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miryum · 9 months

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A Green and Silver Ring (Mattheo Riddle x Reader)

An arranged marriage between you and Mattheo, one that might lead to something beautiful

Word Count: 10.3k

I know I haven't posted in a long time but I have a plan trust the process. Also, this is me coming out and saying that I love Mattheo Riddle and he's amazing

Warnings: Swearing, bad and manipulative parenting from both Mattheo and reader’s parents, a lot of misogyny (a bit from Mattheo but he gets better by a lot and it’s not that bad), arguments, Tom isn’t Mattheo’s brother and Tom is a creep, arranged marriage, one bed trope, enemies to lovers, greek mythology reference, talk of kids, needing kids to carry on family lines, and kids. Mistress is the feminine term for master (so reader isn’t Mattheo’s side piece when I refer to her as mistress), old timey talk a bit, reader is a bookworm

From the desk of Ginevra

My dearest friend,

My parents have informed me of your engagement. I was ecstatic, yet surprised, when I heard the news. I was of the assumption that your parents were allowing you to choose your husband as your family line is secure in your brother and his wife. Yet, once I learned who your husband-to-be is, I was trepidatious.

My thoughts are with you, my darling friend, and I pray for you to write to me the moment you get my letter.

I hate to break the news, but you and your fiancé are the talk of high society. Never before have two such families been intertwined. Even I have had to scold my brothers for their gossip. They seem to forget that our families are close friends.

I do not ask why your parents have made such a decision. I know they are intelligent adults and surely must have a motive, but I admit that I am blind in that regard. Your engagement seems sudden and unwarranted to me. When questioned, my mother sighed and said I would understand when I grew older. My mother continues to baffle me. I have borne two children and a third on the way! If I am not mature now, I better gain some knowledge quickly.

Always remember that I am by your side. If you ever need anything, my door is always open to you. I am sure Harry will agree.

I love you, my friend.

Ginny

From the office of Lorenzo

Miss. L/n,

I believe we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m saddened to say that this letter is as formal as we’ll get - at least until your wedding. I am sure you must be taciturn and mercurial as of now. My father has told me much about you and I believe we’ll make excellent friends and confidants in our hectic world.

You’re to be my new half-sister, aren’t you? My relatives and friends are petulant to meet you.

Before any rumours (either about myself or your fiancé) hit your ears, I’ll put a rest to them. Bellatrix, your fiancé’s mother, had an affair with my father. They produced me and in return, I have the privilege of being your fiancé’s half-brother.

Being a bastard child, I’m no stranger to being ostracised and ridiculed. To be blunt, I’m sure that you will be ostracised alongside me and I believe that is one reason we can connect.

For rumours of my half-brother, I simply say this: do not fear him. He relishes in the consternation he places in other people, yet when he heard he was to marry you, I saw panic in his eyes like no other. It seems the tables have turned. He is hesitant to be wed, but you are not the problem. He simply doesn’t want to have the responsibility of another’s life on his. Your fiancé is used to belittling people - not supporting them as a husband should.

Any questions you have about your fiancé and my half-brother (whom in case I didn’t make clear, are one and the same), refer to me without any qualms. I am eager to meet you and hopefully make your transition into the Riddle family smoother.

I am well aware you have also lived your life in the upper echelons of society. But, as I’m sure you know, there are multiple circles in our complicated community. The L/ns, the Weasleys, and the Potters, for example, have grown their fortunes truthfully and innocently. They have earned the respect of their people and those whom they employ. The Riddles, Blacks, and Berkshires, on the other hand, have climbed the ranks in unconventional means and by skipping a few rungs on the ladder. They thrive and make their living on the terror and duress they cause those under them.

I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance.

Lorenzo Berkshire

P.S. I hope I haven’t scared you off.

From the office of L/n

Daughter,

You’ll be pleased to hear the engagement has gone through. Your mother and I met your fiancé last night. He seems like a nice man. He will be able to provide for you. His family is influential.

We will return home late tomorrow evening. You will depart for Riddle Estate in a week. Begin packing.

Your father

From the desk of Ginevra

Y/n,

You worry me with your lack of communication. Usually, you can’t wait to gossip with me. We have such fun at dinners and balls, yet with the most important aspect of yourself, you don’t respond. I’m simply worried, my friend. Are you alright? I can envision you curled in your bed, not letting anyone, even your nursemaid, into your room. Please do not let your impending marriage affect your state of health. It will turn out alright. Everyone I know (even me!) had apprehensions about their marriage. And with everyone I know, it turned out alright.

Misters Sirius and Remus visited Harry and I the day before last. They came to see James and Albus, but I know there was a hidden reason as well. They know of our friendship and came to ask if the rumours are true. As much as my husband adores them, Sirius in particular can be prone to gossip. The pair tittered and tsked when I told them of your fiancé. Sirius wishes to distance himself from his family, and I know he has pre-existing thoughts of the Black family, and by extension, the Riddles.

Sometimes I take a moment to gaze at the family tree upon my drawing room wall. It is full of interconnected lines and squiggles that sometimes, it makes my head hurt! The web of family ties is complicated and if we’re not somehow related already, I know that we will be once your marriage takes place. It seems the Black family spreads its roots into the Weasley family and the Riddle family- the latter of which you’ll soon be synonymous with.

Give yourself some grace. Your fiancé falls far from the tree; I am sure of it.

Please write to me. I need to make sure my closest friend is doing well.

Best wishes,

Ginny

P.S. Hermione wishes to inform you that, from what she’s heard, your Mr. Riddle is quite attractive. I have yet to hear any of the rumours myself, but at least your husband will be pleasing to the eye. Perhaps it will make the marriage more bearable.

***

Mattheo strode leisurely through Riddle Manor. It was one of the many estates his family owned, and it was soon to be officially his. Just as soon as he married the L/n girl.

The manor was spacious, which Mattheo couldn’t help but detest. How was he and a wife supposed to fill this void of empty rooms and dark halls? He knew servants and cooks would move in, but they wouldn’t occupy the dozens of upper rooms that were vacated.

For a brief moment, Mattheo couldn’t help but envision a set of children running around the halls. One of the children would run up to him, shouting, “Papa! Papa!” Mattheo would scoop the child up, grinning, and would carry them to their room. The room would be bright and cheerful, and maybe, just maybe, you would be sitting on a settee, cradling a newborn or helping an older child with their school work.

But for now, the room was dark and uninviting and he had yet to meet his future wife. He had seen a portrait of the L/n family and while they were in lavish, colourful clothing, Mr. and Mrs. L/n seemed cold and stoic - just like his parents. The children, an older son and younger daughter (whom he presumed to be you), seemed kinder and by their body language, Mattheo could tell that the two siblings were close.

Mattheo slowly made his way down the hall. There were three wings of the manor; two were residential and the other was designed for taking guests. The East Wing - in which he and Miss. L/n would stay - was also fit with an office for him. He was expected to take over half of the family business once he got married. The West Wing would remain empty for now, sans for a large library and the furniture in the bedrooms.

The boy knew that his bride was to arrive later that day. She would stay at Riddle Estate until the end of the week. Just three short days before they were to be wed in name. Mattheo would move into Riddle Manor tonight, giving servants time to wipe the dust off of tables, shine the silverware, and fluff the pillows.

Mattheo walked the halls of his new home. His mind was devoid of any thoughts. Perhaps it was simply because he was always numb. Even when he heard of his engagement, Mattheo didn’t make a fuss. He didn’t remember thinking anything. Nothing such as ‘Oh, I can’t wait to meet her!’ or even, ‘I can’t believe mother and father are arranging my marriage! She better be obedient.’

No, Mattheo had thought nothing of the sort. He had spent his childhood quietly observing his father and mother, noticing the amount of fear they could inflict on people just by silence. You didn’t have to be loud and dramatic to be powerful. You simply couldn’t be afraid to follow up on your promises - however deadly they were.

The only question Mattheo had asked when Bellatrix informed him of his engagement was, “and what do we gain from the L/n’s?”

Bellatrix had shot him an callous and apathetic look. “Do not ask questions you needn’t the answers to, boy.”

Mattheo had glowered, but shut his mouth.

As he neared the foyer, Mattheo couldn’t help but think how marriage was a component in all aspects of his life. When he got married to the L/n girl, he would inherit a portion of his father’s estates, company, and wealth. Mattheo chucked to himself. Maybe he should’ve gotten married sooner.

***

“Pray tell, why weren’t you here when she arrived?” Bellatrix snarled as she gripped Mattheo’s arm. Her nails dug into his suit as she dragged him towards the drawing room.

“I was busy,” Mattheo replied harshly. Love was not a thing that came instinctively to his family.

“Doing what? Planning your suidide?” Bellatrix scoffed. “I would march to the Underworld and choke Hades to bring you back.” Mattheo glanced down at his mother, hesitantly surprised. But he knew better than to raise his hopes and dreams. “We need this contract with the L/n’s,” Bellatrix continued and Mattheo’s jaw ticked. Of course. She didn’t love him; she never had. Her son was purely business. He should’ve known better.

“Maybe if you would tell me what the L/n’s provide for us,” Mattheo pulled Bellatrix back before she threw open the door to where you were. “Then I would be more complacent.”

Bellatrix sneered. “You think you’re smart, boy. You think you have everything figured out in that pretty little head of yours. But remember: you’re nothing without the Riddle family name backing you up.” She paused and licked her lips. “But if you must know,” Bellatrix sighed, giving into Mattheo. “The L/n’s just came into some very… lucrative land that we could gain from if you marry Miss. Y/n L/n.”

Mattheo’s eyes flickered to the drawing room door. After a moment, he asked, “is that her name? Y/n?”

Bellatrix stared at him, aghast. “You didn’t bother to learn her name?!” She scoffed. “With a son like you…”

She pushed open the drawing room doors and Mattheo trudged after her, muttering, “at least I know her name now.”

You had been waiting for seven minutes and thirty nine seconds in the drawing room of Riddle Estate, the trackage of time dependent on the old grandfather clock standing ominously in the corner. Its pendulum swung back and forth continuously as its second hand ticked by. Mrs. Riddle had left seven minutes and thirty nine seconds ago to fetch her son.

While the room was perfectly clean, not a speck of dust on even the highest chandelier, it was still a cold and morose room, yet oddly epochal. The wood was the darkest mahogany you had ever seen and the lights cast odd shadows on the dark green wallpaper that had inlays of gold.

Your teacup that you were trying to hold steady was filled with a sad excuse for tea. There was a ring of gold around the mouth of the teacup. On the table beside you, a notch that looked as if someone dug a knife into the surface caught your attention. It was the little things like this that you noticed when you had nothing else to do. Your mind was trying to distract you.

The door then swung open and there stood your fiancé, his stare daring you to oppose him.

“Uh,” you stood, your teacup and saucer still in hand. You quickly placed them on the table, right over the knife nick. “Y/n L/n,” you introduced yourself. You bowed your head in an informal curtsy.

Mattheo’s eyes flickered over your face. “Mattheo Riddle,” he said coldly. His voice was practically velvet. You didn’t mean to look him up and down, but you couldn’t help it. He was to be your husband, after all.

Mattheo’s hair coiled at the end and his eyes were just as dark as his curls. His nose had a scarred cut on it that looked as if it was just beginning to heal. Your fiancés cheekbones were practically sculpted from marble and for a moment, you believed that the gods had simply breathed life into a statue. Did this make you Pygmalion and Mattheo Galatea?

If it weren’t for their lethal eyes and stern posture, perhaps more would be friendly to the Riddles.

Mattheo spoke, “you’re to be my fiancée.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” You had the urge to add ‘sir’ at the end, but you bit your tongue.

Bellatrix hissed something to Mattheo and thrust a small object into his hands. Mattheo rolled his eyes and stalked towards you. “My family ring,” he grumbled. He held out an intricate silver ring with three bands interweaving. A green jewel cut into a thin diamond shape sat steadily in the middle. “It has been in the Riddle family for generations. It’s tradition to pass it down to the wife of the firstborn son. And now that is you…”

He trailed off and handed the ring to you, it laying flat on his palm. You took it from him, trying to minimise contact with Mattheo. You nodded in thanks and slid it into your ring finger.

It seemed too concrete to fathom.

Mattheo stared at the ring on your finger. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “My… wife,” he murmured halfheartedly.

***

Three weeks had passed since the wedding and it was as if you had never gotten married in the first place. Yes, it was unsettling to wake up in a bed that wasn’t your own next to a man that you were supposed to call your own. But other than necessary, Mattheo had hardly uttered a word to you.

In the three weeks you had stayed there, you had seen Mattheo a total of twenty eight times, including mornings and nights when you were forced to sleep in the same bed.

Your mornings, afternoons, and nights were all incredibly boring. You took long meals, pushing your food around. Sometimes you just sat by the window and watched the wind blow bits of grass and dirt past the window. The servants were still extracting the dust between the couch cushions and you tried to stay out of the way, but it only made you feel more isolated.

Mattheo was holed up in his office day in and day out. He had now inherited a large portion of his father’s company and Mattheo was determined to uphold the honour bestowed upon him. He had drafted contracts, sold and bought land, and even hosted a few dinner parties for his associates.

You detested the dinner parties. Thankfully, Mattheo had yet to invite you to one - hell, he had yet to speak to you about the dinner parties. You had learned of the first dinner party when you had wandered downstairs one late evening because you were thirsty. You had stared at the group of strangers, all dressed in elegance, as they stared back at you in your night clothes. Not saying a word, you had sighed and returned upstairs.

You hadn’t been eager for the marriage, but wouldn't it befit Mattheo to show some affection? Or at least acknowledge your presence?

While you had continuously tried to get your husband to open up to you, his answers had been short and venomous.

It had been a long, monotonous day for you. You had returned to the master bedroom about two hours earlier than you normally would have if you were at home.

With the wealth that you came from, the opulence was sure to be evident, but you had underestimated the Riddle family’s prestige. When Mattheo had first shown you your shared bedroom, you had to allow a flicker of surprise break through your facade. The bedroom was larger than any room in your old home and had a large bed in the middle. The lamps on the bedside table were always dimly lit and the design of the room was the same as the rest of the house - dark and bereft of love and care.

Your hair had been brushed enough, but you kept brushing simply for something to do while Mattheo finished up in the bathroom. Mattheo walked out of the ensuite with a towel wrapped around his waist. His curls were plastered to his forehead and a bead of water ran down his sternum.

Your eyes flickered to his figure through the mirror, taking in the dips and curves of Mattheo’s muscles as he silently got ready for bed. You tore your gaze away, berating yourself.

You built up your courage and tried to think of a conversation starter. You commented, “my parents wrote to me today.” After no reply from Mattheo, you continued, “they asked me when we would give them grandchildren.” You set your hairbrush down and stared at Mattheo through the mirror, looking for some sort of reaction.

Mattheo hummed noncommittally and put on some sleep pants. He used his towel to begin drying his hair. “It would be behoove us to produce some heirs,” he spoke. His tone was dismissive, as if children were nothing more than an obligation or duty to fulfil.

“Right,” you muttered, knowing that an uninterested reaction was all you were going to get out of him.

You stood and moved towards the bed. “Goodnight,” you whispered, turning off the bedside lamp and tucking yourself into bed. Mattheo was still putting on his nightclothes and had yet to get into bed.

As you turned off the light and got into bed, Mattheo finished drying himself off and slid into his own pyjamas. He sat down beside you, but didn't bother turning off his own lamp. Instead, he laid against the headboard, reading a book. "Goodnight," he finally mumbled, not even looking at you.

You curled into your blanket. After a moment, you asked quietly, “what book are you reading?”

He looked at you over the top of his book. "None of your business," he replied curtly.

You simply uttered, “okay.”

Mattheo felt an unwanted and unusual feeling root itself deep in his stomach. He scoffed and said sarcastically, "fine. Go ahead and keep asking questions all night long if it amuses you so." He opened his book again and pretended to read.

A longing and lonely pang resonated in your chest at his harsh words. You didn’t respond and instead turned your face into your pillow. You had known that your marriage was to be loveless, but it still hurt at every unspoken word. Perhaps, if you had been five years younger when you married Mattheo, your spirit would still be alive with the juvenile belief that you could stand up to him.

Mattheo huffed and his gaze turned up to stare at the wall ahead of him. “If you’re so miserable, then why don’t you just leave?” he snapped, not even bothering to hide his bitterness. “I am sure your family would simply love to have you back.” He flipped another page in his book, not even bothering to look at the printed words.

“I never said I was miserable,” you answered quietly, even though Mattheo knew it wasn’t true. Perhaps, though, you believed it to be true. You took a steadying breath, closing your eyes.

Your husband smirked and leaned against the headboard. “What do you call your attitude, then? Why are you so downtrodden and defeated? Surely, you can’t blame me for being frustrated by it.” He knew that he should be taking account of making you feel this way, but he still tried to justify his behaviour.

“Goodnight,” you reiterated.

Mattheo sighed dramatically. “Whatever,” he grunted. He closed his book, threw it on the nightstand, and turned off his lamp. The room was encased in darkness except for the dim moonlight coming through the window. He shifted towards the edge of the bed, making sure a noticeable gap was between the two of you.

He thought back to your conversation. “Why don’t you just leave?”

It was too late now to apologise.

***

Mattheo let the door swing shut behind him, returning to Riddle Manor after an outing with friends. He glanced around, waiting for a servant to take his coat, but no one answered. An eyebrow cocked, Mattheo slowly walked up the stairs, hearing you instruct the servants on something, every other sentence of yours either containing, ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. Up on the landing, he found you directing a servant who was pulling a rack of your clothing. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Have you lost your damn mind? Are you trying to send a message or something?”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in me, so I’m trying to make this marriage as civilised as possible,” you said diplomatically. “I believe that if I move to the West Wing and leave you in the East Wing, it will benefit our marriage.”

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish with this piteous attempt at attention?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you think it’ll make me want you more?” He stuck his tongue in his cheek, grinning incredulously. “You’re delusional if you think that’s even remotely possible.” He stepped closer to you, towering over you with anger in his eyes. “This is not some game, L/n. This is marriage. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

“I’m aware that we’re married, Riddle,” you retorted. “And don’t refer to me by L/n anymore. I am now a Riddle - just like you. However, I am not going to live in a state of constant sorrow and dejection. Having a wing of the mansion to myself may help.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened as he stared at you, irritated by your resistance. “Fine,” he growled. “But don’t expect me to come running after you when you decide you want attention. You’re on your own now.” He turned away from you and walked into his now solo bedroom. “Just remember - this is your choice.”

You felt your anger inflate. “I thought you would like this!” Your voice rose and you tugged a hand through your hair. It was the first time in your marriage that you had fought back. “I have done everything I can to please you, yet nothing is enough for you!” Your voice turned desperate. “What do you want from me?”

He stopped in his tracks, turning around with surprise and disgust on his face. “Dammit, Y/n! Don’t yell at me like that!” His voice thundered, stepping towards you. “I never asked for any of this! I didn’t ask for a wife or for you to try so hard to please me! All of this is ridiculous.” His hand slashed through the air to make a point. “All I want is some space. Space to figure out what the hell I want. But let’s make one thing clear: I don’t care about you.”

“Am I not giving you space?” Your fists clenched at your sides. “I am moving out of the bedroom and out of your way. Yet, you erupt at me and get angry over nothing! You send me mixed messages and I don’t know what to do.”

Mattheo took a breath, trying to regain control over his emotions. “I am not erupting! Lord, you are so sensitive!” he snapped, running a hand over his face. “Can’t you listen for once? I am not sending you mixed signals. I am trying to figure out my place in this unorthodox situation we’re in.”

After a beat of silence, you asked firmly, “did you talk about me?” After seeing a flicker of confusion on his face, you clarified, “when you were out with your friends, did you talk about me? Did you rant about how annoying I was? Did you complain about marriage?”

His lips parted before taking a breath. “Yes, I talked about you,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I complained about how frustrating I find you and how frustrated I am with my parents for arranging this senseless marriage.”

“What did they say?” you insisted. “Did they sympathise? Did they laugh at me? Did they add fuel to your fire by commenting about how… how ‘needy’ and ‘sensitive’ I am?”

Mattheo made a low sound in his chest and rubbed his temples, frustrated by your persistence. “They agreed with me, yes. A few believed that you are too emotionally attached and sentimental. Others chalked it up to the pains of an average marriage.”

Your anger flared up and you said, “Let me tell you this: I never wanted marriage either. But I at least tried. I tried to be a nice and loving wife and a kind human.” You turned on your heel, marching out of the bedroom and towards the West Wing.

Mattheo watched you go, an unwanted feeling of guilt washing over him. He sighed and walked over to the window. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Why is everything so damn complicated?”

For the next couple of weeks, you stayed true to your word. You avoided Mattheo and his office and stayed in your wing of the mansion. After a week or two, you decided to explore the mansion, stumbling upon a magnificent library. You inhaled in veneration when someone cleared their throat. Mattheo stood behind you, raising an brow. After a silence, you said recalcitrantly, “you never told me that Riddle Manor had a library.”

He smirked at your thinly veiled hatred, amused despite himself. “Well, now you know,” he said dryly. “It’s a perk of living in a Riddle household.” He walked over to a bookshelf and began browsing for a book he required for a contract that was being drafting. He showed no sign of embarrassment or discomfort at your presence. “You may use it whenever you want. But don’t expect me to join a book club or anything juvenile.”

“I would never dream of it,” you said sarcastically. You step further into the library and can’t help but gape at the vastness. You trailed your fingers over the book spines, breathing in the smell of old books. You crouched down to examine a series of poetry titles. “I can read any of these?” you asked hesitantly.

He nodded and leaned against the shelf behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Feel free to read whatever you would like. They’re here for the entire household. Well, the servants don’t have time to read books, so in a Riddle household, the parents and children use the library the most.” Your hand faltered over the titles. “If you find something that catches your eye, go ahead and take it. I won’t stop you.” There was a hint of curiosity in his voice, as if he wished to know what topics and books piqued your interest. You hummed quietly, not fully acknowledging his words. You were already picking up a book and leafing through it. Mattheo watched you for a moment, his eyes softening briefly.

Everyday, you returned to the library. It was an escape from the walls of your room and the walls that Mattheo had put up around his heart.

Eventually, the servants recognised your routine and began to start a fire in the fireplace to keep you warm. They moved a loveseat in front of the fire that you gratefully used. You devoured the poetry collection, including Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, and started on the classics. Every once in a while, Mattheo would come into the library, but he wouldn’t talk. He simply took a book and returned to his study. Sometimes, you wondered if he remembered you lived in the mansion with him.

Mattheo found himself frequenting the library more often, looking for books he had never needed before. A swell of pride filled him whenever he saw you by the fire, knowing that something in his home brought you such comfort. He still refused to speak to you, maintaining distance and ignoring your existence, but he found himself increasingly drawn to your presence.

One day, on a whim, he decided to take a risk and left a stack of his favourite books on the table next to your chair. That afternoon, you found the stack of books. You smiled despite yourself, though you didn't make any comment to Mattheo. You picked up the first book, sat down in the chair, and began to read.

A week later, Mattheo was hosting a dinner party for his associates. He didn’t say a word about it to you, though you heard the servants preparing for it. You decided not to go, opting to stay in your safe haven of the library.

After an hour or so of faint music, you heard the door to the library squeak open and your head whipped up. You saw one of Mattheo’s friends, Tom, enter and look around. He spotted you and his lips curled up into a smirk. “So you’re the wife we’ve heard so much about?”

Your stomach clenched and you replied, “I guess so.”

Tom’s smirk grew wider as he took in your terse response, enjoying your obvious discomfort. He approached you with a lecherous gaze in his eyes before asking, “and how do you find life as Mrs. Riddle? Are you enjoying your… arrangement?” His words dripped with sarcasm, not believing for a moment that you and Mattheo were married for love.

You stared at him. “It has its perks,” you said simply.

Tom laughed derisively at your response, not convinced by your nonchalance. “And what are those perks?” he asked, moving closer to you. “Extravagant gifts? Luxurious vacations? Or simply the privilege of being married to such a powerful man?”

You squared your shoulders. “I am powerful without a man,” you said sharply. “I do not need a man to determine my worth and prowess.”

Tom scoffed. “Really? How exactly did you become powerful on your own?” he asked, challenging you. “I find it hard to believe that you could ever achieve anything significant without the backing of a powerful husband behind you.” He leaned in closer, grinning.

You closed your book with a snap. “The L/n family,” you said, talking of your maiden lineage, “has had control over many estates and affairs for decades. Without Mattheo Riddle, I would’ve inherited half of it, second only to my brother. I would’ve had four auspicious companies at my ready disposal, capable of doing most anything. So, yes, sir, I would have been momentous without him.”

Tom’s smirk faded as he recognised your family name. He remained undeterred, however, stating, “that explains why your husband was so eager to marry you. He must see you as a valuable asset to his business empire.”

As you opened your mouth to retort, the door banged open and Mattheo strode into the library.

Mattheo had noticed Tom’s absence from his party, but when it became too long to be excused as a restroom break, Mattheo had asked his brother, Enzo, if he had seen where he had gone. Enzo had smiled a small smile and whispered, “Tom went to the library. Where your darling wife stays hidden.”

Mattheo saw red.

He barged into the library, a deadly, lethal, and borderline possessive look deep in his eyes. When he saw Tom flanking you, Mattheo’s expression darkened and his hands clenched into a ready fist. “What the hell are you doing here?” Mattheo demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “This is a private wing of my home - not some place for you to bother my wife.”

Mattheo moved closer to you, placing himself between you and Tom as if to protect you from further harm.

Tom quickly stepped back and placed a confident demeanour on his face. “I was simply having a conversation with your lovely wife here,” Tom gritted his teeth.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, showing clearly that Tom was lying and intruding. You saw Mattheo’s eyes flicker down to you, his eyes softening reassuringly before snapping back to Tom, malice in his gaze.

“Don’t lie to me,” Mattheo snapped at Tom. “There’s no need for any sort of interaction or conversation with my wife unless I am present.” Mattheo placed a hand on the top of your chair, his fingers gripping it and his bicep flexing slightly to warn Tom.

Tom’s eyes flicked with something you hadn’t seen before: fear. Fear commonly associated with the Riddle name. He adjusted his collar and straightened his posture. “Of course, Mr. Riddle,” he said bitterly.

You raised a brow. “I think it’s time for you to go now,” you said, your face stoic. Tom bowed his head slightly before exiting the library. You didn’t look up to meet Mattheo’s eye. You murmured, “you didn’t have to do that. I had it covered.”

Mattheo watched Tom until he completely left the room before turning to look down on you. His voice was threatening, “you may have been able to handle Tom, but I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting or harassing you while you’re under my roof. Consider this a warning - if anyone tries to cross you again, they will regret it.”

“Perhaps you should tell your coworkers that. Not me,” you replied.

Mattheo’s expression was cold. “Fine. I will,” he growled. “I will not sit idly by and allow anyone to disrespect my wife.” He let go of your chair and adjusted the cuffs of his suit. As if in a business meeting, he said, “And consider this another warning: if you continue to act so stubbornly, I won’t hesitate to remind you of your place in this marriage.”

“My place in this marriage is your wife!” you cried out, finally standing up. “Your equal! Something you seem to forget until it’s convenient for you. Or until another man threatens your… your property! I doubt you see me any differently than this house or your assets.”

Mattheo grabbed onto your arm tightly, pulling you close and leaning down so his face was inches from yours. “Do not ever speak to me like that. You are not my equal - you are my wife and I decide what is best for both of us. If you cannot accept that, then you should reconsider your place in this marriage.” He released your arm and turned away from you, striding towards the door. “I suggest you reflect on your behaviour,” he added icily, leaving the room without looking back.

After he left the library, you let out a scream of frustration. You shoved the pile of books that Mattheo had carefully curated to the floor. They tumbled down, book after book, covers opening and pages bending. Tears pricked at your eyes as you examined the scene.

You slumped into your chair, the fire in front of your crackling softly, emitting a calming warmth.

Eventually, you fell asleep in the chair, tear stains on your cheeks. In the morning, you woke to the serene morning light filtering into the room - a vast contrast to your mood. The fire had dissolved into crackling embers. Tucked on top of you was a thick blanket and the stack of books that you had pushed over had been re-piled and stood majestically atop the table.

You sighed, knowing you should thank the servants for taking care of you and cleaning up.

After you walked to the kitchen, your footfalls heavy, you thanked the servants, who were finishing preparing breakfast. They exchanged glances and one piped up, “Ma’am, while we appreciate the sentiment, we didn’t do that. We weren’t aware that you were still in the library. We believed you had retired to bed before the social last night.” They paused and then added, “however, Mr. Riddle didn’t go to bed. He was in his study until morning light.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. You bid them an awkward goodbye before entering the dining hall.

Mattheo was already seated at the head of the table, his expression exhausted and distant. He didn’t acknowledge you when you approached, focusing instead on the uneaten plate of food in front of him.

You sat down opposite him and muttered, “the servants informed me that you blanketed me last night and cleaned up the books.” You hesitated and finally said, “thank you.”

Mattheo looked up briefly, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t respond directly. “It was necessary,” he said simply. “You should not be cold and uncomfortable in your own home.” He doesn’t make any effort to engage in conversation beyond that. Something was weighing heavily on his mind and he seemed preoccupied by it.

You hummed in response. Eventually, you stood and whispered to your husband before walking out, “you are not as cold as you want to seem. You needn’t keep the facade up with me.”

Mattheo looked up briefly before returning to his food. His expression relaxed, but he didn’t respond.

***

Later that day, Mattheo sat in his study as he always did. A knock came from the door and he glanced at the clock. It was a bit early for lunch to be delivered, but he announced, “come in.”

The door creaked open and your head peeked into the room. Mattheo’s brows furrowed - not with malice, but with scrutiny. You entered and sat in one of the two seats next to his fireplace. Silently, you cracked open a book you had brought and began to read.

Mattheo watched you intently, his gaze never wavering as he took in every detail of your face. He tried to find any acrimonious intent behind your actions, but you looked so peaceful. He found himself noticing the details of your face and your beauty as the fire cast warm highlights on your eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked eventually, his voice holding an armour of needed suspicion.

“Reading,” you said simply.

Mattheo frowned, not convinced by your answer. Why would you read in his study after the way he had been treating you? He leaned back in his chair, his work forgotten. “Isn’t there something more important that you could be occupying your time with?” he challenged.

“Not particularly,” you responded. “You’re in charge of the companies and estates. I have nothing to do. I thought I would accompany you. You must get lonely in a study by yourself.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, but ultimately nodded slowly. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment. “But don’t think I will stop working simply because my wife is here.” His posture grew taut as he began looking over documents again. “This is still my office and I expect you to behave accordingly.”

“I’m simply reading,” you murmured, a smile inching its way up your lips.

Henceforth, a routine was established. Every morning, you would knock on Mattheo’s study door, usually an hour or so after he began working. There was rarely conversation, the silence being broken by Mattheo’s scratch of a quill or you turning pages, occasionally being disrupted by the loud crack of a log in the fire.

One day, you had finished your book (it was an excellent book, one from the pile Mattheo had recommended) and stood to go retrieve another one. At the sound of your footsteps leaving his office, Mattheo’s head darted up and he suddenly asked, “where are you going?”

You paused and turned back to him. “I’m to get a new book. Unfortunately, as wonderful as this one was, it had an ending like all books do.”

Mattheo frowned and a hint of vulnerability broke through his exterior. “Get a servant to do it,” he offered.

“Well, I don’t know which one I want,” you counted, raising a brow in a smirk.

He huffed and shook his head, returning his eyes to his documents. He grumbled, “I will commission the servants to build you a small bookshelf for my office. You can keep your books there.” You stood, watching him for a moment, admiring him until his gaze snapped up. “Well, go get your book,” he said sharply. “… but hurry back,” he added in a mumble.

You finally smiled at him before exiting and Mattheo gazed at the place you once stood, trying to memorise how your lips curled up and your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

He rather liked it when you smiled.

***

“Are you alright?”

You sniffed and laughed. “Yes, yes. I’m being foolish.” You wiped some tears from your eyes. “My book is very good.”

Mattheo chuckled lowly. “And what made you cry, hm?”

“A daughter and father interaction,” you replied quietly.

“Was the father cruel to the daughter?” Mattheo laughed tersely, shaking his head at his documents. “Are your feelings not strong enough to withstand their wrath?”

You frowned at Mattheo, setting the book down. “No,” you corrected slowly. “The father was being kind to his daughter. He was supporting her and loving her; as a father should.” There was a pause as Mattheo looked up at you. “I know that the Riddles are a harsher family - I’ve known ever since I knew I was to marry you. But… but are you alright?”

You felt absurd asking the question. Yet, when Mattheo couldn’t meet your eye, a wistful sadness blanketing the room, you felt as if you should’ve asked the simple question weeks earlier.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then Mattheo turned in his chair so his back was facing you. "I'm fine," he finally answered, his voice rough and strained. "I am used to dealing with it, I suppose." Despite his insistence that he didn't need anyone's pity or concern, your words seem to have affected him more deeply than he wanted to admit.

“May I ask a question?” you asked softly.

Mattheo hesitated for a moment before nodding, his eyes never leaving the window as he spoke. "Ask away," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He then cleared his throat and said, "but I won’t give a warm and fuzzy answer."

There was a pregnant pause in the air as you gathered your courage up and suddenly thrust your fears upon your husband. “If we ever have children, which we’re somewhat expected to,” you added hurriedly. “I don’t want them to grow up in a household where they feel as if they have to vie for love or attention. And I don’t want me to be the only one giving them attention.” Mattheo turned his head so his face was angled toward you, but his eyes could still stray to the window if need be. “If we have kids, can you promise that you’ll love them? Even if you don’t love me?”

Even though your voice was steady, Mattheo knew of the vulnerability deeply rooted within you.

He nodded cautiously, his expression serious. "I promise," he said firmly. "I may not love you, but I will love our children unconditionally. They will never have to compete for my affection or feel neglected. I may not be a fond father, but I will provide for them and protect them as best I can." A protectiveness filled his veins just at the thought of something happening to his future children.

You nodded once, a sad smile on your face. “Perhaps we’ll have a big family. Enough children to start a sports team.” You smiled at the thought, laughing lightly.

Mattheo smiled, despite himself, imagining a large brood of children running around the manor. It was an oddly appealing idea, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. "We'll see," he said noncommittally. "I'd rather have lots of sons; they'll carry on the family name and ensure my legacy continues." He turned back around and attempted to focus on his work.

“And daughters too.” You frowned, staring at your husband, even if he wouldn’t spare you a glance. “Daughters can carry on the family name just as well as sons.” A muscle in your jaw ticked.

Mattheo scowled at your defiance, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why hadn’t you just fallen into line? "Fine, daughters too," he reluctantly agrees. "But make no mistake, they will be raised to be strong and capable like their brothers. The Riddle name demands nothing less."

“And the sons can be soft and caring and sensitive,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have to vie for affection. I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have needless competition in their life. I don’t want them to grow up… like, well… you.” You finally uttered the words that had been hanging off your tongue dangerously.

Mattheo’s expression hardened as he clenched his fist tightly. "Fine!" he snapped. "They can be whatever the hell you want them to be! But don't expect me to sit back and watch while they become weaklings and failures. We need to teach them to be strong and ruthless like I am." He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair in the process.

You jump up after him, crossing towards him. You whirled to a stop in front of him, jabbing a finger towards his chest. “Listen here, Riddle. Just because someone is kind and vulnerable doesn’t mean they’re weak!” You growled, “and just because you grew up like that, does not mean that’s the type of household I am going to have.”

Mattheo stepped forward and his hand flew up to grip your wrist. His eyes blazed with anger, but then something changed in his expression and he took a step back, looking surprised at his own reaction. "You're right," he admitted begrudgingly. "I shouldn't have assumed that being vulnerable meant being weak." He ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed, yet resolute in his decision. "But don't expect me to be a pushover either. I'll still teach them to be strong and independent."

“Strong and independent are good qualities,” you conceded. “Both for the boys and girls.”

"Agreed," he said. Mattheo straightened his cuffs and cleared his throat. "Our children will be taught to be strong and independent, regardless of gender. They will know that they are loved and valued by both of us, equally." He held out his hand to you, indicating that the argument was over - for now at least. "Deal?"

“Deal.” You shook his hand defiantly. It was a business deal, but a good deal at least.

Mattheo exhaled and brushed past you. “I’m to a meeting,” he informed you. It was a simple comment , one that was an offhand remark, but to you, Mattheo had just let you into his life. It was something he had never done before. Even if it was just a response to where he was off to, it was a window into his life. A life that now may have enough room to hold you.

Mattheo paused when he reached the door. “I never knew the way I grew up was wrong until I saw other families. I saw the parents bending down to listen to their children instead of hushing them. I saw parents comforting their children after scraped knees, not pushing them to the kitchen for some rubbing alcohol. I saw parents beaming when their child could plunk out the simplest of tunes on the piano. No one else got berated for being out of rhythm or playing a D instead of an E. I never saw another child get slapped by their parents or scolded as harshly as I was. It was around then I realised that something was wrong. But what was I to do about it?”

Words dried in your throat. You wanted to cry at his words, but you felt dried out. How could someone treat their child like that? It explained so much…

Your husband was a fragile man, you were just realising. And he was trying to pick up the pieces and present them to you in the only way he knew how.

"The stars remind me of you,” he said quietly, the change in conversation sudden. “I mean that in the best possible way.” His voice was the softest and most tender as you had ever heard it. You hoped he would keep speaking the melodies that made your heart sing in tune.

“How so?” you asked, afraid to break the plane of existence that you and Mattheo were carefully standing on.

"They are so beautiful, yet so far away. I may see them, but I can never touch them."

***

The servants didn’t know what to do. The master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, seemed to be at a ceasefire. The cooks lamented at how they had seemed to be doing so well. The maids thought they were destined to doom from the start. The butlers gossiped about Mr. Riddle’s letters to a Mr. Tom, terminating their long-term partnership. The scullery maid still had hope that the husband and wife would come to their senses and live a happy life.

It perplexed the servants when the mistress requested to move her belongings back into the master bedroom and the master looked on, a soft smile on his lips. It confused the servants when the Mr and Mrs began taking meals together and talking in hushed tones late into the night. And it bamboozled the servants when, one summer afternoon, the Lord of the household stood from his desk, cautiously moved to his Lady that was reading by the open window, and asked her to accompany him on a walk. She had accepted.

There was to be a dinner party, this time hosted at Mr. Draco Malfoy’s manor, that Mr. Riddle was expected to attend. Per usual, the master didn’t invite the mistress, but she was content to stay home. A maid briefly heard the madam whisper to her husband, “hurry home, please? I don’t like it when you’re away.” The maid had scurried away before she could hear the reply.

Mattheo returned home that night, just before the sun was setting. He climbed the steps, unbuttoning his cuffs and loosening his tie. The soft glow of light was still shining under your shared bedroom - something he still hadn’t gotten used to - and Mattheo couldn’t help but smile.

“Why are you still up?” he asked quietly when he entered the room.

“You promised to be home early and I wanted to see you before I go to bed,” you reminded him, a small book in your hands.

“Right, right.” Mattheo chuckled and shook his head, slinging off his tie and jacket.

“How was the dinner?”

Mattheo hummed noncommittally. “Not the worst. A couple of my good friends, Theo and Pansy, were there to help alleviate the pain of socialising. But… I found something odd happening.”

“And what was that, husband?” Mattheo took a moment to relish in the way that word curled off your tongue effortlessly.

“I found myself wishing you were there. Nay,” he quickly corrected himself. “I wished I was here with you.”

“Oh?” Your eyes flickered up towards Mattheo, a slight blush coming to your cheeks. “Why… what do you mean by that?”

Mattheo began to unbutton his shirt and moved towards his closet. “Well,” he admitted, mumbling to himself. “I simply mean that instead of having to socialise with people who are too tightly wound and whose only intent is to take my money,” he chucked his belt into his closet and rolled up his sleeves, “I would rather be at home with my darling wife.”

A smile inched up your lips. “Really? Tell me more about this darling wife of yours.”

Mattheo hummed, stepping towards the bed. He crawled down on the bed, leaning on his forearms to lean up towards you. “My wife… I’ve come to care deeply about her. She is a beautiful, elegant woman, one who has a fiery tongue about her and an intelligent brain that even I cannot rival. She always seems to get her way, even when I try to fight back. It’s as if my wife has a command over me that I have willingly submitted to. And I am not ashamed to say so.” He lightly caressed your arm, sending a trail of goosebumps up your skin.

“You must be careful, Mattheo,” you uttered. “That sounds an awful lot like love.”

Mattheo brought his eyes up to meet yours, the sting of tears building up behind them. His voice cracked as he said, “that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name, Y/n.”

Your lips parted in shock. “I- I didn’t realise. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Mattheo demanded before reaching up to pull you into a kiss.

His lips were soft and meaningful against yours, hungrily trying to gather every ounce of love from you. His kisses were feverish at first, his strong hand coming up to cup your jawline, his fingers just teasing behind your ear, before his lips slowed. Mattheo was a starved man and he wouldn’t let anyone take away his only solace. He shifted so he could be closer to you, gently taking the book from your hands as you surrendered yourself to him. Your hands found his silk shirt, gripping it in your fists. He placed the book on the nightstand and moved so he was hovering over you, never once letting a second go by without feeling your skin against his.

Mattheo slowly, achingly pulled away from you and his eyes fluttered open to meet yours. “My darling, my love, my life,” he murmured, dragging a knuckle down your cheek. “I apologise for everything I have ever done or said that made you feel inferior. I would be happy to kneel for you in front of my associates and family members - just to show them how much power you have over me.” He took a breath before persisting, “I was foolish. I was incompetent. I didn’t realise how much love I held for you. It is, and always will be, only you. I will promise you this: you will be the only woman I ever touch, the only voice I ever want to hear, the only skin I will ever caress, and the only eyes I ever want to see. I will wake and fall, every morning and night, thinking of you. You are the other half of my heart, for it is you who I love. I will place the galaxies and stars in the night sky for you. If you are ever unhappy, my love, I will not rest until I see you smile again. If you are ever mad, my love, I shall smite whatever upsets you, even if it is I. And I would die a happy man if you could give me only an ounce of what I give you.”

Your breath shook and you swore Mattheo had injected ambrosia into your veins for you were sure your blood was singing with the love that was filling your soul. “I wrote a letter to your mother today,” you offered quietly, as if your mere words could ever compare to the love poem Mattheo had just gifted to you. “And I thanked her.” Mattheo’s eyes flashed with confusion. You continued, “I thanked her for birthing such a wonderful husband and for raising him. I know you u wish to renounce your family, but as of now, I want to thank them with all my heart. Mattheo, I love you.”

“And I you,” Mattheo whispered, bringing his forehead down to rest on yours. His nose bumped against your cheek and he couldn’t contain his grin anymore. “How did I ever get so lucky?” he mumbled.

You laughed lightly. “Luck? Fate?”

Mattheo shook his head and his nose brushed light curves over your skin. “No, my wife. Simply love. Pure, unconditional love.”

***

The house was bright, the curtains pulled as far open as they could be. Some servants scuttled around, holding laundry or preparing for dinner. Meanwhile, Mattheo strode leisurely through the halls, smiling lovingly as his nephews chased each other through the halls. “What do I say, boys?” he called after them.

“Have fun, be safe, and don’t get caught!” they yelled back before running around a corner.

Enzo jogged after them and grumbled to Mattheo, “it’s not your duty to rule them up.”

“As their favourite uncle, yes, it is.”

“Your wife is in Andromeda’s room,” Enzo told his brother before sprinting off after his sons. Enzo wasn’t usually at Riddle Manor, but today was a special day. It was Orion’s birthday.

Mattheo chuckled to himself before Orion raced up the steps, panting. “Papa! Papa!”

Mattheo grinned widely and scooped Orion up. “Are you alright, hm? What’ve you been up to?”

“Aunt Pansy’s carriage just pulled up!” Orion bounced in Mattheo’s arms, beaming.

“And you’re not even dressed,” Mattheo stared at Orion, pretending to be stunned. “Where’s your mother, Ori?”

“She’s helping Andy get dressed,” Orion announced. Mattheo nodded and carried his son to his daughter’s room. “Mum!” Orion cried out, seeing Y/n standing behind Andromeda, knotting her hair into a braid.

“Oh, my darling,” Y/n tied Andy’s hair up before crossing to Mattheo and taking Orion from his arms. “Are you excited for your birthday?”

Orion hummed excitedly and wiggled down from Y/n’s arms. He darted to Andromeda and wrapped himself around her in a tight hug. Andromeda grumbled, but allowed him to cling to her as she finished her hair and rouge.

Mattheo took Y/n’s hand and pulled her back toward him, nudging his nose against hers. “Look at that,” he murmured, reaching down to play with the silver and green ring on your finger. “Mine.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. Slowly, as to not arouse suspicion from your children, he backed you up and caged you against the wall in his arms. “Seven years with you and two beautiful children to show for it.”

“Hey, mum? Where’s my- eugh!” Andromeda turned around and reeled back from the scene in front of her. “For the love of Salazar, please get a room!”

“We are in a room.” Mattheo smirked, glancing up from the crook of your neck.

“Aren’t you two, if I'm doing my calculations correctly, nearing thirty years old?” Andromeda tsked and rolled her eyes.

“You believe that simply because we’re getting older, I’m going to stop loving your mother?” Mattheo chuckled before pressing a light kiss to your jawline.

You shivered and tucked your face into your husband’s chest. “Matty, spare the poor children,” you chastised lightly. “What do you need, darling?” you turned towards Andromeda.

“You used to call me that,” Mattheo whined. He stepped back from you, letting you out of his embrace.

Andromeda sighed and asked, “where is my white shawl? It’ll go well with the dress I’m planning to wear to Orion’s party.”

“Why does it matter what you wear to Orion’s party?” Mattheo asked, puzzled.

“Because Albus Potter is going to be here,” you said as if it were obvious.

“Harry Potter’s son?” Mattheo asked incredulously. “That scumbag?”

Both you and Andromeda ignored Mattheo and Orion left the room at the sound of Aunt Pansy entering the foyer and shouting out for her favourite nephew.

“Your shawl should be in the library,” you answered. “Ori was using it as a blanket yesterday.”

Andromeda sighed and turned towards the door. “He needs to stop taking my things. Just last week he stole my candelabra so he could read in the dark. Perhaps you should accelerate his schooling. He’s getting bored, you know.”

“We’ll raise our own son, thank you, Andromeda,” Mattheo raised a brow. Andy huffed and and flicked her dress out behind her dramatically, exiting the room. Mattheo turned to you and said, “they get that from you. The love of reading.”

“Yes, but they get their flair for the dramatics from you. And lest us not forget, you keep fuelling our love of literature by buying more books and expanding our library,” you countered.

Mattheo hummed. “‘Tis true. But how could I live without spoiling my wife and children?” He whirled you around in his arms and pressed a long kiss to your lips. “Speaking of children, what would you think of expanding our family?”

You let out a laugh. “You simply like the act of making a bigger family.”

“I love my children too,” Mattheo defended.

You reached up and brushed some of his hair away from his face. “Yes you do,” you smiled up at him. “You love your family very much.”

“Always.”

2K notes · View notes

kechiwrites · 10 months

Text

choking hazard

simon “ghost” riley x medic!reader

synopsis: you have a very special request for simon. he thinks you're insane.

wc: 1.3k

cw: afab!reader, choking, grinding, hotdogging, haphazard kink negotiation, thigh riding, playful name-calling, no use of y/n ever.

an: a quick little bite of simon and medic reader for this challenge, which i technically failed cause this is way over 100 words. happy thanksgiving

“What?” He asks, but really, it lacks the traditional inflection of a question. Instead, the single word manages to hold deep exhaustion and a healthy helping of ‘what the fuck is wrong with you’.

Which, rude.

You stomp your foot, the moue of your lips more than a little petulant. “Oh, come on, don’t make it weird. Just...a little. Enough to pass out.” you raise your hand and pinch the air for emphasis.

“What?” Oh! The inflection was back, and he’d shifted weight onto his other foot. His cotton mask allows for you to see the top half of his face today, and you’re grateful, because the furrow in his brow exposes that while he really wants to just up and leave this conversation, he’s far too curious, or maybe perplexed? Disturbed?

“I want you to choke me out, Simon.” You grin, shrugging, “preferably with your cock in me but...” You mutter to yourself, pressing your lips together and widening your eyes in mock innocence when he glares at you in response, obviously hearing you.

“No.” He turns away from you, pushing around the ceramic skull you placed in your office. A paperweight, whose presence had absolutely no hidden, romantic meaning whatsoever, you’d simply seen it in a home goods display off base and snatched it up.

It had been on sale. Or something.

“I’m a doctor.” You tap your name tag insistently, “I know my limits, Si.” Now you’re just trying to rile him up, as if he’d ever lay a hand on you in anger you didn’t expressly beg for. Still, he hates when you shorten his name, used to hate it when you said it at all.

Thankfully, things change.

“Fucking quack.” He mutters and you make a loud, dramatic, wounded noise you’d heard in a K-Drama you had watched once before flipping back to your favourite period drama you’d watched a million times over. You flatten your hand against your chest and rear back, more for your own gratification than to impress your offence upon Simon.

“I’m serious! I’m curious and I know it won’t cause any real, lasting damage.” You approach him from behind, wrapping your arms around his middle. He flinches, not from surprise, you guess, but from sensation, before his body relaxes. You push your face between his shoulder blades, rubbing your nose against his shirt.

“I’ll suck you off after.” You murmur, and the lieutenant snorts derisively.

No dice.

“Then I’ll ask Soap to do it!” You release him, and circle around your desk, feigning a grab towards your cell phone.

He doesn’t rise to the bait initially, turning back to face you and crossing his inked, scarred arms. You ogle them shamelessly, eyes greedily tracing every bit of knicked skin, every prominent, tempting vein. Thing of beauty, his arms were. “Go on, then.” He shrugs and consternation makes you furrow your brow in defeat. Unfortunately, the closer the two of you become, the more bags of candy and suggestive texts and lingering glances you exchange, the easier it is to read the other’s intent, your bluffs.

You pout, and kick at the corner of your own desk, shifting it slightly. “Fine. I wouldn’t ask him.” You tilt your head, pinning him with a needy look you hope is suitably enticing, “I’m asking you cause I trust you, Simon. Please?”

Apparently, bald, earnest honesty is the ticket because your not-boyfriend heaves a sigh and uncrosses his arms, raising one to rub at the back of his neck, the black t-shirt he dons stretched tantalizingly tight over the curve of his muscled bicep.

Oh, this was going to be so good.

“Fine. Just don’t piss yourself.”

“Do people do that?” You wrinkle your nose, and Simon levels you with a look, dark brown eyes broadcasting a stark “Do I fucking look like I’m joking?”

Regardless, you clap your hands in celebration, locking the door to your office and sprinting back to stand in front of him, the framed photo of your commanding officer, your mother, and you looking on judgmentally. You try to ignore it but end up putting the photo down on its face, no need for dear mum and your boss to witness your fantasy come to life.

Simon turns you to face away from him, the heat of his hands seeping into your shoulders. He is always so warm. It had been a boon to your freezing feet the few times you’d shared a bed for actual sleeping. (He’d cursed at you for maybe a minute before hiking your legs up to bracket his hips, so you could fall asleep wrapped around him like a koala.)

“Double tap, you understand?” He barks, and you can’t help but shimmy in excitement.

“Yup!”

Simon wraps a burly arm around your neck, not exerting any pressure yet. He hooks his other arm around his wrist so it sits in his elbow, and places that palm on the crown of your head, securing you snugly in a standard choke-hold.

“Good?” He mutters low, his chest blankets your back, and you're enveloped in the clean, sharp scent he usually carries with him.

You laugh, “Yeah-huh-huh-huh.” and you know you sound a little stupid, but you’re getting what you wanted and even without Simon utilizing force, you can feel yourself getting wet, forcing you to rub your thighs together in anticipation.

He begins to constrict your airway and it feels as though your head is ballooning, building up pressure as breathing slowly becomes more and more difficult. Your eyelids flutter closed and your lips part in shock. It doesn’t feel good, necessarily, but it certainly doesn’t feel bad. It’s obvious Simon’s holding back a lot. It probably should hurt but the lack of air makes your mind stutter to a stop, and all you can feel is Simon’s heat along your back and his strength holding you in place and his scent where it’s stalled in your lungs, unable to escape. When he shifts a bit behind you, your eyes pop back open in surprise at what you feel.

“You’re hard!” You wheeze incredulously, using the very last bit of air you had to call him out.

“And you’re a fucking lunatic.” He bites back, jerking his hips forward to rub his clothed erection against the swell of your ass. And he’s been doing that a lot lately, pushing up against your back, grinding along the fat of your thighs. Just last week, he’d spent a whole night hot-dogging (“Dumb fucking name, huh?”) the aching length of his dick between the cheeks of your ass, fucking against your flesh until he spilled hot and thick over your lower back.

You think he may be developing a thing.

He keeps rocking against you, branding his shape into your backside. “God.” He mutters, pulling you up and sliding his knee between your thighs. You can’t speak, what with your brain rapidly losing function, but if you could you’d hiss your assent, maybe scream when the muscles of his thigh nudge against your clit.

Your lungs and cunt burn in unison, and the edges of your vision fade, but you want to keep going, want to come just like this, completely under his control, dry humping his massive thigh, unable to breathe.

Finally, you raise a shaky hand to tap at his forearm, and Simon immediately releases you, letting you stumble forward, off his leg and towards your desk. Your palms make contact with the polished wood and you hunch forward panting loud and hard. The room is fucking spinning, but all you can bring yourself to do is laugh like a fucking maniac.

“You good?” The soldier speaks, the sound of his footsteps just barely piercing through the sound of your rushing blood. Your voice is practically non-existent and you have to clear your throat three times, but when you do eventually croak out a response, your chest heaves with your desperate breaths in between your words.

“Yeah, fuck yes.” Your chest slowly loses that frantic, mounting pressure and when you turn your head to look at Simon over your shoulder, his eyes are unfathomably dark and narrowed, running laps over your legs, thighs and ass.

“Good. Take your scrubs off. Right now.”

#ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #ghost x black reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut #simon ghost riley smut #kechiwrites #cod mw2 smut #cod fic #ghost x black!reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x black reader

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lizleeships · 1 year

Photo

C a s u a l I n t i m a c y is my jam, I have no excuse

(Don’t repost)

--> Buy me a kofi? | Become a Patron to see the Mipple version

Teeny contextual ficlet below the cut:

“Cas, lay off already,” Dean huffs from the motel bed.

He crosses his bruised arms behind his head and tries to force back a wince of pain as he slings a casual grin.

“We’re in one piece, aren’t we?”

The angel seems dangerously ruffled, and Dean really wants to focus on that like the awesome boyfriend he’s learned to be. The thing is though, Cas is stripped down to his boxers and an old black undershirt in preparation for his shower and it’s more distracting than a train crash. A sexy, sexy train crash.

Okay yeah, he’s probably a bit concussed; maybe Cas is right for chewing him out.

“You have to be more careful,” Cas insists, his voice doing that deliciously growly thing it does (which, again: not the time, Winchester), “I’m not what I used to be, and neither are you.”

“Wow, okay-”

“Whether you like it or not, you’re not getting any younger, and I’m not getting any more useful. On most days I barely have enough Grace to heal your razor nicks.”

A pang of irritation surges at that - because Dean is excellent at grooming, thank you- but instead of clapping back, Dean opts for a far more entertaining option. He reels the angel in by the towel ends draped around his shoulders, and plants a kiss right between his severely pinched eyebrows.

“I’ll be more careful, okay?” is his murmured promise, “I swear on my Old Guy honour.”

“That’s not fair,” Cas complains, though he doesn’t move an inch.

“What?”

“You can’t just distract me when I’m trying to make a point. It’s extremely patronizing.”

Dean chuckles and kisses the wrinkles which pleasantly frame Cas’ eyes, then the speckles of grey at his temples.

“Yeah? Does that mean it’s working?”

“Dean, this is serious.”

The consternation on Cas’ face has only mildly ebbed through the affection, so Dean frames his features with his hands, bumps their foreheads together.

“I know, sweetheart. I hear you.”

Cas nods against him as he stands down, shoulders sinking on a deep exhalation.

“Really. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Alright.”

“But next time, maybe try making your point when you’re not half-naked, speaking of distractions. That’s playing dirty and you know it.”

Finally, Cas’ grave expression breaks into a grin while Dean pulls him all the way down onto the bed.

“You’re ridiculous; I’m wearing clothes,” Cas objects.

He makes himself at home in Dean’s lap, his fingers trailing absently over warm freckled skin. Dean looks up at him with a smirk.

“Yeah well, we’ll see about that.”

#destiel #destiel fanart #destiel fluff #so cheesy I might choke #hunter husbands #destiel ficlet #forehead kisses #domestiel

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theerurishipper · 17 days

Text

Superbat Week Day 3: Alien Biology

For @superbatweek2024

“I’ve been meaning to ask, how exactly is it that you fly?”

Clark looks at Bruce, eyebrow raised quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Bruce starts, gesturing at Clark’s form as the man in question happily eats Chocos out of the box, “how exactly does it work? J’onn, for instance, levitates with the help of his telekinetic abilities. It would be useful to understand how it works for you.”

Clark then gives him a huge grin, eyes twinkling with either amusement or the option Bruce hates most: mischief. “It’s because I actually have invisible wings!”

“Clark.”

“No, it’s true,” Clark insists, eyes wide. “Kryptonian biology is very different from most species, you know.”

“Clark.”

“Fine, fine,” Clark huffs. “It’s no fun trying to pull the wool over your eyes, you know? You could throw me a bone every now and then.”

“Of course,” Bruce admits. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Clark throws his Chocos at him, grinning.

“Hey, Spooky!”

Bruce turns begrudgingly at the grating sound of Hal Jordan’s voice. He supresses the part of him that is curious. After all, Hal usually— and thankfully— avoids him for the most part. It gives Bruce a lot more peace in his day, but also has the unintended and unwelcome side effect of making him interested whenever the man swallows his pride to approach him.

“Did you know about this? Did you know and just decide to keep this from everyone?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Hal rolls his eyes. “I’m talking about Supes, man.” He looks around the empty corridor, and leans in closer to Bruce, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Did you know that he has invisible wings?”

It must be an effect of all the idiocy in the air around him, but it’s almost like Bruce can feel his thoughts coming to a screeching halt in his head.

“I… he what?”

The first thing that occurs to him when his brain begins to function again is that Clark is probably way prouder of this idea than he has any right to be. And apparently, for good reason, because Hal seems completely taken in.

Bruce hates being wrong. Especially about this.

“Yeah! He sorta mentioned it in passing… but damn, you think you know a guy, huh?”

Bruce says nothing. He simply watches Hal stand before him, rubbing his head in consternation. And in his fugue state, Bruce makes one of the most questionable decisions of his life.

“I knew.”

“What?” Hal shrieks. “You knew? And didn’t mention this to anyone?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Hal frowns. “I guess…” Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair, frustration visible on his face. “I guess you’d know that, huh? And I can safely say that it’s the truth, cause you’re allergic to pranks and fun.”

“Goodbye, Jordan.”

By the end of the day, the whole Watchtower knows of Superman’s magical invisible wings. Bruce can hear the poorly hushed conversations flooding through the entire satellite.

“Batman said he had them, so it must be true!”

“Yeah, he hates fun, he’d never go along with it if it was a prank!”

If only they knew.

“—And now people keep asking if they can feel them!” Clark huffs, head resting on Bruce’s lap.

“Mm.”

“It was funny at first, and it still is… but now, I think it’s falling apart.”

Bruce pats his forehead. “All pranks come to an end. It’s an immutable fact of life.”

“It’s just too good to be over so soon!”

Bruce wisely keeps his thoughts about the quality of Clark’s pranks to himself. Instead, he looks up from his laptop to observe the silent pout on his face, and makes a few calculated decisions. Then he picks up one of Alfred’s cookies and tosses it at Clark’s face.

“What’s this for?” asks Clark, confusedly.

“I’m throwing this at you, in lieu of a bone.”

Bruce has faced many dangers throughout his career as a superhero. Dangerous criminals, the best martial artists in the world, magic users, and even literal demons. But this might be the hardest thing he’s ever done.

“You want me to make Clark a pair of…” Zatanna trails off, and looks back down at the piece of paper he’d handed her. “…invisible attachable magic wings?”

“Yes.”

Zatanna looks up at him, looking absolutely miserable.

“What did you do this time?”

Bruce bristles and glares. “Nothing.”

“If you’re in the doghouse, it’s best you fix whatever you’ve done on your own—”

“It’s not an apology present. I’m helping him with a project.” Zatanna looks mildly curious for a split second, and realization dawns on her face.

“So his invisible wings aren’t real?” she whispers, looking stricken.

Self-control. Bruce is a master of self-control. He will not raise his palm to slap it against his forehead. He will not give into that ever-present urge.

“Of course not.”

“Damn,” she murmurs, looking away as though revaluating her entire existence. Luckily for her, so is Bruce.

But she bounces back fairly quickly, which is only a credit to her character. “All right, I’m down.”

“Thank you.”

“You know,” Zatanna insists as she rolls up her sleeves theatrically, wand already held in her hand, “I’ve never seen you go the extra mile for a prank before. You really love him, don’t you?”

“…Just do the spell.”

Clark’s wings are a big hit. The Hawks are especially thrilled. Bruce loses just a little more faith in everyone’s competency per second.

But seeing Clark’s excited face as he beats his invisible wings and bamboozles everybody within arm’s reach makes it all worth it. Not that he would ever admit as much to the man himself.

But unfortunately (or fortunately, if Alfred is to be believed), Clark knows him too well for all that.

“How hard was it to ask Zatanna to make these for me?” When Bruce doesn’t reply, Clark just grins, his arms coming to wrap around Bruce from the back. “I bet it was hard. I know how much you hate asking for favours.”

“They aren’t permanent, so enjoy them while they last.”

“Sure, sure.” Clark stops speaking, and the Batcave is left in its natural state of silence.

“Thank you, Bruce.”

Bruce doesn’t turn to look at him. “It’s just a pair of wings. Zatanna made them in five seconds.”

“That’s not what I mean. I just—” Clark leans in closer, pressing himself against Bruce’s back, and Bruce can feel his warmth flooding through him.

“This was the silliest thing ever, but you went along with it anyway.”

“Clark.” Bruce turns himself around in Clark’s arms, and lays a hand on his face. “It’s not silly. If you found it amusing, who am I to get in your way?”

“I was so sure you found it… what’s the word you used? Juvenile?”

Bruce gives him one of his lesser, weaker glares. “And now you’ve decided that I’m an expert in comedy? After all the time I’ve spent projecting the opposite?” Clark just laughs, quietly, subdued in a way that leaves Bruce feeling profoundly uneasy.

“I guess…”

Bruce pats his head, ruffling through his hair. “Since when have you cared so much about what I think?”

Clark just looks at him, and then sighs, dropping his head down onto Bruce’s shoulder. “I always care about what you think,” he mutters. “Your opinion means the world to me.”

Bruce’s first thought is to tell Clark that his faith is misplaced. That Bruce isn’t as worthy of admiration or respect as Clark seems to think. That Clark is giving him far too much credit.

But there’s something in the way Clark says those words, quiet and heavy, that renders him speechless, unable to say anything; something that leaves him wishing that it could be true. And so, he just stands there, in Clark’s embrace, trying to convey all the things he can’t say.

It’s Clark who breaks the silence, obviously. “You know… if I told you I had invisible wings right now, that wouldn’t be a lie…”

“I suppose so.”

“I guess I am different from you today. Biologically. Even on the outside.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“So…” Clark lifts his head up to look at him, expression positively sultry. “There’s a lot of fun we could have with these. Don’t you think so?”

Bruce just looks into his eyes, and raises a hand to run his finger along the soft surface of Zatanna’s magical wings. He drags his hand back, and rests both his arms around Clark’s neck.

“Let it never be said that I don’t know how to have a good time.”

Clark laughs, and kisses him.

“You know,” Clark says, conversationally, idly messing with Bruce’s hair. “I might not have actually had magic wings, but you know what I do have?”

“A penchant for silly pranks?”

Bruce looks up to find Clark waggling his eyebrows, mayhem already gathering in his eyes. “Well, yes,” Clark says, “but I was thinking more along the lines of horns that can detect lies. What do you think?”

Bruce just sighs, and buries his face in Clark’s shoulder. “I can’t lie to your horns. That’s a terrible idea.”

“So…”

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

---

Read on AO3

#DC #DC Comics #Bruce Wayne #Clark Kent #Batman #Superman #Fanfiction #Superbat #Superbatweek2024 #Hal Jordan #Zatanna Zatara

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bengiyo · 11 months

Text

Only Friends: They Can't Sit With Me

I’ve been trying to find the words to express my consternation about Only Friends properly for weeks. Now that we’ve finished the show, I think I can say it plainly: The show just isn’t that deep, and the characters are unintentionally some of the worst gays you know. They can't sit with me and mine.

In so many ways this show avoided saying much for most of its runtime by just presenting the characters and putting them in situations. This would generally have been fine until the final episodes where the push to marry off the characters within their actor pairs coupled with the decision to punish Boston exclusively for any of the wrongs he had committed this season.

I hate feeling like I must defend Boston, because he was not a good friend to his squad. He introduced Top to their group just to fuck with Ray of all people for some reason. Then he got jealous when Top took a shine to Mew. He fired Ray at Top and Mew, and misrepresented a video he took of them to get Top to hook up with him one more time. (As a note, I also hold responsible for his decision to fuck around with Boston and withhold that information from Mew as well, but we’ll get there.) However, Boston is one of the only people in this show not using sex as leverage over the person he’s with or hounding people about putting out.

I hate that this show kept comparing other characters to Boston when Ray is fucking around with Sand while he’s seeing Mew. Top and Mew are playing their little stupid games about sex the whole time. Nick is pretending to be okay about stuff that he isn’t and using a sex tape as blackmail. Boston becomes the victim of blackmail and revenge porn in this show! Why is he the one who deserves to be punished for anything wrong that he did exclusively while everyone else is in “happy friend land” at the end of this show?

Also, what the fuck was the point of Boeing? They introduced Boeing as like a final boss but he revealed NOTHING about any of the characters, especially Top! Force did such a thankless and difficult job in this show only to get stuck in an enigmatic character that we can never get a secure read for. Boeing showed up and seemed like he was more of all of them, and we learned nothing because of his intrusion, and he gets rejected in the most perfunctory way possible as the final source of drama. Disappointing.

As I reflect on this show, I wish it had been episodic instead of a serial. The problem Only Friends has is that in the end it becomes a single story that took 12 weeks to tell. All this drama was so aggravating because these homos DO NOT have each other’s backs. Mew helps Boston out of a sticky situation just so he can be morally superior to Boston. Top helps Ray out of a situation and many of us thought that Top could have been the one who called the cops on the party! Cheum decides to castigate Ray AS HE’S BEING ARRESTED FOR DRUG POSSESSION. Cheum accuses Boston of assaulting her brother under false pretenses, never offers him a real apology, and then thinks that Boston should abase himself before the group at the end. If this show had been episodic, each episode could have been about a gay issue within this group and resolved itself within the episode while continuing larger arcs.

I feel like the angst between Boston and Mew went to waste. Why are they jealous of each other? Why didn’t they hate fuck? Mew is a virgin and Top was his first time. Why did we not unpack how Mew views himself after having sex for the first time? He had been holding out for so long and we never spend time with him really understanding how sex impacted him. Why wouldn’t he touch Ray at that point? Sure, he was never into Ray that way, but what is the core of his sexual preciousness?

This show spent the entire final episode taking a victory lap around Boston losing everything and celebrating these dysfunctional ass couples getting together, only to end on a scene of Mew being interested in Mix’s character as Top looks on worried. What a terrible place to end. We never understood Mew’s thing about sex and especially Top. We never understood Top. After dunking on Boston one final time, we end on Mew wanting to flirt with someone else? Terrible.

These people are still young, but this is not what community looks like. These characters are mean to each other in a way that makes me really worry about the shit that this queer team had suffered as they came of age and entered the scene. I believe in queer community. I believe in helping the people in our spaces even if I don’t like them personally. Even at their worst in Queer as Folk, those guys and gals had each other’s backs. Where was that energy here?

They are truly terrible friends. In so many ways, I was grossed out about the way a bunch of homos turned on the slut in their group only to end the show on a game of spin the fucking bottle where they made Sand make out with Top. It feels so weird that a group of queer people essentially ostracized one of their own for failure to conform with monogamous norms. NOT A SLAY.

Beyond that, I feel like most of the cast didn’t even get to play against type! Khaotung playing drunk so consistently was impressive, but he’s always been a pretty, rich, shit stirrer in most of his roles. First is always a grumpy simp. Book is always the virgin. Force got to be a jerk in a really fun way, but we never understood the interiority of his character. Mark and Neo got to do different stuff, and I really hope Neo gets an award for the way he fully embodied Boston.

I had a lot of hope for this show, but in the end, it will just be remembered as an amusing romp that fell flat in the back half for me. With that, I am done with Only Friends, and hoping to be done with GMMTV in a while, honestly. Between this, Hidden Agenda, Dangerous Romance, and a Boss and a Babe, I’m quite over it.

We wrote so much about this show trying to mine depth from it and the well was too shallow. It’s alright for us to admit that this show wasn’t that deep. We can admit that it was just a lot of fun for a few months. “This show is fun” (read: easy to fap to) and “This show is good” can form a Venn diagram, but that is not a circle. You gotta know when to fold ‘em.

#Ben writes #only friends the series #only friends meta

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lilacsupernova · 5 months

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The feminist lifecycle (in T-shirts)

Stage One: You hate sexism and are eager to smash the patriarchy/live beyond the gender binary/[insert your own vague objective here]. What's more, you're definitely going to win because you are nothing like those mean, useless older women who fucked things up last time. T-shirt slogan: Riots not Diets.

Stage Two: Okay, so you're still nothing like those mean, useless older women who fucked things up last time. That said, you sort of agree with them about some things, only for different reasons, e.g. you worry about choking in porn because it might hurt women, whereas they just have some weird sex phobia thing. Or you think sex matters because you sex discrimination exists, whereas they think sex matters because women are brood mares. You're still going to win, but you're not going to mention the choking/sex discrimination stuff in public in case it gives the wrong impression. T-shirt slogan: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun(dumental) Rights).

Stage Three: Actually, you have to admit this, but those mean, useless older women? They were right about many things, and when you look at it, their justifications make sense. The trouble is how badly they marketed their arguments. They're appalling at PR, which is why everyone thinks they're mean, bigoted and essentialist. You, however, will be able to translate for them, making the case against choking women in sex and telling women their bodies don't matter in a way that is nuanced, persuasive, and above all, kind. Those bitches sure are lucky to have you! T-shirt slogan: Eat the Patriarchy.

Stage Four: Bollocks. Turns out that no one cares how euphemistic you feminism is. The issue was always about the content, so you might as well express what you believe, and not on a T-shirt. How come no one – apart from those useless older women – warned you it would be this much work?

I'm not saying all women go through all stages in order. I know some who seem to have been born at Stage Four, others who never get to Stage One. There are women who hit Four then, on witnessing the response, retreat to Three (though they're never the same again). A significant proportion of mainstream feminism hovers between One and Two while thinking it's a Three or Four. Nonetheless, the overall direction of travel is clear, and what's needed is some serious acceleration. This is why Mumsnet, with its effective methods of hauling women over to the dark side, has been causing so much consternation. Most of the time, getting the process to speed up is a challenge.

– Victoria Smith, Hags: The Demonisation of Middle-aged Women, pp. 298-9.

#victoria smith #glosswitch #hags #feminism #liberal feminism #intersectional feminism #sex positive #capitalism #ageism #lilac posts #mumsnet

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poisonlove · 1 year

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Miss Ortega | j.o

Part 1 part 2 part 3

Part 4

With boredom, I tapped my fingers on the wooden surface of the teachers' lounge desk. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the wall clock.

I must say, this place wasn't bad.

The walls were white, there was a huge desk with a dozen chairs around it, a cabinet with several lockers labeled with the names of the professors, and in one corner of the room, there stood a lonely coffee machine. I wrinkled my nose in disgust when my eyes caught sight of the color scheme of the curtains, a sad plant as decoration on the shelf near the clock.

Meanwhile, I had retrieved my backpack thanks to Enid, as I had forgotten it in the cafeteria. The blonde had asked me what to do, but I simply took the object from her hands and left, leaving her with a surprised look on her face.

"Here I am, sorry for being late," I lifted my head and looked at Jenna. Professor Ortega looked exhausted, and her breathing was heavy from running to make it on time.

"Don't worry, you're on time," I smiled, and she leaned against the wooden door, catching her breath.

In reality, she was five minutes late, but I wasn't going to make a big deal out of it.

"How was it?" I asked. Jenna sighed, raising her hands to convey the gravity of the situation.

"A disaster. I had to remove at least a couple of students from the class who were flirting with me," she rolled her eyes with irritation, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I remember... you didn't have much luck, did you?" I asked rhetorically. Jenna looked at me unfriendlily. I raised my hands in surrender.

"Before we leave... can you do me a favor?" Jenna leaned on the doorframe, looking at me with a clear intention of making me understand that I needed to move.

"Leave?'" I looked at her curiously.

"Never mind. See those lockers? Go to mine and take the stack of papers. They're in a yellow folder," Jenna pointed me in the direction to go, ignoring my question. I walked towards the lockers, reading the surnames before finding "J.Ortega."

"Um... how do I open it?" I looked at the padlock, biting my lip nervously.

"Oh, how silly of me..." she laughed and started rummaging in her backpack. The tip of her tongue was slightly sticking out, as if she was focused on finding something in her bag. She smiled triumphantly when she pulled out a set of keys.

She raised them and proudly showed them to me.

"Here you go." Jenna threw the keyring to me from the other side of the room, and I almost dropped it. I turned my back to Professor Ortega, starting to organize the keys in my hands. There were at least five of them, and one of them was definitely the key to her car.

"The one with the tape," Jenna tiptoed, trying to figure out why it was taking me so long.

I inserted the key with the tape into the lock and smiled when I heard the sound of the locker opening. I opened it and saw a stack of folders. I blinked in surprise and realized that one of these folders seemed to be from our class.

In fact, the yellow folder was our test papers.

I guess she had just put them in her locker because she had them in her backpack a few hours ago. Without thinking too much, I grabbed the stack of papers. I closed the locker and put the keys in my pocket.

I turned around and saw Jenna, who had not only her backpack but also mine on her shoulder.

"Well, now follow me," Jenna gave me a playful smile and took my wrist, dragging me behind her. With flushed cheeks, I tried not to think about the fact that Jenna was holding my hand, focusing instead on not dropping the folder.

We took a few steps before reaching an empty classroom. Sandy, the janitor, looked at us with consternation because he had just finished cleaning. "Don't worry, we won't touch anything," Jenna assured him, giving him a friendly smile.

We entered the room.

Jenna let go of my wrist and sat on the teacher's desk, picking up a forgotten pen between her fingers.

"Can you help me? In the meantime, we can discuss what we're going to do" Jenna reached out her hand, asking me to hand over the yellow folder. A strange sensation buzzed in my veins, excited by the request.

Correcting my classmates' exams? A dream come true.

I nodded several times and sat down next to Jenna, accepting the stack of papers she had given me. Along with them was a pen.

"So... when could you stop by in the afternoon?" Jenna focused her attention on the test in her hands, absentmindedly biting the pen. She raised an eyebrow as she began scribbling some calculations with the red pen.

"On Tuesday?" I looked at the exam in horror. Shaking my head, I started writing the corrections on the side. "And on Friday, I think," I finished the sentence, lifting the corner of my lips sadly.

"I don't have to put the grades, right?" I asked, looking at the paper.

Jenna stopped writing, leaning in my direction to see what I had done. Her hand rested on my knee, putting weight on my leg. She analyzed the test with her gaze and then shook her head. She gave my leg a comforting squeeze before breaking the contact.

My heart raced.

"No, don't worry, I'll take care of the grades" she gave me a shy smile before starting to correct another test.

"Oh my goodness," I exclaimed, placing the test I had taken in my hands on top of the others.

"Her name is Sinclair... the blonde next to you? Your friend?" she asked absentmindedly. Suddenly, I nodded, feeling anxiety grow. She gave me a shy smile.

"For now, it's the only passing grade I've given," she smiled at the great news.

Amidst the chatter and the murmurs of disapproval from some truly unpleasant exams, Jenna and I finished correcting. I looked at the clock and realized that almost an hour had passed.

"Well... that was fun," she exclaimed playfully, rubbing my eyes from tiredness.

"Now I should go, it's getting late," she yawned, and she smiled, nodding timidly.

"Thank you... see you on Friday then? I don't think you need to stop by tomorrow since you're already late today," she stepped down from the desk and took the corrected papers.

I left the keys on the desk.

"Then see you on Friday... no, on Wednesday for the lesson," I smiled, and she winked at me. I picked up my backpack from the floor and started walking towards the school exit.

When I stepped out of the school, I looked up and saw an unfriendly cloud over our city. I started walking since it would be a long walk before I reached home. I tightened the strap of my backpack and sighed from exhaustion.

I wanted to go home and sleep until tomorrow.

A single drop of water fell on the tip of my nose, then another landed on my lips before the rain increased. I didn't even have an umbrella, and the rain was soaking me. I started walking faster, trying to avoid catching a cold from the excessive rain.

A lightning bolt tore through the sky.

I closed my eyes at the loud noise and shivered at the sensation of wet clothes. The sound of a horn made me look towards the street. I squinted my eyes and looked with surprise at the person honking insistently. The passenger window rolled down, and I could see Jenna Ortega sitting on the driver's side.

Professor Ortega, holding the steering wheel with one hand, looked at me with a smile. She leaned over and opened the door.

"How about I give you a ride?" she offered.

I smiled and started seriously considering whether Jenna was an angel.

(...)

The car journey is quite silent.

My eyes were looking out the window, relaxed by the sound of rain falling against the ground. Another shiver ran down my spine from the sensation of wet clothes against my skin. I crossed my arms against my chest, trying to generate as much warmth as possible.

Jenna slows down as she sees the traffic light turn red in the distance.

Occasionally, I could feel her eyes on me, but I was too embarrassed by the situation to think of what to say. I settle back into my seat, tilting my head towards the driver's side.

Did I mention she has a perfect profile? Well... because she has a perfect profile. Her eyes slightly gleamed as she looked at the street, and her lips formed a shy smile. Our gazes met, holding for a couple of seconds.

The traffic light turned green.

"Straight ahead, right?" she asked absentmindedly, shifting gears by moving the lever upward. I mumble in response, tucking a completely wet strand of hair away from my face.

Professor Ortega sighs and leans forward with her free hand to click the radio button, almost as if to break the silent atmosphere. The sweet and melancholic notes of "Golden Hour" resonate in the car.

"I like this song," she admits, turning the knob to increase the volume. I looked at her with an open mouth, surprised that she knows this song.

"Do you know it?" the question sounded more aggressive than I intended, and she glances at me, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm only 23, I'm not that old," she says, with a tone as natural as if it were the least strange thing in the world. I open my eyes, incredulous at her words.

"We're only 5 years apart?!" I exclaim, and Jenna, seeing my reaction, bursts into laughter.

It was the second time I heard her laugh, even if it happened on the same day, but despite that, it seemed like the most beautiful thing in the world. Her eyes narrowed almost as if she were squinting, and the dimples on her face formed perfectly. Her nose twitched slightly, and her head leaned forward almost reflexively, her shoulders vibrating with the deafening and angelic laughter. Jenna looked at me, thoroughly amused.

I almost felt satisfied to be the cause of this harmonious sound.

I clear my throat, looking out the window, embarrassed by the intensity.

"To the left..." I whisper, still in shock. I could see in the distance the row of houses, and among them, mine. A red roof, completely restored. Jenna stops on the side of the street, turning off the car.

I grab the backpack that was resting on my feet, turning towards Jenna.

"Thanks for the ride," I affirm, and she raises her lower lip as a hint of a smile, shaking her head reassuringly.

"Don't worry, it's been a pleasure."

I look at Jenna in confusion as she unfastens her seatbelt. The dark-haired woman turns towards me, leaning slowly towards my body. The beats of my heart increase recklessly, surprised by the sudden gesture. Her brown eyes almost fervently gaze at the lower part of my face, precisely my lips. Our noses brush against each other, and my breath gets stuck in my throat. A mischievous smile spreads across her lips, immediately capturing the attention of my eyes.

Full and perfect lips.

One of her hands moves in my direction, to the side of my head. I close my eyes, relaxing and anticipating the contact between our mouths.

My first kiss.

The click of the door opening behind me makes me open my eyes in confusion.

I open my eyes with a sudden realization.

Jenna returned to her seat, looking at me with confusion. She most likely saw my cheeks completely red.

Oh my god, how could I think she would kiss me? She's my damn calculus teacher!

My lungs suddenly need as much oxygen as possible, and it felt impossible. I felt trapped in this car.

I had to get out of here.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and instinctively leaned forward, thanking Jenna with a kiss on the cheek. The professor opens her eyes in surprise. The contact of my lips on her cheek lasted only a few seconds, so brief that I almost doubted if I had kissed her.

I immediately regret it, seeing her eyes looking at me with a mix of confusion and amusement, her gaze softening. With difficulty, I get out of the car, with the clear intention of leaving before doing something completely stupid.

I reach the door of my house and ring the bell. While I wait for someone to open, Jenna's BMW starts and drives away.

This is bullshit.

***

Before I knew it, Wednesday had already arrived. With my backpack on my back and walking sadly towards school, I listened to "death bed coffee for your head" playing in my headphones.

Let's just say I wasn't very excited about going to school today... because I was going to see Jenna in the last period. I had a clear feeling that I had messed everything up the other day, and I was embarrassed at the thought of crossing her wonderful brown eyes.

Damn it, another compliment.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, clutching my backpack. The production of the song was interrupted when I saw Enid approaching in the distance, full of energy.

"Hey..." I said sadly, taking off my headphones. The blonde looked at me with confusion.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, immediately noticing my mood.

And what if something is wrong? The thing is, in just two damn days, I've developed feelings for my Calculus teacher... I had the illusion that she would kiss me... I kissed her on the cheek, and I was terrified to see her.

Of course, I wasn't going to tell her that.

"Nothing... I haven't slept very well... you know... nightmares," I shrugged indifferently, adjusting my school uniform collar. Not only did I have to wear a stupid, horribly striped black and purple uniform, but I also had an annoying knot that prevented me from breathing.

Damn tie.

It was also about two degrees or so... in other words, freezing cold.

"Did this nightmare have brown eyes and a charming smile?" Enid asked absentmindedly, putting an arm around my shoulders.

I tensed up at her words but tried not to show it. I had forgotten that Enid was very perceptive when it came to reading people. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye and slowly shook my head.

"No, actually, I lost count of how many eyes the monster had," I said hastily, inventing an unbelievable excuse.

"Sure..." she looked at me with narrowed eyes, pushing a strand of hair away from her face.

"Hey, girls!" someone shouted.

We turned towards the sound of the voice and saw Ajax and Xavier. The guy with the beret approached Enid, putting an arm around her waist. The blonde got distracted and turned towards her boyfriend, their lips meeting in a sweet kiss.

Xavier and I made a disgusted sound.

The misunderstood and artistic guy from Nevermore stood by my side, greeting me with a nod.

I managed to avoid Enid's interrogation.

"Mind if I steal her, T/N?" Ajax asked, smiling at Enid. I pretended to gag when I saw the blonde's eyes shine with love and mischief. I removed Enid's hand from my shoulder, and the oldest of the group took the blonde's free hand, interlacing their fingers, and ran off laughing through the school gardens.

"Well... it's just you and me," Xavier blushed, covering his cheeks with his long hair. I laughed nervously, walking through the gates of Nevermore. I knew Xavier had feelings for me, but I only saw him as a friend... a little brother, and I didn't want to disappoint him.

"Do we have Art now?" I swallowed nervously. Xavier nodded.

I took a few steps, and my eyes widened when I saw Jenna in the distance.

My cheeks turned red, and I stood frozen in place. Jenna Ortega was talking animatedly with her coworker. My heart raced with nervousness and, at the same time, captivated by the sight of her.

Today, Professor Ortega was dressed casually.

She wore a simple oversized pink hoodie, ripped jeans at the knees, and white Air Force sneakers.Her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail.

The absence of heels accentuated her height.

I grabbed Xavier's arm and started walking down the hallway when I saw Jenna turning in our direction. I relaxed, knowing that I had avoided the dark-haired woman, and let out a sigh of relief as I walked towards our class.

(...)

I managed to avoid Jenna in various ways, but I couldn't avoid her in the last class. I sighed and entered the classroom, bowing my head when I saw Jenna sitting in the chair in front of the desk.

I felt extremely guilty when I saw a smile spreading across her lips. Damn, that oversized sweatshirt made her so adorable.

"Hey..." she said, almost nervously.

I remained silent, avoiding her gaze. I focused on looking towards the back of the class, and disappointment washed over me when I saw Enid and Spenser sitting together, occupying my usual spot. The girl still had a red nose as a symbol of her cold, and Enid was enthusiastically talking with her friend.

I felt so betrayed.

Impatiently, I took the only available seat, right in front of the lectern. I placed my backpack on the floor and felt a bit frustrated. Jenna looked at me with a raised eyebrow, seemingly trying to figure out what was going on.

"Are you okay?" she asked, standing up and putting her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. I held back a smile as I found her adorable and nodded my head. Jenna made a face of concern when I didn't respond. She looked at me with stern eyes, her jaw clenched, almost annoyed.

If I acted cold, maybe I could avoid talking to Jenna.

"I'm fine," I replied coldly, avoiding eye contact. I grabbed my pencil case and notebook, ready for the lesson.

Jenna huffed and made a strange sound in her throat.

In my peripheral vision, I saw her hand dangerously approaching, and my eyes widened when I saw her target. Jenna's hand grabbed mine and made me stand up from the chair. I tried to remain calm as I followed Jenna walking towards the classroom exit, our hands intertwined. A pleasant sensation fluttered in my stomach, and I ignored the soft touch of her palm against mine.

Before crossing the door, I saw Enid getting up from her seat, looking at me with concern.

"Excuse us," Jenna's request sounded stern as she tried to pass through the students who were rushing to their classes.

I looked at Jenna and unintentionally smiled when I realized she was slightly taller than me.

The Professor Ortega reached a closet and opened the door. She forcefully closed it, seeking privacy, and let go of our intertwined hands, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What's going on?" she looked at me seriously, her jaw clenched.

"Nothing... Can we go back to class? We have a lesson," I glanced distractedly at the door, feeling the need to escape from that cramped space.

"Otherwise, I'm the teacher... so you'll stay here," she stared at me, her irises filled with anger. "Why have you been avoiding me since this morning? And don't say you haven't been, because I know you have been avoiding me." Her gaze softened, her brown eyes shining with sadness.

"I...," I took a deep breath.

If I want to get out of here, I have to tell the truth.

"I don't know... I was afraid I made you feel uncomfortable the other day," I confessed, feeling a weight lifted off my chest.

Jenna relaxed, giving me a shy smile. "You didn't make me feel uncomfortable... if that was the problem... well, you can rest assured," she shrugged, smiling again.

"Okay," I smiled, relieved.

"T/N... Next time, speak instead of running away, okay? After all, I'm your teacher... I can help you with anything," she looked at me with doe eyes, absentmindedly biting her lower lip.

And that was the problem... that you're my teacher... Jenna.

"Now... Shall we go back to class? I think the others must be wondering where we've been," I affirm, swallowing nervously.

Jenna nods timidly, and we leave the closet, walking back to the classroom, this time feeling a weight lifted off our shoulders.

Or maybe not entirely.

(...)

"So... a line integral or path integral is an integral where the function being integrated is evaluated along a path or curve," I repeat, glancing at Jenna across the room.

It had been three weeks since the last turbulent encounter with Professor Ortega in the closet, and since then, we had been maintaining a practically perfect relationship without any misunderstandings. Twice a week, we would meet in the empty classroom, studying advanced mathematics for the upcoming end-of-year exam. It seemed that this competition was going to take place in late March, right on the eve of graduation.

I place the bottom of the pen between my lips, feeling both exhausted and satisfied with my work.

Jenna walks in my direction. Her black boots come into view, and I slowly examine her with my gaze. Today, Jenna is wearing a green-and-white plaid skirt that reaches just above mid-thigh, matching her green polo. I almost feel like crying under her attentive and intimidating gaze.

She playfully taps my cheek, smiling with all 32 teeth.

"You see, after two hours, you finally figured it out," she asks rhetorically, and I look away from her inappropriate comment. I gently remove her hand from my face and stand up from the chair, completely tired.

I glance at the clock and sigh, realizing once again that it's gotten late.

"We should meet somewhere else... I practically live in this school," I mutter to myself, clenching my jaw to hide my displeasure.

"You're right," Jenna comments, and I turn towards her direction. I didn't think she would hear me. Professor Ortega puts the book in her backpack and looks at me with a slight smile on her lips.

"If it's not too... strange," she begins, pausing briefly, almost regretting what she said. "We can meet at my place," she concludes, putting the backpack on her back.

My eyes widen, and my cheeks turn red. A pleasant sensation spreads down my spine at the mere thought of staying at Jenna's house. Professor Ortega shakes her head, somewhat disappointed that I didn't give an immediate response.

"Well... I just... should know the address," I scratch the back of my neck nervously.

Jenna lets out a sigh of relief and smiles. She takes her phone from her bag and walks towards me, looking at her device. "How about I give you my number?" Her fingers tap something on the screen, most likely responding to a message.

"So, I'll send it to you on WhatsApp," she concludes, looking at me through her long lashes.

I nod my head, still speechless.

Jenna hands me her phone, a beautiful iPhone 14. I see that she has already opened the contact. Glancing at Jenna, I enter my number, feeling a bit surprised. I hand the phone back to the brunette, and she puts it in her bag.

"Well... then we'll catch up," she gives me a smile, revealing her dimples. Walking past me and always tilting her head with a smile on her lips, she exits the room.

Jenna... she asked for my number.

(...)

When I left school, I saw Enid leaning against the door of her new car. The blonde waved at me and walked in my direction, wrapping her arms around my neck.

I returned the hug, relaxing under her touch. Enid breaks the hug, jumping with happiness.

"Are you ready?" Enid takes my backpack from my hands, opens the trunk, and carelessly throws it in. She squeals and takes my hand, making me get into the passenger side.

"Ready? Ready for what?" I look at the blonde with confusion and fasten my seatbelt.

"For a party, of course." She inserts the key into the lock and starts the car. I widen my eyes and shake my head.

"At... 8 PM?" I said incredulously.

"No, I want to go home," I admit, and Enid mutters, bored. She shifts gears and drives towards the exit of Nevermore, crossing the iron gates.

"It's Friday... T/N, it's been ages since we went to a party together... lately, you've been studying too much, really too much," she absentmindedly bites her lower lip.

She turns towards me, looking at me with pleading eyes.

"Alright... but we'll stay for a couple of hours, and then we go home... but... WATCH OUT!" I grip the seatbelt tightly when I see Enid running the red light.

Who the hell gave her a license?

"So, party?" she smiled, exhilarated by the victory. "Where are we going?" I catch my breath, relieved that I'm still alive. Enid turns back towards me.

"Look at the road," I add, still scared. Enid grips the steering wheel tightly, showing me her new nail polish combination.

"At Edward's house," she says, shrugging indifferently. Her eyes sparkle with excitement. "Edward?" I ask, sighing in frustration.

"He's an idiot... but he throws good parties," the blonde admits, and I fall silent, not knowing what else to add.

In the distance, we see Edward Smith's huge house, and despite the late hour of the party, people can already be seen entering his house. Extravagant lights invade the neighborhood, and deafening music resonates from meters away.

Enid parks, and we get out of the car, walking towards the entrance of the house. A notification on my phone prompts me to take it out of my pocket, and I furrow my brow when I see that I have received a phone number from an unknown sender.

*Unknown*

"Hi! It's Jenna, well... this is my number."

I smile and save her number, amused that she felt the need to specify whose number it was.

"Hi Jenna, I'm T/N."

A few seconds later, I receive a message from her.

Jenna*: Really? Don't tell me :/

Silly :3

I put my phone back in my pocket and enter the house, ready to let loose but with a smile on my lips.

#wednesday addams x reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x you #miércoles addams #jenna ortega x y/n #wednesday x you #jenna ortega x fem!reader #wednesday addams x you #professor #school #student #love

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sminiac · 8 months

Text

౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡— Not Just Serendipity !

⋆ Lee Sohee + Reader

Contains — Strictly Fluff, Absolute nonsense, I listen to too much Laufey

“You think we’ll last?” He bears distant eyes and a cherried tongue with the silly question, communicating to you that he’s unbridled with consternation about the comfort he finds in laxity.

“Do you want me to sock you in your mouth?”

Sheepishly he shakes his head, cleaning his slate of any sour sentiment that hints at him ever doubting the strength of your connection.

“No— I mean like, the world, or.. the universe! Do you think it’ll treat us gently as lovers.” The end of his sentence is soft, mirroring his exterior of a hopeful expression as he stares at the sky, it’s never ending blue that birds cut through with an overwhelmingly large landscape ahead of them that they’re eager to explore.

They remind you of the boy whose fingers toy with your hair now, so bright faced with life and curiosity. You smile. “All we can do is hope, y’know? But even that feels frail in itself compared to what comes tomorrow.” You shift to your side, hands cradled underneath your chin, “Does that make sense?”

Sohee nods, his motions unceasing, “You always make sense.” He’s warm from within like a quaint house in an isolated vista of soft grass and evergreen trees, not even the sun could get him to settle for a cool faintness in gift of its light. He retained his own affection in a harmless way, the innocence of his being concerningly genuine.

Your hand abandons its hold, reaching up to pinch sweetly at his soft cheek. “Think I was just made especially for you, ‘hee.” Your arm sways as he stills, a pained smile taking over his face at the overly sweet gesture, but he doesn’t lean back onto his arms to dodge his way out of your attention, he’d never. “Yeah? Why do you think that?”

He already has an idea in his head, but he likes hearing you talk, for hours and hours and hours, if you were a podcast he’d hope that it ran for an excessively long time, even then he’d return, everyday, urging you to ‘tell it again’ even if you began to grow tired of the stories. You let go of his cheek, settling back into the cushion of his lap under your head, “You just, know.”

“I know?”

“You understand me to a point where I feel like our souls were split before we were even of existence.”

He smiles, a breath puffed through his nose in a laugh at the quickness, your certainty, distracted away from the scene outside by the way you watch so intently as he speaks with sparkling eyes. “And that’s why we’re here now? I wish I could’ve given you more then baby, maybe if I knew— I would’ve done more.”

“Mmh, no, I think I would’ve really- actually socked you in your mouth then.”

This time an audible laugh evades his mouths, his chest shakes and you can see the way his tummy moves under the thin t-shirt you’ve become the shared owners of, “Yeah, maybe I’d actually leave that one untouched if it meant I didn’t receive a fist to the face.”

As his laugh dwindles his eyes stay focused on yours, briefly flitting between your features, what makes you, you. “Do you wanna know why?”

“Why baby?” He responds gingerly.

“Because I was never meant for extravagance, the limelight, the money, just for you, only you- and not that you aren’t extravagant honey, I think you’re the most perfect boy, but how many people can really say that they adore their partner inside out? Not many, not at all.”

You make his face warm, so warm, his heart feels like it’s expanding, like if he looks any further down it would be piercing through his bones, searching for the kindness of your hands, because you’re always so kind, so fond of him, he knows you’d hold it carefully, keep it safe for the rest of his days.

“I was meant for the gentleness of your hands, your lips, the eggs that you can’t cook by yourself because of the quickness of our stove and how overwhelmed you get because of it, your indecisiveness, the longevity of your cologne, your text messages, how you hate tying your shoelaces when they come loose. Don’t you think so, too?”

“Always,” he soothes, finding your hand, bringing it back up to his face so he can press a smiley kiss to your skin. “you do so much for me, ‘s no way I could ever think of someone else taking your spot, it would be hard for them to fulfill anyways. Completely Impossible to.”

#lee sohee #lee sohee x reader #lee sohee imagine #riize lee sohee #riize sohee #riize sohee x reader #riize sohee fluff #sohee #riize #riize fluff #riize x reader #riize imagines

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lambsouvlaki · 1 year

Text

For the Hell of It - Mine

Characters: Jason Todd x fem!oc

Rating and warnings: T, they're naked but not up to anything.

Word count: 1,333

Summary: A quiet conversation in bed, after Jason and her spend the night together for the first time.

Masterlist

They lay naked and sprawled around each other on Jason’s bed. The sweat on their skin had cooled and the soft sheets were tangled haphazardly.

He felt more relaxed than he had been in years.

He lay crossways from Andy, while she sat against the headboard, dyed a soft gold in the half-light of the table lamp. His head rested on one of her thighs while the other leg was carelessly slung across his chest, bent at the knee. He draped an arm over the calf in front of him, enjoying the softness of her skin. She played with his hair, lightly scratching his scalp and drawing contented little hums from him.

She kept threatening to go shower but had made no move to leave. Good. He had no desire to let her go, or any intention of moving at all within the next twelve hours.

He had been so afraid if he made a move it would all be ruined. Their friendship tarnished with the awkwardness of a boundary clumsily stumbled over with no way back.

Yet here she was, hair mussed and body languid in his bed, leisurely inspecting the book on his bedside table.

He had never been inclined to half measures. In for a penny.

“Be mine,” he said.

She looked up from Scalzi’s Old Man’s War. “Okay.”

He had expected demurring. Hesitation. Rejection’s kinder faces.

“Only mine,” he said, wary. He’d had his flings. Rose showed up every now again for a good time. But just about everyone he’d ever been with had been with Dick first, and usually again after. He didn’t want that this time.

She put the book down and looked at him with slight consternation.

“Jason, I’ve been yours alone for a while now.”

His eyebrows rose.

She scoffed. “And here I was worried I was pathetically obvious and you were just being gracious.”

“...I didn’t want to assume.”

She smiled at him. Then she blinked and spoke quickly, “Not that I was just hanging out to get laid. Your friendship means the world to me, if this doesn’t work out I am still going to care about you.”

“I know that.” He idly rubbed her leg, massaging her thigh. He’d had dreams about these legs. He always woke up feeling like he’d crossed a line. “But you said you weren’t interested in anything. With anyone.”

“Sure, two years ago. What about you? I thought you didn’t want anything either.”

He shrugged. “It was easy to say that before what I wanted was right in front of me.” He tilted his head, looking up at the ceiling. “When we met, I didn’t have a civilian life. Jason Todd existed only in the sense that Red Hood had to sleep sometimes.”

The hand in his hair curled gently against his scalp. “And now?”

“I don’t want to live like that anymore.”

“So what do you want? From me?”

He looked sideways, eyes tracing up her leg, over a thatch of curls he was now on good terms with, and up her naked chest to her face. He quirked an eyebrow.

She hit him with a pillow.

He laughed.

“Besides that,” she groused, pulling the pillow back and tucking it behind her. “We spend so much time together that my friends are convinced we’ve been banging all year anyway.”

“...Are they?”

“I, uh, may have shot down Chelsea with more vehemence than necessary when she asked for your number.”

He grinned. “Jealous already, sweets?”

“I wasn’t jealous. I was… invested.”

“Sure. Is that what we’re calling it now?”

She sighed and slouched some more. She looked so good, relaxed like this, so unaffected. He spent too much time around hyper-competent, over-trained paranoid maniacs who couldn’t relax if their life counted on it. He counted among them. The only reason she hadn’t complained about the gun strapped to the headboard that had to be digging into her back was because she was wonderful.

“I swear I didn’t mean to give her the impression we were dating. I got waspish and she drew her own conclusions.”

Guilt twinged in his chest. He rubbed circles into her skin with his thumb.

“You remember that guy who used to be in your study group? Scraggly ginger beard, shared a history paper?”

She tilted her head in thought for a second. “Ed.”

“He liked to talk about all the things he wanted to do to you when it was just guys in the room.”

“Oh.” she scowled. “Gross.”

She didn’t need to know the graphic fantasies he described, or the black rage Jason felt at the knowing little smirks shared with the other men she hung out with. People who called themselves her friends.

“I chased him off. Gave him the impression you and I were something more than we were.”

The hand in his hair stopped moving. “Did you just?”

“He was a dog. No respect for any woman.”

“Ah. But he respected the threat of an angry boyfriend?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted.

“High-handed of you,” she commented. “When I stop feeling all warm inside I’m probably going to be annoyed about that.”

He kissed her knee. “Sorry I told a creep that if he ever talks about my girl like that again I’ll break his jaw.”

“I–No you’re not,” she said, a hand over her mouth to ineffectually hide a smile.

“Na, I’m not. I meant it then and I mean it now. Are you gonna keep pretending you don’t like it when I’m possessive?”

“Hm. Probably too late to make it convincing.”

“Much too late.” He’d been made emphatically, delightfully, aware of how much she liked it when he called her his less than an hour ago.

He twisted and climbed up her body, resting between her legs. She grazed her hands down his sides as he dragged himself up to her head. Her skin pressed against his felt so good and warm. It wasn’t errotic, but it was profoundly intimate. He looked up into her eyes.

“My girlfriend doesn’t have to fend for herself. I won’t tell you what to do, but I get to tell fuckheads to look elsewhere or have their eyes removed. That’s what I want. Let me take care of you the best I can.”

She breathed a light, “oh.” She traced his scarred eyebrow. “Okay.”

He leaned up and kissed her.

It felt so natural. He liked doing that very much.

She pulled back a moment later, and looked him square in the eye. “I want you to give my number to whoever you go to for your emergency, middle of the night surgeries.”

He cocked his head. “I’ll call you if anything happens.”

“And if you can’t? This has been eating me since I found out you’re Red Hood. If anything happened to you, how would I know? Would I ever know?” She blinked quickly, a sudden influx of emotion in her eyes he hadn’t been expecting. “I can’t protect you. You don’t need my protection. That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

He rested his forehead on hers.

It was against Bat protocol. It put a huge amount of faith in her and demanded trust from him that left him feeling exposed and aching in a number of directions.

He’d already made his decision.

“Leslie Thompkins. The clinic in the Alley. I’ll have you added as an emergency contact. And Alfred already has your details, I’ll tell him you’re the first call when I’m seriously injured.”

“Thank you,” she breathed.

He kissed her again.

“Okay,” she said, when they parted.

“Okay.”

He slid his head into the crook of her neck. Her arms hung loosely over his back and he wormed his around her waist, between her and the headboard. His eyes closed.

“I’m gonna go have a shower,” she said, letting her head roll backwards.

“Sure you are,” he said, not moving. “Off you go.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Uh-huh.”

They fell asleep together soon after.

Next>>

#Jason loves with his whole heart #he doesn't know how to be any other way #pillow talk #jason todd #red hood #jason todd x oc #red hood x oc #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #my fanfic #dc #for the hell of it #fluff

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wilderness-of-thoughts · 23 days

Text

Before:

You should be asleep. You should be rolling over right now, drooling on your pillow, dreaming of a romantic evening with some hot alpha male from a webtoon, and quietly farting (with glitter and rainbows, of course). But no. Of course not. Not when Satoru Gojo has a drama moment and demands an explanation from you.

"Gojo, I beg you, have mercy. We get up in the morning." You grumble, Gojo was just standing astride your sternum dressed in a pink nightgown. You both pretend not to see the little fashion show that Satoru is putting on for you. He has to try on all the doll clothes that will fit him. Women's, men's, unisex, classic, normal, festive or fancy - he has to try them all.

“You have a boyfriend?” His tone was like a parent who had caught his child smoking.

"Nooooo? I guess? It's complicated. Although I think he's already my fiancé." You frowned, thinking that this answer would calm him down, you simply closed your eyes.

Gojo felt his legs give way under his weight. In order not to show it, he simply sat cross-legged on your breastbone. Somewhere in the background, far, far away, he heard his tiny little heart breaking. He didn't know why. He didn't understand. When others said they were seeing someone, he didn't give a damn; when his sex friends said they were ending things because they were getting into a relationship, he responded with a shrug.

"Do you love him...?" He asked quietly, not looking at your face. He was afraid of the answer, but his ego effectively suppressed that fear.

"Hmm.... No." You replied firmly almost immediately. The vague constriction in his throat disappeared as soon as he removed his hand, and his heart began to beat more calmly. Why? Feeling his unspoken question, you sighed. You felt the light weight of his body against your chest. "Before you ask, I've known him for years. We met on some now-defunct manga-fucker forum. We share common interests and general clumsiness in life." You smiled to yourself. "we slept together a few times and stuff."

"Is he good?"

"He is nice, helpful..."

"in bed."

"Oh... Um... I don't know?" You blushed slightly.

".... What do you mean you don't know?"

"eh heh... You know.... I get more aroused reading fanfiction and watching hentai than... I mean, it's not bad... Is it normal? Ordinary? Without fireworks?" Gojo looked at you as if you were speaking to him in a forgotten dialect of ancient Aramaic. You watched him as he sat between your breasts on the print of the T-shirt you were sleeping in, with a serious expression on his face. "Sex in a relationship is not everything and that's something you should know best. For you guys it's more like a biological need."

"And fun."

"Okay, and fun" You smiled slightly. This was the first time you had this kind of conversation with Gojo, or with anyone really. You didn't have many real-world friends that weren't somehow related to jujutsu.

"Why don't you know if you're his fiancée?" Satoru asked further, being unsure whether one is in a relationship or not is something he has encountered in his life. More times than he would admit. Women often conflated sex with a relationship and he was introduced as a "partner" without even knowing it. So yeah. Gojo understands that you might not be sure.

"About half a year ago he proposed to me with a KFC set. I will never say no to food. I treated the proposal as a joke and ate the chicken. But ever since then, um... His mother asks about grandchildren, his grandmother tells how much money she has set aside for him, and he says something about a prenuptial agreement." You were now looking at Gojo as if he could explain your maybe-boyfriend's behavior.

Gojo didn't know what to say. He wanted to laugh, but at the same time he was so shocked that he could only look at you in equal consternation. If this guy took your "yes" seriously, it was the laziest proposal in the history of mankind. You deserved more. A perfect sunset, a violinist, roses, candles, a week-long spa. Gojo may have been a little romantic, but only a little. At least that was in the movies he watched because what does he know about true love? He would sooner sink into the ground than propose to you with a KFC nugget.

"Have you talked to him about this?"

"Yes?" Seeing his look you continued, "He said he was serious."

...Oh.

"Did you correct him?"

"um..." So no.

"Why?"

"do I have to answer?" You have to. You sighed heavily and hid your eyes behind your hand feeling the sleepiness demanding that you go to sleep. But you knew that Gojo wouldn't let you. "I assume that we are all alone. You are born alone, you die alone, no one will live your life for you. You are alone in the bag of bones that is your body. Precisely because, at a fundamental level, we are all alone, people seek others. Some people pair up, others join groups, associations, sects. They look for answers in religion, science. And the truth is that.. we are alone. All together we are alone."

Gojo could write a doctorate with distinction on loneliness. From his perspective, at the top you are alone, while the others were together. But when you told him that everyone is alone at the bottom... Paradoxically, he felt less lonely.

"But I wouldn't mind being alone with you." You mumbled, placing your hand on his. Gojo practically clung to it, craving your touch, your warmth, your body. He was now lying on your sternum. He felt your heartbeat beneath, your warm breath moving the strands of his hair. His cat tail curled around your ring finger.

In addition to the determination to return to his normal size, another feeling appeared in his little heart. Treat this lame guy with Purple. Then buy you a kids' set at McDonald's.

He dreamed he was kneeling before you at an anime convention, you were wearing a sexy version of Agumon's outfit. You agree.

It was one of the few beautiful dreams he had recently.

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bro-atz · 8 months

Text

elevate [bro's 500 — jinsik]

[forced proximity, smut, ceo!au, jinsik/afab!reader]

requested by: 🎧

word count: 1.5k

content: smut, kissing, oral sex, hand job, blow job, completely consensual!

author's note: mmm yes i changed it from ceo to managing partner but close enough right? anyway enjoy

Jinsik had a huge crush on you. You were a powerful, independent woman who worked her ass off to become managing partner at your firm, and Jinsik found that incredibly hot. So hot, in fact, that he would always get super flustered whenever you entered the bullpen to check in with the paralegals.

Not only were you a badass, but you were also the sweetest human being (but could tear someone’s head off if need be), which just made you more and more desirable not just to Jinsik, but to everyone at the firm.

As much as Jinsik liked you, he couldn’t. For one thing, it was crazy that he, a lowly paralegal, could even dream about being with you, the high and mighty managing partner. The other thing was that you were not allowed to date within the firm. That was a big no-no, and one of the senior partners made that abundantly clear to him when he first joined the team. So, he just had to settle for appreciating from afar.

So, when he got stuck in the elevator with you, his brain was on fire, and his brain cells were sprinting around trying desperately to extinguish the fire.

You were beautiful that day with your tight blouse and gray pencil skirt that hugged your waist and hips just right. You had the cutest little scowl on your face as you pressed the help button over and over again, and Jinsik had to keep himself from staring before all of the blood in his body rushed straight down to his waist.

“Is this button not working or something?” you huffed angrily. Your tone then became gentle as you apologized with a slight laugh, “I’m so sorry, Jinsik… I’m sure you’d rather be out enjoying your night.”

“N-no, I was just g-going to go home and go over these c-case files,” Jinsik stuttered.

“Oh, which case are you working on?”

“T-the nuclear power plant m-meltdown…”

“Oh! That’s going to be a tough case. Do you have the files with you right now?”

Jinsik nodded rapidly before producing the manila folders from his bag. You accepted the folders from him and started leafing through the various documents, looking at his notes. Jinsik gulped nervously as your eyes darted back and forth on each piece of paper only to sharply inhale to keep himself together. You ran your fingers through your hair and brushed it back, and while it was something so simple, there was something about the way you did it that turned him on to the max. Doing his best to hide it, Jinsik covered his crotch with his bag and started to slink away from you while hoping and praying you wouldn’t notice his consternation.

“Jinsik, are you alright?”

Fuck, you noticed.

“Y-yeah, um, yes. I just, I just need to sit— No! I can’t sit! Fuck— Oh my God, I am so sorry for swearing in front of you— I’m just, I’m losing it, and—”

“Jinsik, calm down, please.”

How the fuck was he going to calm down when you kept saying his name with that honey voice of yours?

“No, I can’t— I mean, like, fuck— Oh shit— I’m so sorry! Fuck— Oh God, why am I doing this?!”

Jinsik looked ready to hyperventilate. You tried your best to calm the poor thing down and get him to breathe normally by placing a calming hand on his shoulder, but that was worse. That was so much worse. Physical contact with you was turning him on even more. Bad.

That’s when you finally noticed Jinsik pressing his bag against his waist so firmly, his knuckles white, and his hand shaking. Jinsik saw your eyes travel downwards, making him burst into flames. God, he was so embarrassed. He wanted the elevator to suddenly crash to the ground for the world to end or anything just for him to get out of this situation with any amount of his dignity left.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable, Jinsik?” you whispered while leaning closer to him, trying to get a look at exactly how far along he was.

“Y/N, I’m so, so, so sorry…”

“Don’t apologize, it’s only natural,” you told him gently while softly stroking his shoulder. “You must be so uncomfortable, though.”

“I— I am…”

“Let me help you since I don’t think we’re going to be out of this elevator anytime soon.”

“W-what?”

You dropped the files to the ground before reaching for Jinsik’s bag. He reluctantly let go of the bag and let you toss it to the ground as well. His hands were desperately trying to cover up his crotch, but you were having none of that. You moved his hands to the side and cupped his bulge, Jinsik’s eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head just at the feeling over his clothes.

“Y/N,” Jinsik said while breathing heavily the more you massaged his dick over his clothes. “Can I touch you?”

“Of course you can,” you responded while bringing your own body closer to his.

His hands slithered around your waist and he hugged you close, his body rolling against yours as his impatient hands groped your body here and there. He was still panting as he brought his lips mere millimeters from yours, teasing you slightly as he tilted his head as if he was going to kiss you.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes please.”

With one hand on the back of his neck, your lips met his, your own body now trembling with excitement. You unbuckled his pants and undid his fly before diving your hand down his underwear and producing his hot, throbbing cock. Your fingers ran up and down the length of his dick, your nails tickling the tip as you continued to lock lips with him. Jinsik moved his hand so one was grabbing your hair and messing it up like anything while his other hand strayed to your ass and gripped it while pulling upwards.

A moan left Jinsik’s throat when you began to stroke him properly, his pre-cum allowing your hand to glide up and down with ease. You stroked him slowly as he moved his hands to your blouse, unbuttoning it and pushing your bra upwards so he could firmly massage your breasts, making you groan into his mouth when you felt his fingers twist and play with your nipples.

The friction from your hand and his cock made him feel like his entire body was on fire, and he wanted to release his load, but he wasn’t quite there yet. You knew that too, which is why you ended your intense make-out session and sank to your knees. Jinsik watched with shock and complete and utter lust as you took him into your mouth slowly until your lips were pressed right against his pelvis.

You quietly gagged as you moved your head slightly from the base of his cock to a little away from him over and over again. You only gagged louder when Jinsik ran his fingers through the roots of your hair and gripped tightly, moving your head at the pace he wanted.

“Yes, oh wow… Just like that… Mmm, fuck!”

Jinsik’s groans and sighs filled the elevator as you throat-fucked him. When he bucked his hips towards you, he swore quietly under his breath, the profanities not stopping. You held onto his thighs and dug your nails into the cloth covering his thighs, but your nails were still leaving tiny little crescents that he could feel on his skin, stimulating him further.

He was about to pull out of your mouth and release his load onto your face when he suddenly remembered that there would be no way for him to clean you or anything up for that matter unless one of you decided to forego a piece of your clothing. He was struggling to hold his orgasm until he could figure out exactly what to do, and before he knew it, ropes of his cum shot to the back of your throat. His dick throbbed and twitched in your mouth as he came harder than he ever had before, embarrassment washing over him once more.

The embarrassment only piled on when he looked down at you to see you arching your back and looking up at him with wide eyes, his cock still fully in your mouth. He covered his mouth and bit back a gasp when you swallowed the entire pool of his cum. His cock was starting to get hard again, but thankfully, it immediately went limp when the elevator speakers went off.

“Hello?! Are you still stuck in the elevator?”

You released Jinsik’s cock and wiped the residue from your lips and chin before standing up and walking to the intercom.

“Yes, we are. Took you long enough.”

“My apologies, ma’am. We’ll get you out of there as soon as possible. Hang tight.”

Jinsik, meanwhile, had dressed himself, his face still a light shade of red. It only got redder when you fully turned towards him and began straightening out your own clothes, giving him a beautiful, brief view of your breasts before you fixed your bra.

“Fuck, Y/N…” Jinsik whispered. “I need more of you…”

A slight smirk appeared on your face. You walked up to him and pressed your chest against his as your fingers worked on the buttons of your blouse. You brought your lips to his ear.

“Let’s get out of this elevator, and I’ll let you do whatever you want with me tonight.”

bro's 500 event | bro's 500 event masterlist

bro's 500 taglist: @eyeryis @sinnarols @nakiiko @haebaragisworld @hyukssunflower @aaasia111 @k-hotchoisan

apply for the taglist here!

#xikers #xikers jinsik #ham jinsik #jinsik smut #jinsik x reader #ham jinsik xikers #jinsik xikers #broatz #bro's 500 event #Spotify

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heliopauseentertainments · 5 months

Text

Solar Flare

Now a complete 92k word novel. Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Megatron/Rodimus, one-sided Starscream/Rodimus, Megatron & Starscream, background relationships

Major Characters: Megatron, Rodimus, Starscream, Zeta Prime, Ratchet

Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of VIolence, Blood & Gore, Serious Injuries, Weddings, Suggestive Themes, Horror Elements (I.E. Horror of the Divine), Reincarnation, Ambiguous Relationships, One-Sided Relationships. Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags. AU: Canon Divergence, Gods/goddesses, Early War

Summary: "To destroy a corrupt system, we must first destroy its gods, starting with this one." In which Megatron makes a mistake by sparing Rodimus, the Prime of the Sun.

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth

Note: inspired by this art piece on Tumblr.

1st chapter under cut; the full length is on AO3.

"To destroy a corrupt system, we must first destroy its gods, starting with this one."

Megatron, at first, had been so sure of his words as he pointed at the red and yellow mech across the hall, bedecked in jewelry and silk.

The ornate metal doors that had blocked off the throne room laid crumpled on the polished marble floor under his feet, a testament to the temple’s weakness against real resistance.

In his initial planning, after storming the Temple of the Sun in Nyon, he had thought killing a false god would be the easy part. Especially since this Prime did not have a Lord Protector, no zealous paladin dedicated to defending his worthless spark, Megatron had assumed that there would simply be one less obstacle to his goal.

The defenses had been minimal. Pathetic guards ran screaming for their lives after the mundane frontal assault on the main reinforced doors. There had been no point in giving chase, so Megatron had ordered his soldiers to let them flee. Better to have terrified survivors tell the tale, whereas dead mechs couldn’t spread word of change.

If the other Primal temples were built like this one with pitiful security, their job would be a lot simpler. Megatron doubted that would be the case, but he had also doubted this push would have gone so smoothly.

Now he watched as Primal acolytes pulled on the Prime’s arms and hands, trying in vain to tug him to safety, wherever that might be found, far away from the armed intruders.

The Prime shook them off with an undignified curse before marching unhindered towards Megatron, whom he’d fixed with a glare. Not one of anger, no, one of being inconvenienced.

“What are you doing in my house? You’re freaking out my dudes!”

What.

Megatron wasn’t often taken aback, but it appeared today had yet more surprises in store for him than a suspiciously easy siege.

He had just blasted through reinforced doors with his mechs, neutralized several guards with nary a fatality, and kicked down the door to the sacred throne room where the Prime was expected to waste away his days in luxury and splendor. Yet this… this garish half-pint approached him, fine brocades and bangles swaying with the motion, with neither fear nor hesitation.

Megatron hadn’t been prepared for this.

He had been prepared for the pampered brat cowering on the beautiful, shining marble, begging for his miserable, privileged life. He had been prepared to mercilessly terminate that wastrel with a fusion cannon blast, right through the spark and through that stupid Matrix.

Just as soon as Megatron tired of the sniveling, of course.

Consternation on his face, he powered down his cannon with a soft whir as it was lowered to his side.

“Excuse me?”

The Prime planted his hands on his hips, the bejeweled and festooned fins of his spoiler tilted upward in bold defiance.

"You heard me, bolt brain."

Now that wasn't a very godly thing to say at all. What were they teaching these high-caste deadbeats these days? Insults like that were what Megatron would have expected from an overcharged cadet at a seedy spaceport, not the alleged reincarnation of Solus Prime.

For all the supposed elegance and grace of a Prime, especially the Prime of the Sun, this was a smart-mouthed little punk.

This wasn't remotely what had been expected.

Megatron scowled down at the mech who dared call himself a god.

With a wave of his arm, some of his lollygagging soldiers dispatched towards the back of the throne room to seize fleeing acolytes.

"Don't you realize what's happening here?" Megatron asked, staring right back into the defiant, burning blue gaze. "Are you really that brave or are you just foolish?"

"Oh, yeah, I know what's happening.”

Megatron sincerely doubted that, but better to hear what nonsense this unknowingly condemned moron could come up with. Maybe it would be amusing.

“You're being a total spike right now, bursting in unannounced and trashing my house like one of those medical academy parties they show on the holonet. Wreck your own house!"

Not nearly as amusing as Megatron had hoped.

What in the damned hell was this punk talking about?

No wonder this one had no Lord Protector. Who would tolerate this? Shooting him now would do the world a favor. Making a political statement at this point would be a bonus.

"Didn't your caretakers teach you any manners? Rude." Well, Terminus had tried but…. That was hardly the point. The sheer impertinence of this idiot who had no idea he was about to have a hole put through his spark at point-blank range by a fusion cannon.

"I'm about to kill you and you're upset by my lack of aristocratic manners?"

Manners hadn’t really mattered much where he came from, the predominantly manual-class and disposable-class underground city of Tarn, in the various mines where he’d labored in dangerous conditions for ages, or in the black-market pop-up gladiatorial arenas of Kaon. He had never had use for such niceties and this punk was upset that he wasn’t holding out his little finger while seizing the Primal temple.

Ridiculous.

What next? Did he expect Megatron to use a napkin when painting the floor with the Prime’s slowly dimming lifeblood?

Despite the situation and his rapidly approaching final moment, the Prime relaxed slightly, seeming to consider the contradiction now that it had been pointed out, rubbing his chin all the while.

"I suppose when you put it like that, but only a Prime can kill a Prime so like do whatever—Hey! Wait!"

The hand rubbing his chin abandoned its work to point squarely at Megatron's nose.

"I know you! You're that lunatic that got Kaon blown to slag!"

That was it; they were done here. He had tired of this highborn simpleton’s antics.

“Enough!” Megatron bellowed, smacking that accusing point away with the back of his hand. “I don’t have time for your inane blathering!”

“Hey, rude—“

“Seize him!”

Mechs surged forth, several making grabs for the Prime’s limbs.

The Prime struggled, swearing as he strove to free himself of unwelcome hands. He kicked and punched, denting plate. More than a few titanium teeth from Decepticon mouths pinged against the floor after being knocked out.

Flatline would be rather busy later patching up these morons, Megatron thought, intrigued by just how much of a fight this pampered fool was putting up.

The struggle went on until the soldiers managed to immobilize the Prime’s limbs, removing any space for him to get in another good swing.

"Might I suggest something?" A high-pitched voice piped up behind Megatron’s back, persuasively smooth with all the owner’s public speaking practice despite the underlying tinny screech.

"You may not, but you'll do it regardless of my permission, so out with it, Starscream. Let’s get your suggestion over with."

Starscream stalked closer and began to circle the restrained Prime, as though inspecting a new, expensive purchase. His thrusters clicked haughtily against the smooth floor with every step.

"Rather than immediately dispatch this 'god,' why not simply keep him prisoner?"

"What purpose would that possibly serve?" What a waste of precious fuel and man-hours that could be better allocated elsewhere. Why take on the unnecessary responsibility of babysitting?

"Well, would not a new mech simply be chosen as a puppet to take their place? A supposed reincarnation plucked from a hot spot like a shining miracle in the dark night. The Senate and their drooling lackeys will rally around the divine newspark, stir up the people's faith, and so on and so forth. Keep him alive and that little problem just solves itself, doesn't it?"

Starscream had always had an optic for political nuance, even if Megatron often discarded it in the name of idealogical stringency. He generally felt his time was better spent not playing those games. Direct action tended to suit his purposes far better.

“What of the Matrix?” Megatron asked, gesturing with his thumb at the Prime’s chest. Each Prime had one, bestowed upon them by the priesthood that served their predecessor. Relics passed down between supposed incarnations, a symbol of divinity. Turning that worthless relic into a profane trophy of scrap that would almost as profoundly undermine the blind faith of the populace as actually murdering one of their so-called “gods.”

Megatron tapped his finger against his chin in thought.

“Would not destroying the Matrix render the point moot?” A new god couldn’t be reformatted without it, right? At least, not as far as he knew. The whole thing was rustwash anyway, but that was the official narrative.

Starscream scoffed, waving a hand flippantly at the very idea as he continued to circle the immobilized Prime. His wings fluttered with interest, a behavior Megatron had seen his second-in -command perform on several occasions when he wanted something.

Something about this useless creature had caught Starscream’s attention. That would need to be ironed out later.

“Please. They probably keep a bunch of them in the basement or in a bunker somewhere or something. You break one, someone steals a backup and claims it’s the real thing, safely defended from our destructive irreverence. You get accused of having destroyed a fake one for publicity and the whole ‘message’ you want to send crumbles in shame. You know how it is with these ‘relics.’ A shanix a dozen. Best keep this one as ‘proof’ for now.”

A broad, knowing grin stretched across Starscream’s face, shining with implication.

“And, after all, you can only have the fun of killing him once.”

He hated that Starscream had a point—several, in fact. Telling the seeker so, however, would just cause more problems—the overinflated ego sort—down the line.

Megatron would settle for a simple acknowledgment as he leaned down to get a better look at this bedighted speedster.

The Prime was practically encrusted with jewels and precious metals in the form of ornate jewelry, brocaded mesh draped luxuriously over the fins of his spoiler. Feet planted firmly on the ground, the Prime glared defiantly back up at his captor. In any other situation, Megatron would have thought him a beauty to behold, but now the red mech was just a symbol of resources squandered on mere opulence.

The sight disgusted him or… it should have.

“Very well, Starscream.”

Megatron heaved a tired sigh.

“I haven’t decided what his fate will be just yet,” he said, straightening back up. “Lock him up somewhere. I don’t care where. It doesn’t matter. Just get him out of my sight.”

A few of his mechs hesitated, the ones holding the arms and shoulders of acolytes, as though they weren’t sure what to do with their prisoners. Megatron sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stood back up. Did he have to spell out everything for these idiots?

“The cultists too! Just go!”

Finally.

The throne room was at peace without that Prime spitting and screaming, now that the brat had been hauled off somewhere in the temple complex, preferably kept under lock and guard.

With the quiet, Megatron could finally get a look around, take stock of the damage and what exactly they had just conquered. This place held many, many valuable resources that they could utilize, either directly or by fencing the goods. Furthermore, he’d gotten it all for the low price of a few explosives, a couple of boot-licking lives, and inadvertent custody a very rude little “god.”

He would figure out what to do with that brat later.

Megatron took a long and slow ventilation before approaching the now abandoned, golden throne at the far end of the room. It glittered in the warm yellow-orange light from the lamps. An impression of the sun was embossed into the high back of the throne and again, smaller, on the arms and seat. It was almost too small, hardly having room for the treads on his back. It was made for more regal frames than his own, intended for heavy industrial work below ground.

The soldiers that still lingered in the room, along with his few lieutenants that had accompanied him, watched in silence.

“We will reinforce the Temple of the Sun, make it an impregnable fortress,” he said, sitting and relaxing into the Primal throne. He supposedly “desecrated” it merely by touch, let alone smearing it with spilled energon and oil from fighting his way through the temple. A shame some of that shed fuel didn’t belong to the previous occupant of this glorified chair.

No matter. It belonged to him now.

From here, it was a short step to de facto controlling the city of Nyon and its weak council.

“With a little work, it’ll make a fine base.” The first, in fact, unless one counted the ruins of Kaon, the last city he and his forces held, he thought, caressing one of the cushioned arms of the throne. After Senate forces bombed the city from the surface of Cybertron, the revolutionaries were forced underground.

Megatron gestured for his lieutenants to approach.

Starscream strode forward, an impatient twitch to his wings and several complaints no doubt already at the tip of his tongue. He still looked smug from his earlier “victory” in changing Megatron’s plans. In stark contrast, Soundwave, ever the professional, simply walked and waited in inscrutable silence for his orders.

"Now, as you know, the Senate is de facto independent, even if they nominally operate under the First Prime in Iacon. They serve no gods but themselves,” Megatron began, “we need to work quickly to fortify our position here. We have some time because they need to calculate the political risk of assaulting Nyon."

They could make good use of this place if they were quick, before the Senate could retaliate for the revolutionaries’ transgressions against the gods. Nyon, however, had one beautiful advantage that Kaon did not: a Primal temple. Even they would hesitate to simply annihilate a sacred location, no matter who held it. Not because they believed, but because the face they would lose with the public would be incalculable.

Megatron smirked, getting comfortable in the stolen throne. Just sitting here was daring the Senate to do something self-destructive and drastic. It was perfect.

Starscream opened his mouth, probably to object, but before he could get words out, he was cut off by a finger pointed in his direction.

“Organize the fortification efforts and recall Shockwave to our new position. Soundwave—“ The blue mech straightened up further to show he was giving his leader his undivided attention. “Round up and contain the remainder of the priesthood. We’re moving in. Once you’ve done that, turn your attention to following the newsfeeds. I want to know the nanoklik Iacon thinks about making a move.”

With a nod, the Soundwave turned on his heel to carry out the command.

Now he just needed to figure out what to do with the blasted Prime of the Sun. Throttling him was unfortunately off the table, for today at least.

Starscream loudly cleared his vocalizer, apparently having something else to say before getting on with his duties.

“What is it now, Starscream?”

“Well, if I may, I have a potential solution to your little Prime problem,” he started, still beaming. It was as though he had guessed Megatron’s thoughts.

“One that could legitimize our position here.”

“I’m listening.” Begrudgingly, but he would hear Starscream out. Might as well.

Megatron narrowed his optics but said nothing as he leaned his face on a raised fist. The seeker took that as permission to continue, a slippery grin stretching across the smooth metal of his face.

“What do you think of the title of Lord Protector? ‘Lord Megatron’ has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

#fic #chapter fic #fic solar flare #maccadam #idw1 #megarod #megatron #rodimus #starscream

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