?

You opened your mouth to say something but collapsed into his arms before you could get a word out. He caught you and tossed you over his shoulder.

“That was smooth, Peter,” he muttered to himself. He carried you out of the lab and up the stairs, waving at the others who looked relieved to see you in his arms, to your room. He could have easily taken the stairs, but he just wanted to hold you for a bit longer. Call it his crush on you that was growing bigger by the second, but he liked knowing that some part of you depended on him.

He set you down in your bed and sighed gratefully that you didn't wake up. He turned to leave but you grabbed his arm, your eyes cracked open a bit.

“Hey, go back to sleep. Ok? You can kill me when you're properly rested,” he whispered with a smile as he squatted down to your eye level on the bed.

“Peter,”

“Yeah?”

“Can you stay? Please?” Your eyes were drifting closed again and he could have easily left without you knowing. But…

He looked at your face which fell into a comfortable sleep again, completely relaxed and your lips parted a bit. Some of your Y/H/C falling into your face. He smiled and pushed it behind your ear, letting his hand linger near your cheek.

“Sure, dork. I’ll stay.” You smiled in your sleep and his heart skipped a beat at the up turn of your pink lips. He slipped off his shoes and slipped into the other side of your bed.

It wasn’t unnatural to find you two like this. Ever since you two had started going to the same high school, per your demand when you father asked about schooling, you two had been best friends. Joined at the hip it seemed.

You shifted in your sleep so your head was on his chest and he held your shoulders. He watched you sleep for a few seconds before sleep over took him too.

He woke up to the feeling of someone watching him. His eyes fluttered open and he looked down to see a pair of Y/E/C looking back at him. He smiled and stretched.

“Hi.” He mumbled.

“Hi,” you mumbled back, your eyes not leaving his face. He looked back down at you.

“What?”

“Did you mean it?” His heart stopped beating. Did you remember what he told you before you passed out? “Did you really wanna ask me out?” He stared at you for a moment. You still looked half asleep. Most likely you woke up from the thought of him asking you out making its way into your sub conscience.

Ok, just lie. It’ll be fine. Just say you did-

“Yes. I did.”

You stupid little-

“Y/N, I really really like you. If I’m being honest,” he searched your eyes. “I have for a while now. I- uh- well you see I-mmph?” your put your lips on his before he could say another word. It wasn’t quick or long It was the perfect amount of time. You pulled away with a smile on your lips as you watched his face become more red.

“I like you too, Dork. Next time don’t wait so damn long to tell me.” He smiled brightly.

“So you’ll go on a date with me?” You returned around so you were on your knees. Laughing, you shook your head.

“Yes, Spider Dork. I’ll go on a date with you!” He smiled and kissed you, you responded immediately. Giddy that the Spider man had finally asked you on a date after what seemed like years of having a crush on you. Yes, you knew he liked you. The boy was so obvious and adorable it was hard not to tell. You just wanted him to be the one to make the first move.

End

#spiderman #peterparker #marvel #spiderman x you #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #spiderman x stark!reader #stark reader #writing #reader insert #the avengers #fluff #peter parker x stark!reader #peter parker x you #peterparker x reader #peter parker x y/n

30 notes · View notes