#that was very. hm. scuffed.

[duckduckngoose]

Session 0 of new DND group complete,,,, taking 10 hour nap now goodnight

[pixeldotgamer]

The Vograce order is in!! (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ We got stickers, charms, and prints! It's so fun to have some physical Pixel and BB merch :D

[runa-falls]

I saw that you think Miguel is a thigh man 😩 can I request him x reader who's thighs clap when they run or so some type of activities. I got that problem sadly 😵‍💫😮‍💨

yes, of course!! i love talking ab our thigh fucker ;^)

cw: body insecurities, thigh chafing (yeouch), fluffy reassurances, small bit of smut (OK IM SORRY 😳 i didn't see that coming [yes i did.]), just oral and uh, a bit of marking, not proof read!!

---

you've never enjoyed prolonged physical activity: running, swimming, biking, etc, because you hated the way your thighs would slide against each other; uncomfortably chafing your skin and making noticeable sounds.

so when miguel proposed a hike for your weekly date, you were hesitant to agree. unfortunately, he's very good at persuading you...

that's how you found yourself on a narrow trial shrouded with trees, taking slow, cautious steps as you attempt to keep your thighs from touching as much as usual.

of course, it only helped so much. your inner thighs were still chafing and getting sore, but you try to conceal your pain as much as possible, too embarrassed to mention anything to miguel.

though your boyfriend is the most loving and accepting man you've ever met, you still haven't told him of your insecurity. you're afraid that once you mention something to him, he'll notice your thighs even more.

miguel is pacing himself, making sure to slow down with you so he doesn't leave you behind (he does this hike all the time). he adjusts his baseball cap, making sure his wild curls are smooshed down as he watches you walk toward him.

you look beautiful today. you always look beautiful. but there's something about see you in this condition that make him twitch in his shorts.

he loves the way your chest heaves as you take deep breaths, your tits pressing desperately against the thin fabric. how droplets of sweat roll over the contours of your cleavage, outlining what he wants to see the most. and how your leggings look like they were painted on, completely revealing the overwhelming softness of your thighs and how they press so sweetly together.

he can barely take his eyes off of you.

but he can't help but notice how odd you're acting too.

he's perplexed as to why you're taking such big steps and moving like you'd rather be anywhere but there, with him. why your face is tense, yet completely blank at the same time.

there's clearly something wrong, but you've been silent this whole hike.

"baby, you doing alright?" you seem to be lost in your thoughts as you stare down at your dirt-scuffed sneakers, you don't even notice he's stopped in front of you. he calls out to you again, "babe?"

"hm?" you look up, pausing your unnatural movements to give your legs a rest, "oh, yeah...i'm fine" you attempt a smile, but even you can tell it looks fake and performative. his eyes bloom with concern as he notices how your legs are shaking under you.

"what's going on, sweetheart? are you hurt?"

"no...it's just," you look away, still apprehensive to mention anything.

he pushes, hand reaching for yours, "just what?"

"i-my thighs are chafing..." you say softly, looking back at him. he's frowning. "b-but i can keep going!" you start walking again, willing yourself to continue even though it hurts.

"baby, wait," he stops you, "don't hurt yourself. i didn't realize you were having trouble this whole time."

you shrug, "it's ok, i'm used to it."

"sweetheart, come here." he has his back turned towards you, coaxing you over to him. "get on."

"get on?"

"i'll carry you back to the car."

"no! you don't have to--"

"i want to." he interrupts, "then when we get home, we'll take a nice bath and get you all patched up."

"what about the rest of the trail?"

"we can just get our work out in at home..."

---

you sigh as warm water washes over the inflamed skin of your inner thighs. it stings sharply, but the pain feels oddly satisfying, especially as miguel thoroughly lathers shampoo in your hair.

"feel better?"

you hum, eyes closing as his fingers attentively massage your scalp.

"why didn't you tell me that you were hurting earlier?"

"i dunno, it just wasn't that big of a deal, mig."

"it was. you were barely able to sit without your hands between your thighs."

you snort, "i thought you liked it when i do that."

you yelp when you feel him tug sharply at your hair. "you know what i meant." he growled, clearly unhappy you're trying to avoid the subject.

"it's embarrassing."

"what's embarrassing?" his hands start to cup water onto your head, washing the suds from your hair until you're squeaky clean.

"my thighs." his movements stop suddenly.

"what about them?"

"they're...too big."

"too big?" he genuinely sounds baffled, almost scoffing in disbelief.

"yeah, they're always touching and they make this...clapping sound when i do certain physical movements..."

"so?"

"so?" you turn your head to look at him, questioning eyes meeting his scarlet stare. his red irises are mere slivers with how blown out his pupils are, heavy with lust.

"yeah, so what?"

"so...i don't like them." you voice is small as you look at him shyly, cheeks blooming with heat under the stringiness of your wet hair.

"well i love them."

---

miguel presses gentle and sweet kisses over your tender skin, relieving all the pain from your chafed inner thighs with just a touch of his lips. your legs are hooked over his shoulders as he makes his way up your body.

the prominent shape of his fangs press against his top lip as his sharp maroon stare fixes right at the apex of your thighs. you can tell he's holding himself back by the way his fingers grip bruises into the tops of your legs.

"baby, you have no idea," he takes a deep breath, eyes closed as his nose nuzzles at your inner thigh, "how fucking perfect you are."

"mig, please!"

he smiles cloyingly, letting you watch his fangs retract before he dips his head closer to your center. he wouldn't want to hurt you...

he locks eyes with you when he experimentally slips his tongue through your soaking lips, only giving you enough attention to keep you buzzing. he's delicately laving against you, feeling you tense and pant under him as he slowly builds up your pleasure.

a haze of lust instantly clouds over his darkened eyes and you watch as he gets lost in the taste of you. he pushes in deeper, tongue fucking you, slurping and sucking, while spilling muffled groans over your pulsing cunt as your thighs begin to tighten around him.

he flicks over your aching clit, drinking in your whimpers, moans, and cries as he teases you, pulling back every so often until you bury your hand into his curls and force him down onto you.

you're nearly suffocating him with your thighs when he start suckling you into his mouth, muscles trembling against him as you grow closer to the edge, and he loves it.

his silky lips and slick tongue push you straight off the edge. you hold on to him as your body writhes with white hot pleasure, hand in his hair and thighs around his head. you can barely hear the muffled groans he makes from how lost in ecstasy you are.

but he groans, and grunts, and then freezes.

"did i just..." he unwraps your legs from around him and sits up, tugging his briefs down in disbelief. your bleary eyes open, eyes glazed and unfocused from the intensity of your orgasm. "shit."

you look down and are graced with a beautiful mess that drips from his cock and the black fabric of his boxers.

you can't help the amused smile that spreads over your lips, "you need some help cleaning that up?"

[ikinremu]

I don’t know if your still doing story rqs or not but I would love a possessive!tommy shelby x innocent!reader.

idea: thomas saw a guy flirting with reader but was to innocent to know it, or notice it—reader does know about sex and other shit, just didn’t really understand it.

Hi anon! Tysm for requesting, hope you enjoy! Also, just to let everyone know that if you have requested, I will be working on it I’m just working through a lot of requests atm so bear with me!! <3

My Property

Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader

! Smut Warning !

Tags: Innocence, Virgin!reader, Fingering, Unprotected sex, P in V, Multiple orgasms, Praise, Possessive/jealousy, Praise, Cream Pie

"What can I getcha, miss?" Came the low, hoarse voice of the bartender, burnt cigarette faltering in his mouth.

"An Old Fashioned, please." You smiled politely, shuffling a little atop the rickety old stood, resting your hands upon the bar's scuffed surface.

The man returned the smile, accompanied by a nod of understanding. His gaze seemed to linger on your face for a moment, fingers swiping the cigarette from between his lips. His eyes never once faltered from your own as his mouth puffed out a cloud of foggy smoke, and he stubbed it out on a nearby ashtray accordingly.

"Rough day?" He inquired, the broad span of his back facing you as he reached over the bar's vast array of contents, seizing whichever components he needed.

"Not particularly, no." You smiled.

"Just figured somethin' had to bring a beautiful woman like you 'ere." He spun to face you once more, laying all intent to the way he studied your expression. He leant forward quite the distance, pouring out your requested drink, gaze never leaving yours.

His words caught you rather off guard, making you stumble over your own slightly, "Oh- um, just fancied a drink, I suppose."

At that, he slid the glass into your open hands, "Here you are."

"Thank you." You gave a honey-like smile, raising the glass to your lips.

As you did so, the man turned once more, slotting the previously retrieved bottles back into their correct places. Glass clinked together, and one particularly large bottle slipped from the shelf, just barely saved from smashing by his splayed hands.

He let out an exhale of relief as he seized the bottle, assuring it remained firmly in place this time.

"That's not like me." He chuckled to himself, pivoting back round in your direction, "I'm usually good with my hands."

He followed the sentence with an obnoxiously bold wink, which you unknowingly ignored, allowing it to fly right by.

There was a moment of drawn out silence as you nodded politely in response, "Well I'd hope so in a job like this."

His brows creased ever so slightly, and he cleared his throat once more.

"Guess I must've been.. distracted." He accentuated the very last word, wetting his lips. You felt his eyes roam over your entirety, lingering over your chest specifically.

With a small nod, you indulged in another sip from your drink, brows furrowed slightly. You could feel his gaze trained upon your mouth as your lips met the top of the glass.

It only then became apparent that you ought to return to your table - you'd become entirely too caught up with polite conversation.

"I best get back." You smiled, hand cupping your beverage as you shuffled atop your barstool. 

His disappointment was blatant, "Leavin' so soon?"

Your gaze spun back to the table you'd been at until only recently. John and Arthur were cackling about God knows what, and Tommy sat beside, smirking, although it appeared he was a little more focused on yourself than the accompaniment of his chortling brothers.

"Ah, I see." He observed, voice a low rumble as your swivelled back toward him, "They seem like they're coping." He chuckled, "Maybe I can convince you to ditch them for the night, hm?"

"No need for that." Tommy's voice cut through like a blade from behind you, making you jump out of your skin for a brief moment. He stepped close beside you, the scrutiny of his stare channelled upon nothing but the bartender.

An obvious, frustrated exhale escaped the man, "I think the lady can make up her own mind, don't you?"

From the very corner of your eye, you observed the tight tick of his jaw.

"Listen, darlin, if you want a good time you know where to find me."  He bargained on.

Irritation painted Tommy's face - although you couldn't quite resolve the puzzle as to why he was so agitated by the man offering you company; he seemed nice enough.

He was practically glaring at the bartender by now, his eyes struggling to leave as he nodded in the loose direction away from the counter, signalling the pair of you should make your way back.

As you hopped off the rickety, wooden stool, your eyes travelled back and forth between the two men, "Uh, thank you for the company." You offered a sweet - more so polite - smile, followed shortly by yourself and Tommy heading back.

"I think we should leave." He spoke, monotone as ever, "Arthur and John will be fine."

It was as though he knew you'd ask of them.

It wasn't particularly late, however you didn't fancy bargaining and in all honesty, you had no problem with leaving early.

Tommy's hand planted suddenly upon the small of your back, guiding the pair of you to exit out into the cool evening air.

A chill whisked over your face as you walked, "I don't understand why you're so upset."

"I'm not upset." He exhaled as the both of you ambled into the familiar, locked door of the betting office.

"Well, judging by the way you're jamming that poor key into the lock, I'd say otherwise." You mumbled, stood uncomfortably beside him, watching as he forced the key over until the lock finally clicked, turning it and shoving the door open, "You looked like you wanted to throttle that bartender."

He let out a scoff,  raising a brow a little as he turned to face you specifically, shutting the door the very moment you strode inside.

"I thought he seemed nice.." You uttered, accompanied by a genuine sense of confusion, "Friendly."

Tommy's eyes flickered across your face, from feature to feature; practically drinking you in, "You weren't gonna entertain the bastard, were you?"

You simply furrowed a brow, "What do you mean?"

He wet his lips, another blatant sigh escaping him, "Clearly thinks he was in with a chance, I don't want you doin' something you'll come to regret, eh?"

Somehow, his words were rather sudden to your ears, and it was a secret to no one that you were confused.

"He was gonna use you to get off, we both know you deserve more than that, don't you?" He leaned in a little as the words floated from his lips, the heat of his breath caressing your skin.

Your breath caught in your throat, hitching at the utter proximity of it all, and his hand found your waist suddenly. You were stunned, losing a single, soft gasp upon the feeling of the possessive squeeze he offered.

"Tell me you want this." His mouth mumbled, a mere inch from your ear.

An ambush of butterflies fluttered through your stomach, and you just couldn't deny his words, "..I want this."

"That's right, my fuckin' girl." Tommy grumbled, snaking a callous hand beneath your skirt, sliding slowly up your thigh, "Mine to touch, eh?"

A shiver coursed down your spine; intoxicated by the way he looked at you with such possession. Greedily, his fingers splayed over your thigh, inching nearer and nearer to the place you were most sensitive.

Your teeth sunk into the pillow of your bottom lip as one single, gentle finger brushed over your silken underwear.

"Acting so innocent, but you're fucking soaked." Tommy chuckled, beginning to trace subtle circles around your clit through the material, "Needy, eh?"

The way his fingers moved felt unbelievable, like nothing you'd ever experienced before. It was entirely new, and you didn't want it to end.

As though reacting to the unfamiliar sensations, your back hollowed an arch from the door, drenched cunt pressing against the motions of his hand, drawing a chuckle from his lips.

"Feels good, hm?" He taunted, lips curving into a prideful smirk as his digits crept beneath your underwear, hooking the silk hand and tugging it aside quickly.

A loud, breathy sound left your mouth as his fingertips came in contact with your bare, sensitive pussy.

"You want more, love?" He raised a brow, aware and deliberate of the question he knew the answer to, the strain of his own arousal increasing as he watched the way your face twisted in pleasure.

You nodded, "Mhm."

Tommy trailed his touch down your soaked cunt, pulling yet another gasp from your lips as he slipped one finger between your folds. You cursed under your breath, unable to resist as he slid a single, skilful finger inside you.

He watched your eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed and pouring heavy breaths. Your cunt twitched around him as he so slowly slipped another finger beside the first.

"That's it, fucking feel it, eh?" He whispered, voice low and raspy.

Easing in, Tommy began to move his grouped digits inside you, reaching a spot so sensitive it was made simply impossible to restrain your whine.

"Oh fuck.."

"Look at that sweet little cunt squeezing my fingers.." He breathed, "Mine."

Your arousal further soaked his hand as his fingers thrust at a tortuous pace, finally beginning to quicken, gaze focused solely on yours; the way in which you reacted.

The warm, though rough, pad of his thumb pressed itself to the swell of your clit, toying with the pressure as his digits moved faster, curling and pumping in and out in a way that had your chest heaving.

"Please.." You murmured. You weren't at all accustomed to this new feeling, rather like a knot building in your stomach.

"I know, love," Tommy encouraged, "You like the way my fingers fuck that tight little cunt, hm?" He smiled, only further fuelled by the sight of you losing composure at his touch, "Come for me."

His words snapped the tightly-wound knot in your stomach, and a wave of intense pleasure stormed  your entirety - no trace of mercy.

Tommy's hand didn't halt, maintaining his pace as you came undone, guiding you through the release.

Your thighs trembled desperately around him, the feeling dying down, an air of euphoria about you.

Slipping his fingers from the heat of your pussy, he pressed his forehead against your own, eyes flickering and locking onto yours. Finally, his mouth connected with yours, lips soft and warm - enticing your body to the feel of his as he deepened the kiss. His hands gripped at your waist, stumbling back without shattering the embrace, the pair of you shuffling into the centre of the betting office.

The kiss grew hungrier by the second, his tongue gliding between your lips, he assisted you in perching atop his - usefully - wellkept desk. His hand snaked a path between your weakened thighs, parting them.

As you moved your mouth desperately against his, you felt the movements of his dark, certainly costly trousers being unclasped, followed immediately by the sound of fabric crumpling. He tore back from the kiss, breathing ever so heavily as he wrapped his fist tightly around his cock, throbbing against his palm.

"Going to let me ruin that sweet fucking cunt, aren't you?" He grumbled, to which you gave a delicate nod.  "Ready?"

The subject of your gaze switched, roaming downward to the sight. Tommy's large, veiny hand grasping his erection. To say you couldn't quite process it would be a vast understatement.

"Yes." You nodded, fingertips digging firmly into the desk as he stood before you. He lined up the thick, pulsing head of his cock with your sopping entrance, one hand planted loosely to the small of your back.

With a low, hoarse sounding groan, he slid inside the warmth of your cunt. At a volume you hadn't yet reached, you gasped, adjusting to the feel of him inside you, a sharp moan rolling off your tongue.

"Fucking hell," He exhaled, "You feel incredible."

His cock twitched within you, your hands instinctively flying to the broad of his back for support. Tommy pulled his hips back, then forward, thrusting so very slowly into you as floods of soft whimpers fled your throat.

"You're mine, eh?" He groaned, controlling his hips at a divine pace, "And I take care of what belongs to me."

Clutching helplessly onto his waist-coat clad shoulders, your breaths grew shallower and far more frantic as he picked up the pace. The desk wavered beneath your bodies, suffering from the impact of the pair of you working with one and other.

"My property." He whispered, bare hips bucking hungrily against yours, as though a craving overcame him. "No one touches my property."

A shiver shot down your spine, pussy squeezing greedily at his length, his cock reaching perfectly deep.

"Fuck.." You practically heaved out, unable to prevent your whimpers as his tip struck repeatedly against your g-spot.

"That's it." Tommy praised, bright eyes rolling back for the span of one brief moment as he slammed his hips against yours, "You take my cock so well.."

Your cunt soaked his cock further as it stroked back and forth at a fulfilling pace, room swarmed with the sound of skin colliding and frantic breathing.

The thick, pulsing head of his cock struck repeatedly against your g-spot as his pace fell sloppier, clearly losing composure as you squeezed him.

"Fuck.." He grumbled, "So good."

Fingertips digging into his lower back, you felt Tommy tremor beneath your touch, his hips bucking with far less control. Once more, his fingers crept toward the heat of your pussy, pressing the perfect level of pressure to your clit.

A newly familiar sensation began to build in your stomach, bringing your teeth to bite down on your lower lip; overwhelmed by the combined feelings of Tommy’s thrusts working with his fingers to bring you closer to a second release.

“Shit,” He groaned, “Gonna fill up that sweet fuckin’ cunt, hm?”

“So good.. Please..” You practically babbled out, mouth falling open with a breathy moan.

Abruptly, the very same tidal wave of pleasure washed over your body, although far more intense this time. Your soaked, overstimulated cunt twitched around his deep, pulsing cock.

“That’s it.” He encouraged, jolting his hips at a divine pace as he fucked you through the release, feeling your nails push down against his waist-coat.

Eyelids fluttering over his eyes, Tommy slipped a raspy, broken groan. A spurt of warmth filled you suddenly, pooling within your drenched pussy as he breathed heavily. The pair of you struggled to catch your breath.

He stroked one warm, callous palm over your cheek ever so softly, though contrasted with possession, “Mine to ruin, eh?”

Thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed! As I said, I’m working through a lot of requests so thank you for your patience if you’ve sent one in <3

[redflagshipwriter]

Mamabat Chapter 11: the trap snaps shut

masterpost

Five vans peeled into view, rocketing around the curved road fast enough that they visibly tilted through the turn. They all bristled with weaponry.

Cass felt her lips press into a faint line. She glanced at Dannybaby: scared. I knew it. Here they are.

They didn’t have to talk about it. The three adults stepped out and put their backs to ring Danny, facing outwards to the threat.

“Shoot the racks,” she commanded. The mounted weapons. She didn’t like that. She pulled out a batarang herself and squinted to find her aim. The construction? Sloppy. Exposed wires. Weakness.

A gun cocked. “Aye aye, captain.” Jason hefted a gun in each hand and started shooting as the vans screeched to a stop in a circle around them. Bang! Sparks flew where he hit. Cass and Dickiebird did the same with quieter precision, slicing wires and leaving projectiles sticking into the metal monstrosities. Electricity sparked. Just in time: machines whined as they were powered on. One gave out with a huge bang!  The van attached to it jolted as the machine punched a huge dent into the roof. White smoke floated away, clouding the nighttime scene with a chemical stink.

“Whoa,” Danny breathed.

She felt a twinge of satisfaction.

Jason hit the last set-up with a bang! Bang! Then his foot scuffed across the pavement to knock against Danny’s. Check, you’re here, you’re safe, you’re little.

“They’ll come out!” Danny warned.

He was right. Doors clicked unlocked all around them and men in white suits piled out, futuristic looking guns aimed at the little group. 

She felt a twinge of disbelief. “Can’t shoot,” Cass said. No way. So dumb. They were in a circle. Friendly fire, new concept to losers??

They shot. She hit the ground in a roll and trusted that everyone else would. They did. She turned her head to see that one agent was down from friendly fire. There was no blood as he was lifted off his feet and blasted backwards against the van he came out of.

“Ghost scum!” howled one of the suits.

“We knew it!” 

The victory in their voices set her blood boiling. Cass launched herself to the closest opponent and took him down with a nasty hit. She whirled on the next one, two mean hits. Go, go, clear the area! She heard feet scuffling and weapons whining as they fired, fired, fired on the boys.

She took number 4 down as the smoke was starting to clear. She heard a pained oof from the center, where Jason and Dickiebird were blocking Danny.

“Jason!” Danny said. He sounded very young. “Oh, shit.” Cass cast a frantic glance over at his posture and sucked in a breath even as she bulleted towards the next opponent. Determined. I have to do this. Here we go! 

No, no!

Jason was down. Dickiebird was darting between Jason and the man actively firing. Danny was pale. He opened his mouth. He put his palms out. He flashbanged. 

She blinked away stars and slammed a man’s head into a van before he could aim at her. Slam, slam, drop. She stole another glance. Danny was- Danny had white hair now and he was flashing green light at their enemies. Hm. She couldn’t afford to watch. Cass bared her teeth, angry. 

Air sizzled: GIW firing wildly. Guns fired: Jason was still conscious. Danny yelped: what? 

Cass didn’t dare look more. She moved faster than Batman could ever, brutally taking down these criminals with disdainful ease. They had nothing but numbers and lasers. 

Green shot past her vision. She traced it back: Danny! Her eyes went wide. Wow. He had some kind of organic blast, like Starfire. Very useful! 

 It wasn’t enough. Danny screamed. She heard him hit the ground. Sizzling.

She howled, wordless with fury. She tackled the next agent and cracked his head against the pavement. Only two more. She flung a batarang down the barrel aimed at her and then yanked the weapon away to brutally jab the air out of the agent’s diaphragm. Cass tossed it at him as he fell. Solid thunk. It hit his head.

The last man tried to say something, white teeth flashing in the gloom. Her ears were closed to it. The only language she spoke right now was violence. She used it to get him down and wrench him into zip ties. She could hear Dickiebird talking his soothing sounds at Danny baby. Cass wanted to go there. Cass wanted to soothe him. She wanted to see his hurts. 

But she had to secure the area. She rushed around to the groaning and crying men she had put down. She immobilized them. The foolish ones tried to get up as she approached. The smart one (and there was only one) held his hands out, eyes wide in the night. He talked at her. Beseeching, reasoning, she just doesn’t understand. You’re like me. Not like them.

Cass snarled. She understood just fine. She pressed his face into the ground harshly, fingers digging into his jaw. “Shut up,” she gritted out. She left him with effort, ignoring the mean impulse to smack him. 

All the boys were on the ground. There was no blood. Eyes open. Not dead.

Something in her gun unclenched.

Dickiebird looked up at her from where he was supporting Jason, sitting halfway with a grimace as he holstered his guns. Hands shaking. “He’ll be fine!” Danny pressed his body against Jason like he was trying to absorb his body heat. His hair was black again and his eyes looked tired. “He, uh, it’s shock,” Dannybaby babbled. She knelt to rub at his back, silently encouraging the explanation. “They basically zapped his ecto, stopped circulation. It should start up again in a few minutes and he’ll feel fine.”

“Get off,” Jason grunted. He shoved at Dickiebird. Weak. “I feel fine.”

Lie.

“I feel drained,” he admitted. “But fine. Just weak. I can stand.” He struggled to stand, biting his lip. He swayed only slightly. “Man,” he cursed under his breath. Jason cast an unhappy look at the 14 agents groaning on the ground, on their bellies like the worms they were with hands ziptied at their backs. “Not my best showing.”

“Next time, you could dodge,” Dickiebird suggested lightly. 

“You’re lucky it got him and not you,” Danny snapped. “Didn’t you see that guy go flying?”

Tense. Dickiebird paused. Smile. Soothe. “I’m only teasing,” he said. “It’s fine, Danny.”

“None of this is fine!” Cass swiveled her head to make sweltering eye contact with the scumbag who was cutting in. He was bold, for someone with his cheek digging into the rocks and cement. “By the authority of the US Government, you are required to submit these ecto-entities for testing and capture into our custody. Release us, or face dire consequences!”

Cass looked at him. She felt hate. Disdain. You’re nothing, you’re a worm to me. 

“They’re telling the truth,” Danny whispered. “It’s, uh, it’s legal.” He looked haunted. He rubbed at his chest: some memory of sharp pain.

Dickiebird snorted and slung an arm over Danny’s narrow shoulders. “Maybe by US laws, but Oa has jurisdiction that supersedes. This was a clear case of assault.” He gave an unpleasant smile. Big brother. Big angry. Guard dog at the door. “I’ll make a call.” 

The next minutes felt very long. Cass pressed Danny’s face into her shoulder so that he didn’t have to make eye contact with the fallen agents. She stroked his hair with her free hand, boiling inside with fury. 

Dickiebird called. A Green Lantern answered: coming.

They waited. Jason said he felt better. His body said: mostly better. But strange. They ignored the threats and complaints from the GIW men on the ground.

Hal Jordan came, with one more Green Lantern that Cass didn’t know. He gathered up prisoners in a green veil. He talked with Dickiebird. He nodded, and left.

“I wanna go home,” Danny said quietly. “But I think that we need to get Jason to my doctor. He’s really not right. It’s… It might be time sensitive.”

[princessbrunette]

jj never left the house without his gun.

with good reason too— the way rafe behaved, and all that shit in the past with the royal merchant or even his dad made jj an antsy, jittery person. he didn’t like feeling caught out or helpless, and the thing about his pistol was that 99.9% of the time it promised him security.

you were used to it. that bulge in his waistband where it was usually tucked, the blonde muttering for you to ‘watch it’ when you’re getting handsy with him in public and accidentally brush it. you didn’t see what the big deal was, after all it was just a pistol.

you hear his sneakers bounding along the floor to his rickety home, skidding and scuffing around as he searches for the weapon that he won’t find. you giggle mischievously, borderline psychotically before he appears at the doorway — seeming a little concerned and out of breath.

“so— you haven’t seen my piece, right?” he blinks.

“oh your gun?” you tilt your head casually and he nods, pressing his lips together. honestly, he was half expecting you roll your eyes and ask him how he could lose a deadly weapon — but instead you smile, drawing back the bed covers from where you sit up in bed in your cute underwear set, pistol in hand.

“oh you mean this gun?” you hold it very loosely and casually making jj freeze up, holding up a hand.

“holy— alright, okay. i get your point mama m’not going to misplace it again just like… put it down.” he demands in that pretty southern accent that made you leak. you were in a bratty mood today, wanting to push him until he broke so that’s exactly what you’d do.

“hm, but i like it. i feel soooo protected and safe right now. y’never know what creeps are out there, jj.” you tease, dragging the cold tip of the gun down your chest, your nipples hard from adrenaline through your bra.

“y’know you’re like — commitin’ all kinds of crimes right now. shouldn’t take someone else’s firearm it’s like, bad gun… karma.” he steps closer towards the bed, still visibly uneasy despite his tone.

“you should arrest me then.” you shrug, eyes lighting up in excitement as the gun travels further down your body, dragging down the soft skin of your stomach to your waistband. he freezes.

“uh… what you doin’ there kittycat?”

“just messing around.” you sigh dreamily, before widening your legs. the blonde looks conflicted— yes it was dangerous and he needed you to hand it back right that instant, but also… you looked good. the tip of the barrel begins to rub slow circles on your clit over your panties and you sigh, brows furrowing as you look up, glassy eyed at your boyfriend.

“babe…” he warns, blinking at your open legs. you swear his dick jumps, visibly.

“feels so good, jj…” you groan, and the second you let your guard down, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure your boyfriend grabs the barrel, disarming you before flipping you onto your front in one fluid movement. you whine in irritation, beginning to squirm violently but the strength of the blonde boy overpowers you and he holds you down effortlessly. “ugh, jj!”

“yeah not so cocky now huh? how you gonna protect yourself now?” he drawls, shoving a thigh between your legs to widen your stance as he keeps you arched. “d’you have any idea how stupid that was?”

“no.”

“yeah i di’nt think so. but you’re gunna.” you feel the cool tip of the gun again, pressed to your back. “slide them panties off. don’t make me tell you twice.”

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Twenty Four-Info:you and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

Tags: 18+, Dirty Talk, ANGST ANGST ANGST, Kissing, Childhood Trauma, Slight!GunPlay(very slight), More Angst, Sadism, Slight Emotional Manipulation.

Find the rest of the chapters HERE.

Your fingers glided gently across the pages of your open book, tracing the lines of text as if seeking to absorb the knowledge directly into your skin. The ambient hush of the library enveloped you, punctuated only by the soft rustle of pages turning and the occasional murmur of voices in the distance. It was a haven of tranquility, a sanctuary where you could finally turn your thoughts off and allow yourself to get lost within the words of the text.

In this cocoon of silence, you immersed yourself, your eyes traversing the lines on the page with a voracious hunger for understanding. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of old parchment and the subtle aroma of polished wood, creating a sensory symphony that enhanced your focus. But amidst this serenity, an abrupt disruption shattered your concentration. The creak of a chair being pulled out and the faint sound of footsteps approached, heralding an unexpected presence.

Startled, your eyes lifted from the text to find Mattheo seated across from you--his dark, penetrating gaze drilled into yours, his eyes narrowed with a glaring suspicion as he analyzed your features, slowly and cautiously--not daring to speak. The sudden intrusion in such a public setting caught you off guard; a mix of surprise and unease filling your lungs as you blinked, glancing around the room to ensure no attention had been drawn.

It had been two days since the events in the bathroom, two whole days where the conversations were as bland as a piece of raw fucking chicken, and yet, here he was. Without warning. You had no fucking clue what he was doing here, but the look in his eyes told you it wasn't for any particularly pleasant reason.

"When were you planning on informing me about your little friend's new companion, hm?" His voice sliced through the air like a blade, his eyes narrowing with sadism. "I mean...I just happened to stumble upon her leaving my brother's dorm, and I'd highly fucking doubt she was there for a casual browse through his book collection, wouldn't you agree?"

Your eyes widened in shock, nerves flooding through you like an icy tide, freezing your words in your throat. You had been meaning to tell him, but since the two of you had hardly been speaking, it seemingly slipped your mind.

You glanced around the room, as if searching for an escape from the intensity of his gaze, before finally managing to whisper, "Are you fucking serious right now? Why is that any bloody concern of yours?"

"I just find it utterly fascinating," he sneered, his voice dripping with dangerous intent as he leaned over the table, scuffing his chair toward you. "...the intricate web of secrets you weave, Raven...not very Ravenclaw of you, now is it?"

"How is that a secret?" you hissed, your voice laced with both irritation and trepidation. "And why would I care about Emily getting with Tom? I never had any feelings for-"

"Not talking about that," he interrupted, his tone sharp as he cut through your words. "I'm talking about everything, in a far more broad context...all of the willing little lies and deceit...all the ways you've used me, just as much, if not more, than I've used you...you even managed to outwit Tom, which is one hell of an impressive accomplishment all on its own, I'll give you that."

The oxygen in the room vanished, leaving you nearly gasping for breath. "I...outwit Tom?"

"Well, it was only thanks to his blaring review that you landed this mentorship, was it fucking not?..." he scanned your features, his brows pinching in focus. "Every calculated step you've taken, every deceptive move you've made, all orchestrated to extract what you wanted for your bloody career...it truly makes a man wonder..."

His words struck like a cold breeze, sending a chill down your spine as you struggled to process the weight of his insinuations--you were beyond startled by the pace of this conversation, each syllable from his lips landing like a punch to the gut, rendering your mouth mute.

"I..." his words had you reeling, your voice catching in your throat, your confidence shattered by his unsettling revelation. "What the hell are you implying, Mattheo?"

Your throat tightened as you struggled to maintain composure. Swallowing hard, you tried to play it off, squinting at him in an attempt to mask your anxiety. But his penetrating gaze saw through your facades, leaving you defenseless against his piercing scrutiny. Mattheo's movements were deliberate, each shift in his chair calculated to exude an air of intimidation and control. His eyes, sharp and predatory, followed your every reaction as if he were studying his prey before a calculated strike.

"I did some digging on you last night...on your background...what your parents do...since, you know, you clearly had no interest in telling me yourself..." a sinister smile played on his lips, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic satisfaction. His voice lowered to a barely audible murmur, laced with a sense of superiority. "After the night at the lake, after that little spat we had...I just...I just couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to you than met the eye...and boy was I ever fucking right.”

Letting his words sink in, he leaned back in his chair, that sickening grin still plastered across his face. As the realization of his words settled like a heavy stone in your chest, you grew increasingly uncomfortable, acutely aware of the other students nearby. Their presence, though not directly involved, added a layer of unease to the situation.

Leaning across the table, you whispered urgently, "Do you have to do this here?" The words escaped your lips in a hushed plea, your voice strained with the need for privacy and a shred of dignity. "Like at least-"

Mattheo's response was chillingly calm, his grin widening with malicious delight.

"Oh, princess, come on," he purred, his tone a twisted mockery of sweetness. "Why continue to hide the truth? Let them hear what kind of person you really are..."

Your anger surged, the intensity of your emotions making your fingers grip the book tightly as you leaned in closer to him.

"You're a despicable asshole, you know that?" you spat out, your voice edged with pure disdain. "What's your bloody angle here?"

"Never claimed otherwise, did I?" His tone was flat, devoid of any remorse; meeting your words with an infuriating calmness. "Unlike you, I don't pretend to be something I'm not."

Your eyes rolled so forcefully it felt like you were glimpsing the inside of your skull, a groan of frustration clawing at your throat. Of course, he chose this moment--a place where you had to hold back your torrent of emotions, where you couldn't unleash the full force of your anger upon him. He knew exactly what he was bloody doing here, and it was fucking infuriating.

"Enough with the games, Riddle," you snapped, the words escaping through clenched teeth, your patience stretched to its limit. "Stop being a bloody arse and spit it out already."

"Your family history," he said, leaning in so close that your eyes locked in a battle of wills, each glance a dagger threatening to pierce the other's resolve. "It isn't as pristine as one might think...in fact, I'd almost be inclined to say it's the complete fucking opposite."

Your entire body tensed, coiling like a tightly wound spring. There was a pause as you studied his face, trying to decipher exactly what he knew before responding.

"Careful, Mattheo," you retorted, your voice laced with a sharp edge. "Just because you've unearthed a few skeletons doesn't mean you've cleared the whole closet."

"Honestly, Raven, I'm just curious," his grin stretched wider, the atmosphere around him growing denser with an almost palpable tension. "How did you manage to play the part for so long? You certainly had me fooled...even managed to trick the sorting hat into believing your little fucking charade...it's quite impressive, truthfully..."

A knot tightened in the pit of your stomach, every nerve inside you screaming in turmoil. "I...I don't know what you're talking about-"

"Don't even bother," Mattheo's words cut through your feeble denial, and he tilted his head, his intensity thickening the air around you. "I see right fucking through you, now, princess...that innocent act won't work on me anymore..."

His eyes, like burning coals, seared into your skin as if trying to uncover hidden truths. The room seemed to close in around you, amplifying the weight of his accusation.

"Generation after generation of Pureblood fucking Slytherins..." he continued, his voice low and laced with feign exasperation. "And yet, here you are...apparently as Ravenclaw as they come...you've managed to make yourself so damn-near invisible that no one even fucking noticed..."

Your breath hitched, caught in the vice grip of his merciless scrutiny. The truth of his words hung heavily in the air, a damning revelation that sent a shiver down your spine. Your carefully constructed facade, your shield against the world, was crumbling, and Mattheo had managed to find the cracks, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in his piercing gaze.

"I'll admit, I feel rather idiotic for not piecing it together sooner..." he sneered, his tone cutting through the tension like a knife, hands curling into fists atop of the desk. "I guess I was too entranced by your starry-eyed facade to see the cunning Slytherin hiding beneath, even though it was right in front of my face this whole time...your biting sarcasm, your unrelenting ambition, and your overly-eager knack for deceit--classic fucking Slytherin traits, aren't they, Raven?"

Your entire being blazed with a searing heat, a tempest of conflicting emotions threatening to consume you. The urge to throttle him until he fell silent warred with a fierce desire to pull him close and lose yourself in a breathless kiss. How infuriating it was to witness his sharp wit, a talent he wielded effortlessly, yet one he seemed unwilling to apply to his fucking studies.

At your silence, he huffed, glimpsing your lips again. "Not even the stars can change the essence of who you are, princess." He whispered, a hint of mockery in his tone. "Maybe it's about time you were honest with yourself."

Your anger surged like a tidal wave, crashing against the shores of your restraint. In that charged moment, you leaned in closer, as close as you possibly could, your body practically vibrating with intensity. How dare he sit there, smug and superior, acting like he had unraveled the very fabric of your being just because he had dug up a few skeletons from your family's closet?

Sure, your parents weren't paragons of virtue, but their actions don't define you--and that was the very the essence of all this. Every choice you've made, every hardship you've endured, has been a deliberate effort to distance yourself from their toxic legacy. His derisive remarks only fueled the fire, and you practically hurled the words at him, your voice laden with disdain.

"You don't know a single fucking thing about me," you seethed, "all you fucking know is what the inside of my body feels like...don't you dare sit there and act like you've got me all figured out."

Your steps were purposeful as you pushed up and away from the table, leaving him sitting there, his words lingering in the air like a bitter aftertaste. You moved back into the library, the familiar scent of old books surrounding you like a protective barrier, but you knew it wouldn't shield you from the storm that was Mattheo bloody Riddle for long. No, that would be far too fucking easy.

And nothing about your situation with that boy was easy.

As you put your book back on the shelf, you felt his presence behind you, a suffocating weight pressing down on your shoulders as you reluctantly spun back around to face him.

"Why'd you do it, huh?" Mattheo's voice cut through the air like a razor, his narrowed eyes fixed on you as he backed you up against the shelf, his presence overwhelming. "Are you truly that ashamed of who you fucking are?"

"Mattheo," you spat, your fists clenching at your sides, the frustration boiling inside you. "Please, don't push it...if I wanted to tell you about that, I would have..."

"Yeah, you're ashamed," he sneered, dismissing your words with a cynical laugh, confirming his original point. "You're ashamed of where you come from...fuck, I always knew we were alike, but I never knew it'd be this much-"

"What the fuck is this? Some type of elaborate power-play move? Some type of big intimidation act to get me to tell you about my life?..." you snapped, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain. "If you wanted to know, why didn't you just ask me? Instead of fucking me every chance you got why didn't you try having a real conversation with me? Try actually opening up to me for once?"

"Even if I did..." he said, dropping his tone into a low whisper. "Would you have told me? You said it yourself that you don't fucking trust me..."

"What do you want to know, Riddle? Huh? You want me to tell you how I grew up in a mansion full of emptiness? How my parents were never around and I was left with my cold, reserved grandmother, who cared more about her fucking butler than me?...or maybe you want to know about how I was raised in a world of expectations, forced to be perfect in every way imaginable, while my parents only bothered to acknowledge my existence when it served their social ambitions..."

You paused, frowning at him, your features a near scowl. "You're sure quick to call me a rich little princess...and sure, maybe you're right, maybe I had all the material things one could ever desire...but it was never enough, could never be enough. Something was always missing, like a void inside me that nothing would ever fucking fill."

Your eyes burned with unshed tears as you continued, the weight of your past bearing down on you. "When my grandmother got sick, it was the only time she actually fucking spoke to me. She told me to be different, to break free from the mold that had plagued my family for decades. I was there with her in her final moments, the first and only fucking time she ever said she loved me. And where were my parents? Absent, as always. They didn't even show up until days after her death, showering me with gifts, as if their mere presence could make up for years of neglect..."

In an unrelenting torrent, words cascaded from your lips, each syllable carrying the burden of years' worth of pent-up emotions. Mattheo's unwavering gaze never strayed, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, absorbing every uttered syllable as though he never anticipated such revelations.

"Sure, maybe I was handed whatever I wanted on a silver fucking platter--but I was always alone, and truthfully, that's how I fucking preferred it. I never believed in destiny, Mattheo...the stars never whispered my name, my future...I had to shape my own path, I had to become something of my own...once my grandma passed, I was left with the butler. My parents didn't care about what I did as long as my grades were to their standards. They had no idea I wasn't in Slytherin until my third fucking year..."

You paused, your eyes catching Mattheo's parted lips, a reflection of sheer astonishment. Despite fighting to maintain composure, your voice softened with each breath, your heart pounding in your throat.

"I had to grab my own fate with two hungry hands, pulling and pushing and molding my life into something I could be fucking proud of...and then you came along, with your smart mouth and your fucking effortless charm...and you just...you forced your way right into my bloody heart, tore down my walls like you fucking belonged there." The bitterness in your voice hung in the air, the pain of your past etched into every word, your chest heaving with emotion as Mattheo stood in front of you, speechless. "Yes, I've made mistakes, but they belong entirely to me...and thats precisely what sets us apart, you went through some shit and let it possess you...I chose to fight back."

Trembling fingers betrayed the turmoil within, your entire body quivering in the aftermath of the verbal storm you'd just unleashed upon Mattheo. Only when the deafening silence enveloped you did the weight of your words become palpable.

Unable to endure the silence any longer, you broke eye contact, running a trembling hand through your hair. "I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to trauma dump on you like that, I just-"

"No," he declared, "don't you dare apologize to me...I should be the one apologizing to you."

Mattheo's interruption sliced through the charged air, his voice emerging rasped and strained, as though he had withheld words for years. Swallowing, you met his intense gaze, attempting to decipher the kaleidoscope of emotions swirling within his eyes.

"Don't pity me, Mattheo...I'm well past needing that," you whispered, your figure leaning subtly against the bookshelf, a tangible weariness emanating from your being. "Everything you've ever said was right...two sides of the same coin, the masks, the fact that we're each haunted by our own ghosts. You've always been fucking right. The only misstep was when you claimed you'd be my ruin."

Mattheo arched an eyebrow, bridging the distance between you with a measured step. "And why is that?"

"Because, little did you know, I was already in ruins," you murmured, reaching out to loop your fingers around his belt, pulling him closer. "If anything, you've been my bloody salvation...you did something I wasn't sure I was capable of anymore--you made me feel."

A tangible tension hung in the air as Mattheo's hands gripped your hips with a silent urgency, a fervent plea for your presence.

"As if you're going to fucking say that," he countered, his grip conveying unspoken desires. "As if that's not precisely what you did to me."

"Yeah?" you smirked, your voice a sultry whisper. "And what do I make you feel?"

"Everything, Raven," he cooed, lips grazing sensually over your jawline. "Hate, desire, anger, lust...among other things."

Your breath hitched, suspended in the charged exchange. "Among other--"

Before you could finish, Mattheo cut you off, his lips crashing onto yours in a searing kiss, a palpable surge of desire that eclipsed the need for spoken words. He pressed you against the bookshelf, the wooden solidity of the shelves meeting your back. His hands, with a journey of their own, glided up your sides, their warmth leaving a trail of anticipation. They found their destination on your face, gently cupping it with a possessiveness that made your heart flutter, and you sighed into his mouth, letting your hands rest at his sides.

"Everything about you is so fucking addictive..." Mattheo's confession hung in the air, a declaration punctuated by the heat of his lips tracing a fervent path along your jaw. His hand, a serpentine caress, slithered down your arm, leaving a tingling trail of warmth in its wake. "You are both hellfire and holy water...soft yet strong...and every bloody time I touch you I feel a little less war-torn, like your chaos balances out mine...I just...I have no idea what peace feels like Raven, but I have to imagine it feels a lot like you..."

"Mm...fuck, I've missed you..." a soft sigh escaped your lips as his kisses descended, exploring the landscape of your neck. Your fingers instinctively tightened their grip on his shirt. "Whatever happened to that break you said you wanted..."

"Fuck the break," he growled, desire lacing his voice. His hand ventured boldly behind your head, the other finding a home on your hip, possessive and hungry. "I want you so fucking bad...I want to fuck you right here...right against this fucking shelf...cover your filthy little mouth so no one can hear you fucking moaning for me..."

"Shit..." you mewled, gasping slightly as his hand slid around to grip your ass. "Maybe...if two people can't seem to stay the fuck away from eachother, they aren't meant to be apart, hm?"

"Maybe you're right..." Mattheo purred, nipping at your earlobe as he pressed you back against the shelf. "I've always been a strong man, Raven...but you break me without effort...you are my weakness, the chink in my fucking armour..."

"Your undoing?" you murmured, your fingers tracing over his belt.

He hummed. "Precisely."

"When are you going to open up to me, Mattheo?" You whispered, your voice a fragile murmur as though you were afraid of the answer, slipping your fingers under his belt now, gliding along its path. "Tell me all the bad things you've done...tell me what made you into the weapon you are...you don't need to be afraid...I saw your darkness from the very beginning and I'm still fucking here, aren't I?..."

"Why?" His grip tightened, breath hitching. "Why didn't you run?"

Your lids fluttered, slowly losing yourself in the warmth of his breath against your neck. His scent enveloped you; a familiar, soothing balm to the ache he'd caused with his recent request for a break. The answer formed easily in your heart, though voicing it required vulnerability, more than you'd ever expected to give.

"Because...it was a reflection of mine."

Mattheo's only response was a deep growl that rumbled through the charged space, a primal sound that resonated with desire. Without hesitation, he pulled you back into a hungry kiss, his body pulsating with pent-up energy seeking release. The intensity of the kiss mirrored the raw hunger between you, a magnetic force that defied all notions of any further separation.

As your fingers continued their exploration along his belt, tracing the contours with a teasing caress, you encountered an unexpected sensation--cold, unyielding metal tucked between the leather and his abdomen, its texture rough, and harsh. A chill ran down your spine as confusion slowly crept over you, your eyes fluttering open in slow, tentative blinks, fingers seemingly frozen in place.

Mattheo, lost in the heat of the moment, seemed oblivious to your sudden unease. The kiss deepened, his hunger transferring into the fervency of the embrace. But your focus had shifted, and your trembling fingers tentatively confirmed the nature of the cold object--something metallic, something that should not be there. You gently pulled away from the kiss, your eyes wide with realization, fixated on the metal object now halfway exposed. Dread tightened your chest as your brows pinched, flicking back up to meet his eyes.

"Mattheo," you whispered, the name carrying a weight of urgency, "what is this?"

Mattheo's swallow echoed in the charged silence, his gaze dropping to your hand, his chest still heaving from the passionate kiss. His eyes widened as the weight of your question settled in, a realization dawning on him, as if he had momentarily forgotten about the object concealed within his belt.

"Raven, I-"

He began, but you interrupted, yanking your hand back. "No-what the fuck-"

"Stop," Mattheo commanded, his tone abruptly taking on a harsh edge. With deliberate movements, he pulled up his shirt slightly, revealing more of the mysterious object nestled between his belt. The revelation hung in the air, and Mattheo, eyes now serious, asked a question that carried the weight of the moment: "Do you trust me, Raven?"

Your eyes squinted as a realization crashed over you, the rhythm of your heart shifting into a turbulent drumbeat within your chest. There was absolutely no denying it--that sleek, ominous silhouette spoke volumes. That was a fucking gun.

Frozen in a surreal disbelief, your ability to think, blink, or move was momentarily hijacked. Mattheo's hand surged upward with a suddenness that matched the shock in your eyes, seizing your jaw with a commanding force. His fingers, both firm and urgent, redirected your gaze, forcing you back to the depth of his eyes, which were now darker than the midnight sky.

"Answer me," he demanded, the intensity of his words amplified by the gravity of the situation. "Do you fucking trust me?"

The weight of the question echoed in the charged air. Your mind spun, grappling with the incredulity of the scene unfolding before you. Firearms had been a distant memory, relegated to hunting trips with a Muggle friend back in middle school. Yet, the stark reality of Mattheo possessing a fucking handgun in the heart of Hogwarts shattered any remnants of normalcy, the shockwaves reverberating through your very core.

"I-I-" you stammered.

Mattheo jostled your head in his grip, pulling you closer. "Yes or no question, Raven."

Blinking, you found yourself caught in a tempest of conflicting emotions. The tendrils of trust warred with the unsettling presence of the gun, a contradiction that defied all reason. In the throbbing silence, Mattheo's growl of frustration pierced the air. Relinquishing his grip on your jaw, he seized your wrist, directing it back toward the ominous weapon.

"Take it out," he commanded, his eyes fixed on yours. "Right now, Raven. Take it."

A whimper escaped you, your fingers trembling as they tentatively wrapped around the cold metal. With visible reluctance, you extended it out, pointing the gun down at the floor. Mattheo's grip on your wrist persisted, unyielding, anchoring you in the unsettling reality of the moment.

"I'll ask you one more fucking time," he whispered harshly, the words slicing through the charged air like a razor. His breath, warm against your face, carried an unsettling contrast to the gravity of his demand. "Do you trust me?"

Another desperate whimper slipped past your lips, the nodding of your head an almost frantic plea. "Yes! Please, I trust you. Just take it back-"

Mattheo's reply erupted as a snarl, a guttural growl that echoed with a feral intensity. His features, twisted by a crazed possession, accentuated the mad determination in his eyes as he tightened his grip on your wrist. With an unhinged sense of purpose, he directed it upward, the cold barrel now pressing menacingly against his own temple.

"Pull it," he said stoically, the eerie calmness chilling against the tension. "Pull the trigger."

Your jaw dropped, the brimming tears reflecting the disbelief that swirled in your eyes. "No! What the fu-"

"Do it," he repeated, the calmness persisting. "Go on, baby, pull it."

Sickened and paralyzed by the surreal horror of the moment, you hesitated, the sheer shock of what Mattheo was asking you to do anchoring you in a moment of profound disbelief. Your mind swarmed with recollections of the crazy things you'd done for him before, but this--this was unlike anything you had ever fucking imagined. The weight of the gun in your hand, the gravity of the situation, left your brain reeling as the stark realization of the moment seized hold of your senses.

His frustration, palpable and charged, manifested in another growl. With a menacing determination, he shifted his hand to envelop yours, forcing your finger down, the pressure on the trigger unrelenting.

You heard the click, you felt the click--and yet, nothing happened.

"Fuck..." you choked out, a turbulent blend of relief and confusion seizing your senses in a tumultuous embrace. "What the fuck..."

He blinked, his dark eyes tracing over your lips as he clicked it again. And again. The ensuing silence, pregnant with the surreal gravity of the situation, echoed through the seemingly empty library. Each breath you exhaled became a struggle, the air tinged with the weight of the inexplicable moment, your senses teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

Then, like a tidal wave crashing over you, the realization struck with breathtaking force. "It's enchanted..."

"About fucking time you caught on." Mattheo nodded, his acknowledgement cutting through the charged air with terse confirmation. He released the hold on your hand, pulling the gun away and casually slipping it back under his belt. "This gun only serves one purpose Raven, and it's never to kill, only to protect..."

Your heart leapt. "Protect what?"

"Doesn't matter," he said, a gentle hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from your eyes. “You can trust me, Raven…you can always fucking trust me…”

You exhaled, a long, exasperated breath. “I know, Mattheo…”

“Good girl,” he cooed, a smirk playing on his lips as he stoically reached into his back pocket, as if on a quest for something. "Has Nott popped the question yet?"

Your cheeks flushed. "Yes.."

"Good," he replied, his other hand securing your wrist before he withdrew his busy one, placing a handful of Galleons in your outstretched palm. "Go treat yourself to a dress. Something red, something tight."

As he withdrew his hand, he leaned in, placing a hot, wet kiss on your cheek, smirking from ear to ear as he said. "I've got something I have to do tonight, so I can't stay...but I look forward to respectfully ripping off whichever lovely dress you decide on."

"Respectfully?" you quipped, a playful glint in your eyes. "I'll make sure to pick a dress that demands nothing less than the most dignified removal, then."

"Oh, Raven...I can promise you it'll be the furthest thing from dignified." He snickered, wetting his lips as he took a few steps back, slowly beginning to make his retreat. "See you then."

As he spun around, making his exit, your mind followed suit, a whirlwind of emotions from this entire encounter. Only Mattheo Riddle could master the art of rendering you utterly anxious, furious, emotional, aroused, terrified, and, finally, relieved--all within the span of under an hour. You'd never encountered a man who expertly navigated every one of your buttons and boundaries like he did, yet you couldn't deny the potent influence he held over you.

You couldn't deny that as soon as he left, an insatiable longing for his presence consumed you, an undeniable yearning for his return.

—————————

Chapter 25->

[its-avalon-08]

hello could I please request a Fernando x driver reader long one shot.: maybe where she’s Jules Bianchi or Sennas daughter and the whole trope of she fell first but he fell harder. It seems like he hates her or what ever lots of angst but then lots of fluff in the end please I’m dying for some nando stuff

The One That Got Away (Until She Didn’t) (fa14)

✦ pairing - fernando alonso x female!reader

✦ genre - enemies to lovers, angst, bianchi!daughter!reader, cute, fluff,

The roar of engines filled the paddock, drowning out any attempt at conversation. To Y/N Bianchi, that sound was home. She’d grown up hearing it from the sidelines, watching her father, Jules Bianchi, carve out a name for himself on the track. Now, it was her turn. And she was determined to do more than just live in her father’s shadow.

Y/N had proven herself time and time again in the lower categories, earning her place on the Formula 1 grid not as Jules’ daughter, but as Y/N Bianchi—talented in her own right. But there was one person who didn’t seem to care. One person who, no matter what she did, kept his distance. Cold. Detached. That person was Fernando Alonso.

She felt his eyes on her now as she adjusted her helmet before practice. His gaze was always there—burning holes into her, yet never engaging. It wasn’t admiration or respect. No, it was something darker. Disdain, maybe? Contempt?

Fernando Alonso, two-time world champion, one of the most experienced drivers on the grid, and the man she had admired since she was a child, seemed to hate her.

She wasn’t naive. She knew how the paddock worked. The comparisons to her father were inevitable, and she could deal with that. But Fernando’s icy attitude toward her went beyond mere skepticism. It was as though her very presence was an insult to him, a constant reminder of something she couldn’t quite understand.

“I don’t get him,” Y/N muttered to her race engineer, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling in her chest.

“Hm?” he asked, distracted as he went over the car’s setup for the session.

“Alonso,” she clarified, stealing a glance across the garage. Fernando was deep in conversation with his own team, but for just a second, his eyes flicked toward her, narrowing slightly before he turned away. “He acts like I don’t belong here.”

Her engineer chuckled. “Fernando’s like that with everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

But it was personal. She could feel it in the way he ignored her, never acknowledging her efforts on the track, never offering even a nod of recognition. Every interaction—or lack thereof—felt like a rejection. She’d tried to talk to him once or twice, but each time, he’d brushed her off, offering nothing more than curt one-liners before walking away.

But despite it all, Y/N couldn’t help the way her heart raced when he was near. She hated herself for it. Admiring someone who clearly couldn’t stand her? Pathetic. She’d spent her entire life learning how to shut out doubt, how to ignore the voices that told her she wasn’t enough. But with Fernando, it was different. His silence cut deeper than anyone’s words ever could.

Later that afternoon, the team debrief ended, and Y/N found herself lingering in the paddock, stretching the muscles in her neck after a long day of practice. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow over the scene, and most of the other drivers had already left. Except for Fernando.

She saw him leaning against the wall near his motorhome, scrolling through his phone, his face cast in shadows. Something in her snapped. The tension had been building for months now, and she was done pretending she didn’t notice his cold shoulder. She was done feeling like she had to prove herself to him.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N strode over, her boots scuffing the gravel beneath her feet. Fernando looked up as she approached, his expression unreadable, as usual.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone indifferent, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of annoyance.

Y/N crossed her arms, standing just a few feet away from him. “Why do you hate me?”

Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Hate you?” He pushed off the wall, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I don’t hate you.”

“Really? Because that’s sure what it feels like.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she held her ground. “Every time I’m near you, you act like I’m some kind of nuisance. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me unless you’re judging me. So what is it? Do you think I don’t deserve to be here? Or is it because I’m Bianchi’s daughter and that makes me some kind of charity case?”

Fernando’s expression darkened. “Careful, Y/N.”

“No,” she shot back, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I’m tired of being careful. I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you. What’s your problem?”

For a moment, Fernando said nothing. His eyes flicked over her face, and something unfamiliar passed between them—an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Regret? Anger? No, it was something else. But before she could process it, Fernando spoke, his voice colder than she’d ever heard it.

“You think I care about what you do?” he asked, stepping closer. His presence was overwhelming, and she fought the instinct to step back. “You’re not special, Y/N. You’re just another driver, trying to make it. If you think I’m here to validate you, you’re wrong. I don’t owe you anything.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. But instead of backing down, she lifted her chin, defiance burning in her chest. “I never asked for your validation. I just wanted to understand why you go out of your way to make me feel like I don’t belong.”

Fernando’s jaw tightened. For a split second, it seemed like he wanted to say something else, something real, but then he simply turned away, shaking his head.

“Get used to it, Bianchi,” he muttered before walking past her, leaving her standing alone with nothing but the sinking feeling in her chest.

As Y/N watched him walk away, frustration and confusion swirled within her. Whatever was going on between them—whatever tension was brewing beneath the surface—it wasn’t just in her head. But as much as she hated to admit it, Fernando Alonso was an enigma she wasn’t sure she’d ever unravel.

And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t ready to give up trying.

she tried yet another time.

“Do you have a problem with me?” Y/N stormed into the hospitality suite after another cold interaction.

Fernando didn’t look up from his cup of coffee. His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the mug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She stepped closer, her voice cracking slightly. “Every time we’re in the same room, you act like I’m a ghost. Is it because of my father?”

At that, his head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Don’t bring him into this.”

“Why not? That’s what it is, right? You think I’m just trying to ride his coattails?” She was shaking now, all the pent-up emotions spilling out. “I’m not him, Fernando. I never will be. But I’m here because I’m good at this—because I deserve it. I’ve done everything I can to prove myself, to you—”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” he cut her off sharply, his voice low but dangerous. “I’m not your judge.”

“Then why do you treat me like I don’t exist? Like I’m nothing?”

There was silence. Fernando’s eyes darkened, the usual stoicism replaced with something… deeper. Anger? Pain?

“You don’t understand,” he finally muttered, standing abruptly and walking towards the door.

Y/N’s heart pounded. “Then help me understand.”

But he left without another word, leaving her standing alone, her heart heavier than ever.

time skip

Weeks passed, and the tension between them only grew. Y/N found herself dominating during races, yet her mind constantly swirling with thoughts of him. Every shared glance felt like a knife to her chest, but she couldn’t stop the feelings that had taken root deep inside.

Then, in one race, disaster struck. Y/N crashed. It wasn’t her fault, a freak incident, but the world spun around her as she crawled out of the wreckage, bruised and shaken. She couldn’t escape the memories of her father’s crash, the fear bubbling up.

She sat in the medical room, waiting for clearance, when Fernando stormed in.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he spat, eyes blazing with an intensity she’d never seen.

Y/N looked up, tears already welling in her eyes. “I didn’t—”

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” His voice broke, and that’s when she realized—he wasn’t just angry. He was scared.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, unsure if she was trying to convince herself or him.

“No, you’re not.” His hand came up to grip the back of his neck, the strain clear in his posture. “You’re reckless, Y/N. Just like him.”

The mention of her father felt like a slap. “Don’t you dare—”

“You think I’m pushing you away because I hate you?” He stepped closer, voice shaking. “It’s the opposite. I care too much.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“You… you’re everywhere,” he continued, pacing now. “Every time I see you on the track, I think about how easily things can go wrong. About losing you. And I can’t—” He stopped, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I can’t lose you the way I lost him.”

Y/N’s heart raced, disbelief washing over her. “But… you’ve been so distant. You acted like you didn’t care at all.”

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “That’s because I’m a coward, Y/N. I thought if I kept you at a distance, I wouldn’t have to feel… this.”

She swallowed, her voice barely a whisper. “Feel what?”

Fernando took a deep breath, his hands dropping to his sides in defeat. “I’ve been falling for you since the day you arrived, but I was too damn scared to admit it.”

Y/N blinked, frozen in place. “You… you’re in love with me?”

“I didn’t want to be,” he admitted, his voice soft now, almost broken. “But I am. And every time you’re out there, I’m terrified.”

She stepped closer to him, her heart aching for the man in front of her. “You never had to push me away, Fernando. I’ve been in love with you for months.”

He looked at her, something shifting in his expression—like he’d finally allowed himself to feel everything he’d been holding back. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it seemed like you hated me.”

He laughed, the sound bitter. “I could never hate you, Y/N.”

Without thinking, she closed the distance between them, her hand finding his. “Then don’t push me away anymore. Let me in.”

Fernando hesitated, but then, with a sigh of surrender, he pulled her into his arms, holding her like she might disappear if he let go. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “I’m so damn sorry.”

She buried her face in his chest, tears of relief spilling down her cheeks. “You’re forgiven.”

time skip

From that day on, everything changed. The tension between them melted into something warmer, something real. Fernando was no longer the distant figure she’d admired from afar; he was hers, fully and completely.

They spent their days sneaking moments together in the paddock, quiet confessions whispered in between practice sessions. He would steal kisses when no one was looking, his usual stern demeanor softening only for her.

“You’re impossible,” she teased one evening as they sat on the balcony of their hotel room, watching the sun dip below the horizon.

“And yet, you love me,” he smirked, pulling her closer.

Y/N smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “I do.”

Fernando’s arm tightened around her, his voice low but full of emotion. “You fell for me, Y/N. But I fell harder, you know?”

She chuckled. “Maybe. But I'm catching up.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, the weight of the world no longer pressing on either of them. “I’m never letting you go.”

And for the first time, Y/N believed him.

[1800titz]

THE THRILL | Phone sex operator AU

preview

“God— I feel good, too. I’m so wet for you,” you hum. 

The confession is syrup on embers— a simmering, wet heat in the trench of his underbelly, and feels like liquified nirvana across his fibrils. 

It pries another grunt from the asunder seam of his teeth— gravelly, husking— the rasping growl of a faceless stranger on the verge of splintering. 

(Hunk of a man, precarious footing like the lip of a mountainside, toying at the sutures of pseudo-phone-sex— an automated script of moans and coaxes— and crooning please with your fingers dug under the cotton of your underwear and sweat on your brow.)

And maybe that’s the thrill of it. 

Chasing the dirty bliss on borrowed time— costly minutes— painting the monolithic bulk of an innominate outlander behind your eyelids when you pour your work ethic into doing the very best job, giving it your all, heel of your palm pressed tight to your clit and your fingers tucked deep. 

(Because, maybe, you both feed off the kick. Chasing the same buzz that’s molded off an intricately carved proxy of intimacy.) 

There’s something marginally less vulnerable (marginally more— parceled up in the seedy filth along the grooves of your fingerprints, saturated on the crumbling bulwark of melding scripts and vices), in evading the tangibility of sex through a phone. In pretending—

“Yeah,” Harry grunts, hips flexing into the nook of his fist. His shoulders quake with the shudder that rolls up his nape. The swivel chair creaks under the pressure of the motion. “Can hear it, dirty fuckin’ girl—“

And in the knurled grimace that graces his pink mouth (the guttural hiss shattering in his windpipe) you nearly taste euphoria off his bared teeth. The way you know they glint white. Soak in the scorching deluge of the same ecstasy when he ruts into his own hand at the way you moan. 

Your favorite regular. 

He was different. Chipped his way under your skin and sinew to make home in the hollow he carved from the moment he dialed. Heady timbre flowing like smoke; sultry, kerosene-soaked, rough-hewn in hedonistic pursuit. 

So unlike the other regulars or the one-timers rolling onto the line, scuffing their speakers against their clothes when they shuffle, voices low and brittle when they beg you to tell them how you’re going to step on them and call them filthy names. 

(You moan and purr how you’re so close, how bad you want them to cum inside, phone tucked to your cheek, sprawled with your legs kicked up over the arm of the couch, scrolling through Pinterest meal prep recipes on your laptop.) 

You should feel ashamed, maybe, at the startling ease it took for him to thaw you away and reverse the roles (leave you hankering for the sweet warmth of a gray haze— thick, smoggy, petrichor with your tummy buzzing and your breath caught in your throat— when he bid you goodnight with the murmur of we’ll do this again, sweetheart before the line clicked). The way it left you feeling like you were on the line with an operator on the other end, milking you for more. 

(“And what name should I have in my mouth when you make me cum for you, hm?”)

(Borrowed time, costly minutes; you soak in every cent he spills into your wallet.)

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・・。・。・・

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 13

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Ew, Monday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The taxi lets you out just outside the darkened estate. Your heart lurches as you stand on the curb, the car slowly rolling away as you stand in a cone of light beneath a street pole. You stare up at the ominous facade with its cavernous windows.

You want to believe it was just a faulty wire or some anomaly but you have to be sure of it. The gate is locked, just as you were certain you left it. You key in the code and shut yourself in. The hedges and looming trees lendthe property an unearthly feel as you creep along, aided only by slivers of moonlight.

You stop and look down at the phone clutched in your hand. You search for the flashlight app and shine it ahead of you. By habit, you go around the back, even as the chirp of crickets and hum of the night adds to your foreboding.

The beep of each digit pressed into the keypad pierces the night. The electronic chime is unceremonious is the nocturnal din. Inside, there is a haze of light from just down the hallway. Did you leave it on or did someone else?

You turn off the light on the phone and drag up the call app instead. Just in case you need to call for help. You proceed without flipping any switches, careful not to make a noise as you advance. You reach the entryway and turn to face the glow emitting from the broad archway.

You hold your breath as dread bubbles up to your throat. You stop short as the clink of a glass cracks the silence. Mr. Laufeyson’s back is to you as he sets down the short tumbler, a stray droplet clinging to the brim. He rescinds his arm and wipes his mouth with his cuff.

You could sigh. It’s okay. He’s only come home early. It’s not some sinister intruder or covetous criminal. It is only him.

You could go and he’d never know of your foolish panic. You lean back on your heel as you tuck away your phone. He strides to the tall glass cabinet and presses the door so it releases. He pushes it open and drags out one of the dark bottles. You sidle backwards, stretching an arm out to feel around you.

“What are you doing here?” He sneers and stops you in your tracks.

You gulp and blink. Speechless. Caught.

“Yes, you,” he turns and uncaps the round-shouldered bottle.

“Mr. Laufeyson, I…” you sputter and step out of the shadows, “the alarm.”

He fills the glass and clunks the bottle down heavily, resting the cap on top but not sealing it. He swipes up the tumbler and brings it before his mouth. His green eyes sparkle like emeralds in the low light of a single lamp.

“And you came oh so quickly,” he scoffs.

You rub your lips together, uncertain what to say. He seems unhappy. His early return is likely for unpleasant reasons.

He swigs and strides, his free hand patting his thigh in agitation as he paces. He spins and retraces his steps, mouthing to himself. You peer down the hall and back at him. You feel you’ve walked in on a very private moment.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Laufeyson, I’ll go,” you say.

“Hm, you do not want to stay?” He challenges as he halts and faces you, his sole scuffing sharply, “I’m certain this place is preferable to whatever sty you reside in.”

“I only came to make sure all is well–”

“And why wouldn’t it be?” He pauses to toss back the last of his drink, liquor by the looks of it. “Were you neglectful in your duties, mm? Shall I take inventory?”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I was only… nevermind,” you shrug.

“Bah,” he waves you off and twists on his feet, once more strutting away. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he goes to stand by the mantel, tilting his head as he gazes along the ornaments. Just where the camera hides. “While you’re here, pour me another drink.”

You chew your lip and wring your hands as you come forward. You break the threshold of the den and near the round table beside the armchair. You peek at him as he toys with the globe, flicking it around with one finger.

“Do take your time,” he hisses.

You grab the bottle and lift the cap. You tip it carefully but still hit it against the top of the glass. The liquid glugs out and the scent rises to tinge your nostrils. You set the bottle down and take the glass, wondering how anyone can stomach it.

You go to him as he leans a hand on the mantel, his other on his hip as he huffs. He shakes his head at some irksome thought. You stand nearby but don’t dare disturb him. He frightens you as he turns and snatches the glass.

“You know,” he begins, stopping himself to drain half the glass, “the last thing I need to worry about is this place. I hired you for just that and I find you looking at me as if this house should be aflame.”

You look down and take a step back. He clucks and pivots, stomping around the sofa. You stay as you are, rigid and uneasy. The anger roils off of him and you are the only one there to hear it.

“My father… of course, couldn’t be happy for my visit. No, never is. I swear he must’ve despised my very birth,” he snarls, “but my brother, oh, he can do no wrong.”

He empties the last of the glass as you peer over your shoulder. He grips the glass tight and bares his teeth at it. His eyes are drawn to yours as if he can sense them.

“You’re still here,” he growls.

“Mr. Laufeyson, sorry, I–” you hurry around the other side of the sofa towards the door, “I was only–”

“No, no,” he stops you as he waves his palm, “another.”

He presents the glass in his other hand. You stare at it. There’s a cloudy tint in his eyes. As you approach, you hear him exhale. You take the glass and his fingers brush yours clumsily as he drops his arm. 

You look at the empty tumbler and back to him. You don’t know how much he’s had or how much more he should. You don’t drink but you suppose he wouldn’t need more than a few glasses.

“Are you sure you should–”

“Are you questioning me?” He snips.

“No, Mr. Laufeyson, I only… it’s late and you’ve been traveling–”

“Don’t tell me what’s good for me,” he raises a finger to point in your face, “left alone for one day and you presume a bit much.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, not at all,” you swallow, “I will get you more–”

“No,” he grabs you before you can retreat, his hands on your shoulders, “why…”

His word dangles between you as his question remains unasked. Terror courses through you as he grips your shoulders tight, the size and strength of his hands locking you in place. You bat your lashes as you stare up at him. The liquor clings to his breath as it fans over you.

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you squeak.

He holds on to you, almost trembling. He steps closer as he draws you in. He is almost hypnotised as he glares down at you. His hands slip away only to grasp the bulk of your hood instead, bunching it in his fists. He leans, teetering on his feet, looming over you.

You are trapped in your own shock. You cannot pull away, you can’t push him off, you can’t move. You’re horrified as you wonder what he’s thinking. As you fear what he might do next.

He is drunk, that isn’t a question, but is he dangerous?

“The light plays tricks on me,” he whispers before he lets you go, swaying as he turns and finds his way to the sofa. He flops down, leaning against the backrest. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. “You are correct, I am drunk.” He takes a breath and blows out with a groan, his lashes flicking open suddenly as he sits up, “go.”

You nod and put the glass beside the bottle. You march back to the archway and stop, glancing back at Mr. Laufeyson as he drops his head and cradles it in his hands. He looks almost pathetic as he slouches forward. 

“I said leave me,” he snaps without looking up, “now!”

🧹

The night is short and fruitless. Your sleep is splintered with anxiety and the morning sees you twitchy and uneasy. As you get ready to leave, you wonder if you should even bother. That rotten feeling in your gut assures you you’ll meet no different than the previous night.

Yet, Mr. Laufeyson hadn’t fired you. He only told you to leave and you can’t afford to give up, though for the first time, you're considering it. As Leslie gets your father’s coffee ready, you’re reminded that you can’t. No, he needs you, he is only too stubborn to admit it.

You set off as the knot in your stomach draws tighter. You don’t sit on the bus, instead standing as your nerves get the better of you. You rock, leaning into the motion of the bus and your stop comes too soon. You drag yourself off and shudder as you look down towards your fate.

You’re on time. Five minutes ahead of expected. The gate code works, that’s a good sign. Your usual trawl through the gardens is hazy and dull. You don’t notice the blue jay winging or the lady bugs crawling on the brick. You can only focus on what comes next. You’re completely blinded by the unknown.

Inside, the house is as empty as the day before. Not truly. You know Mr. Laufeyson will show himself eventually. You hang your bag and put on shoe covers and gloves. It’s Monday, a cleaning day.

You begin if only for the distraction. Down the hall, into the kitchen, room to room, until you reach the den. There is no sign of the previous night’s run-in. The bottle is neatly back in the cabinet with the rest, the short glass is gone, and all appears as it should be. So why does it feel so off?

You work through the room almost ritualistically. You have a pattern and you stick to it. The familiar has always been safest. 

As you near the table, something sparkles on the dark hardwood. You bend to pick up the small shard of glass, careful not to let it cut into your fingertips. You glance around to see if it broke off anything close by. No cracks, no chips. It’s clear and tiny. Almost indiscernible.

You cup it in your hand and take it to the kitchen to put in the bin. Something so small can cause a lot of pain. You shake off your palm and let the lid close.

“Ah, I see you are working hard,” Mr. Laufeyson’s voice rolls through you.

You tense and turn slowly from the bin. You keep your head down as you cross the kitchen, “yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

As you try to pass the counter, where he stands, he steps out to block your path. You stop and back up, your gaze stuck to the tiles before his leather shoes. He stands close enough for his warmth to cloud around you.

“Coffee,” he states the single word and in an undeniable demand. 

He’s never asked for that before but you can figure it out. It must be a test. Or a lesson. He’s reminding you of your place. You can’t just barge in after hours, even if you are trying to help. Well, that’s the thing, he only wants the help he asks for so you better stop thinking so much.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

You turn and go to the cupboard. You don’t know where anything is. You clean but you don’t cook or go through anything. You open one door; wrong. The second; wrong. On the fifth, you find a bag of coffee. 

As you unfold the top, you reveal aromatic beans. You stare at them. You make coffee for your father all the time but you buy grounds, not whole beans. You look around for a hint. You’ve seen people grind beans on television but they don’t exactly show the grinder; it’s always just a loud noise in the background before the balding blonde brings the metropolitan cast their wide brimmed cappuccinos.

You flinch as Mr. Laufeyson struts around the bend of the counter and slides a square device across the granite. He pushes it in front of you, crowding you again. You thank him and stare at the grinder. What do you do now?

You take the little scoop from inside the bag and spoon up a heap of beans. You hover them above the rest as you touch the grinder, turning it as you examine it. He sighs and taps a silver button. The lid pops up and reveals a compartment. You pour in the beans and close the top.

“Are you truly so ignorant?” He accuses.

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson,” you utter, not bothering with an excuse.

“It is a simple task. They train teenagers to do it,” he scoffs.

You nod and press the button that reads ‘grind’. You hold it, happy for the noisy reprieve from his criticism. When it’s done, you look around again. There’s a machine but it looks a lot different than the drip machine in your own kitchen. You go over to it and feel along the upper part, searching for a catch. Surely there’s somewhere to put a filter.

He nears again. He slides a drawer out and takes out a little metal canister. He pushes a button to open the top of the machine and wiggles it over it to say, it goes here. You open your hand and he lets you have it. You return to the grinder and scoop out the ground beans into the little canister. 

You return to the machine as he taps his fingers on the counter. You slip the canister into place and close the lid. The screen lights up and shows several options. You don’t know which one to choose. He huffs and selects ‘bold’. You stare at his tie in shame.

“How can you not know how to brew a coffee?” He sneers.

You shrug, “sorry, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Mm, there is much you don’t know, isn’t there? Much I know which you wouldn’t,” he snickers, “oh but I know something about you. Something… interesting.”

You furrow your brow and look up, not far, just at his throat. His hand slips across the counter and he looms over you. His gaze bores into you as he hangs over you like a shadow. He pulls back and turns to lean on the counter, lifting his wrist to adjust his watch. He’s certain to turn his hand to show it off. 

“What I know is that you’re a liar,” he states, “and sneaky. And nosy.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I only came last night because the alarm–”

“Last night? What do you mean?”

“Uh…” you blink and look him in the face. “You don’t remember?” 

“Ha,” he snorts, “of course I do. You were concerned after I triggered the alarm. So be it. I am not talking about that,” he faces you as he smirks, “you like to hide, don’t you?”

You frown and shrug. You don’t know what he means. He laughs and once more touches his watch.

“I know exactly how you came upon my watch that day,” he announces, “and I suspect you discovered a few other curious sights.”

You blanch and shake your head vehemently. Your cheeks are on fire and your whole body is buzzing. You could disintegrate right then and there. You almost wish you could.

“I didn’t– I didn’t see anything at all. I just– I just– Mr. Laufeyson, I wouldn’t ever– you’re my boss. I was afraid but I couldn’t see out from under the bed.”

“But if you could…” he hums.

“No,” you insist, “no, I wouldn’t want to.”

“Wouldn’t want to?” He echoes dully.

“I understand, I was wrong to not say anything but I was only trying to clean–”

“Wouldn’t want to?” He repeats even louder.

You snap your mouth shut and frown. You don’t know what to say. You’re embarrassed. You should’ve just told him yourself. Before you can apologise, he throws his hand up and sidesteps you.

“You may bring me my coffee,” he orders harshly, “be certain to knock.”

[howlingday]

What if Jaune’s sisters are very, and I mean very overprotective toward Jaune when they heard he used to have a crush on Weiss and how she treated him back in Beacon?

Jaune: Hey, Mom? Have you seen Weiss?

Mama Arc: No, I can't say I have.

Jaune: Hm... Is Dad around?

Mama Arc: He's taking a nap, dear, but he should be awake in about an hour.

Papa Arc: (Walks in) Phew! All finished chopping up that firewood for ya, honey~! Kinda weird asking me to do it this early in spring, but I could use the work! Oh, howdy, Jaune!

Jaune: Hey, Dad. So... HAS ANYONE SEEN WEISS?

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

Weiss: Feel free to stop me at any time.

The former heiress and current belle of Jaune Arc sat on her stump, looking over her nails to ensure they hadn't been scuffed or dirtied by the assault continuously made on her since her being brought into the deep woods by the Arc farm home. Thus far, only a bug had managed to slip past her defenses to bite her arm, an action that made her regret not taking repellent with her. However, she was hardly at fault as five of Jaune's seven sisters had been on the attack for the young woman since dragging her out here. Last night, Jaune had explained how they met with Weiss chiming in that Jaune had awkwardly failed on multiple occasions to woo her, earning a coo of adoration from Jaune's prepubescent youngest sister, a chiding swipe of a finger from his mother, and a uproarious laughter from his father. However, his five sisters, the ones now gathering strength to attack her for the umpteenth time, glared at Weiss as though she were in the wrong for turning him down. One sister took the first leap before being slammed into the dirt by a glyph. A second tried coming in low, like some feral beast, only to slam face-first into another glyph like a brick wall. The third and fourth, as twins are wont to do, attempted a pincer attack, only to be launched into one another again. That was four, which meant five was...

Arc Sister: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Weiss managed to leap away, leaving the sister to unintentionally slam herself into the fist of a giant, frozen cestus.

Weiss: I'm going back to the house. If you intend to stop attacking me like a bunch of... maniacs, then I'd be happy to walk with you.

The sisters did little to respond besides grown various sounds of discontent. The ice queen shrugged and turned away.

Weiss: I thought so.

[phyrestartr]

Simple Things [3] - Miguel O'hara x Male!Reader

# Mild NSFW, fluff, comfort, flirting, light angst, male!reader, dad!reader, spider!reader, implied depression, mentions of trauma, mentions of past relationships, mentions of manipulation, old men just doing their best, miguel is a sweetheart and a nerd, multi-part drabble collection

[ 1 ] Smoke Break | [ 2 ] We Change Like the Seasons | [ 3 ] Meet the Kids

Notes: Covid is still kicking my ass but I wanted to finish this part off so I can make the reader and Miguel fuck in the next part wahoo \o/

-- Meet The Kids --

A girl walked into the lab. Miguel thought maybe Gwen or another spider had come to ask something of him or to steal one of the cookies from his desk console (wouldn't be the first time), but the lazy scuff of shoes on polished floors sounded too clumsy to be one of his agents. She wasn't wearing a suit either, Miguel realized after sparing a glance over his shoulder; she did, however, sport a day pass on a small wrist. 

"And you are?" Miguel asked before turning back to his screens. He wasn't really in the mood for conversation while he tracked the next anomaly, but he couldn't say he wanted some random kid to be touching his stuff in his lab. 

"I dunno. Who're you?" Ugh. 

The clattering of something hitting the floor made Miguel's eye twitch. He took a breath. "I'm the guy running the show here." He closed screens with gruesome scenes of destruction, hiding them from the prying eyes of the innocent in the room with him. "And I'm the one who's about to call your guardian." 

She scoffed. "My guardian?" 

"Whichever spider dragged you into HQ and let you off your leash with a day pass." Miguel spied her out of the corner of his eye, but didn't have the decency to face her. "Lyla. Scan her." 

"You got it, buddy." 

"Woah, wait–!" The girl gasped as a warm orange light washed over her, flickering across her entirety before vanishing. "Dude." Despite the attitude, her voice trembled faintly. Miguel almost felt bad. But she touched his stuff. Not his fault. 

Lyla whistled and adjusted her sunnies as she leaned into a tiny screen of her own. "Oooh, you're gonna love this, Miguel–" 

"Miguel?" The girl repeated. "Like…the guy Dad talks about?" 

A clairvoyant feeling overwhelmed the spider, probably the same way spidey senses hit the normal spider-people around him. Somehow, he knew who she was, who her dad was before Lyla even said it. 

"Yep, that's (Name)'s kiddo," Lyla chirped. 

Miguel looked at the girl. He really looked at her this time, feeling some sort of stupid with how much she looked like you; her hair was fluffy and unkempt in the same shade yours was, the shape of her nose was like a smaller, cuter version of yours, too. Then there were her eyes. That same hazy hue of uncut gems, a colour of protective dullness that hid something brilliant and effervescent from the outside world. 

"(Name)'s kid," Miguel repeated. Your name felt comfortable on his tongue these days. "Kid, I–what're you doing here? Where's your dad, huh?" 

The girl, very clearly looking around the room to try and spot the elusive Lyla, shrugged. "I 'unno." 

Colour Miguel unimpressed. "Oh, you don't know. Good. Great." He tutted before running a hand through his hair. "Lyla, call the kid's dad–" 

"He's sleeping!" She blurted. "You can't just, like, wake him up; Dad never gets to sleep." Her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her cheeks puffed. "And my name's Isabella, y'know." 

Miguel's dark brow raised in question. "Isabella." Said with a Latin accent. Interesting. Miguel's chest felt tighter. "If your dad's asleep then he probably left you with someone." He looked at her expectantly. 

Isa shrugged again and scuffed her worn soles against the floor. "Mr.Parker didn't notice. He's watching Natalie and Nico and May 'n whatever. So. Yeah." 

Mr.Parker? Oh. "Hm. He babysit you a lot?" God, Miguel should stop asking questions, but curiosity and that damn attention deficit had him by the throat. He turned around and folded his arms over one another, too, before leaning back against the stage console to speak with Isabella properly. 

"Ugh, why are old people so–so freaking annoying? I'm not a baby, I don't need anyone to watch me." Ah. Of course. 

"Oh, wow, ah-huh, yeah. Sure. I'm sure your dad agrees." Her amateur glare wrought a smirk out of him. Would he have argued with Gabi like this? 

Miguel cleared his throat and turned back to the console, reaching for another cookie absent-mindedly. "Look, you can stay here until your father comes to get you, but you have to stop touching things. Got it?" But Isa only grumbled and scuffed her feet again. "Isabella." 

"Uuugh. Fiiine." The girl plopped down into an old rolling chair. Miguel tried not to twitch. He would not snap at a child for breaking his chair, he would not do that. Absolutely not. 

Not even one minute of silence passed before the kid rolled closer to the centre stage Miguel stood at. "Sooo you're, like, my dad's boss or something?" 

"Guess that's the easiest way to put it." Miguel peered at the girl from the corner of his eye. 

"Okay, but what's the hardest way to put it?" Isabella wiggled and sat backwards on the chair, hugging the backrest as she scooted around the lab. "Are yooou…friends?"

Miguel shrugged. "I'd say so." 

"Hmmmm. Are you more than friends?" 

His eye twitched again. "Do you interrogate every adult like this?" 

Isabella huffed. "Uh, he made you cookies. It's sooo not weird to ask if you're, like, a thing." 

"A thing." 

"Like boyfriends–" 

"Santa Muerte, I know what you mean, kid." 

"Okay." Silence fell for all of ten seconds. "I'm just saying–" 

Miguel groaned. "Can you stop talking for five minutes–" 

"--you'd be waaay cooler to have for a step dad than all the people Dad's been dating." 

"Yeah, well, I'm hard to beat." Oh, wow, did he just say that about himself? Christ. Miguel took a deep breath and tried to relax his shoulders with all his might. "That came out wrong. I–look, you need to just–he's dating?" Miguel cringed. It's not that he was interested in you like that, just…he was nosy, that's all. But he was incredibly aware of how that must have sounded to an equally nosy tween. 

Isabella perked up. "Uh, yeah. But everyone he dates ends up being suuuper crazy and weird. Like, it's reaaally bad." 

He shouldn't pry. He really shouldn't. "...Bad how?" Ay, Miguel. 

"Like, they're always super clingy or don't like kids or something. And, like, Nico and Nat had moms who had dads who super hated dad, so they gave him money to make him go away." Isabella nodded matter of factly. "That's what Dad said. He's super sure he's cursed or something. Granny was a bruja y'know." 

Miguel shouldn't be listening to this. He shouldn't be prying into your life through the conduit of a chatty kid. Asking you would be the better option, but this way was so much easier. It felt like he could finally get a grasp of what you'd been through, and maybe catch a glimpse of who you were behind the scenes. 

"Then what about your mom?" Miguel asked, crossing his arms and flicking his gaze back to the monitors. "That didn't happen with her?" 

An offended gasp burst from the young lady. "No! My mom was so not like that. She was Dad's girl!" 

"No kidding." Miguel hummed. He wasn't about to ask what happened to her. Spiderman never had an easy romance, never had an easy life. 

"Yeah! They fought in the war together, and her name's–" 

"Isabella." Your voice cut through the air like winter rain. Miguel almost got chills, and Isa squeaked before hopping off her chair and scrambling on the stage to hide behind Miguel. 

"Oh, look at that. Someone's in trouble," Miguel mumbled, mean smirk quirking the corner of his mouth. 

Isa glared up at Miguel. "Jerk."

"Isabella, quit bothering the boss," You groaned tiredly. Miguel's ears perked as the coo of a little one fluttered through the air. He turned and found you holding the littlest baby in one arm, and a toddler in the other, both incredibly K.Oed.

"M'not bothering him!" She protested. "I'm just hanging out!" 

"Cut the crap, you're probably complaining about school or about my love life or how I wouldn't get you a new phone or some shit." Miguel had to fight back a laugh. He'd never heard you so exasperated nor animated before. "And why the hell did you run off, huh? You had Pete freaking the fuck out." 

"I got bored! I just wanted to go look around!" Isabella pleaded with a puppy-level whine.

"Isa, this place, it's–it's not meant for people without powers. You could get hurt, alright?" You adjusted your grip on the two little ones in your arms. "And the lab is a whole 'nother story, Christ–" 

"It's fine, (Name)," Miguel cut in, turning to you. "She was fine." 

But the worry lines creasing your forehead didn't smooth quite as much as he wanted. "'Ppreciate it, Boss. But, I…" you trailed off, sighing softly. "Yeah. Just. Thanks. I'll, ah, get her out of your hair. Bet you've got work to do." 

Mija, let's go is what Miguel swore he heard come out of your mouth before Isa pouted and ran after you.

Mija. That word brought a world of hurt and comfort to his chest–the coincidence of Spanish on your tongue felt too…perfect, like you'd learned it just to shove it in his face. But Miguel knew better. 

Isabella. 

Mija. 

Your girl, Isa's mother, must have taught you. He liked that, for some reason. The idea of learning something new for a partner. What would you teach him if you were– 

Woah, woah, stop, Miguel. Stop. His ears turned hot. He worried at his bottom lip with fidgety hands before shaking his head free from such dangerous thoughts. 

Focus, he chanted to himself, you've got work to do. 

--

You decided you were sick that day. No, you weren’t really, but the headache chipping away at your skull suggested that, hey, maybe staying home for a day wouldn’t be a bad thing. You could use a break from dragging yourself around New York, searching for the next big scoop, the next tragedy to document and earn a living off of, too. 

So, there you were, in bed, with the tv in the front room playing some sort of movie that you’d heard a thousand times but never learned the name of, while your littlest, newest addition to the family starfished in a laze, his tiny tummy pressed to your broad chest. Your fingers lazily rubbed circles against his little back as he snoozed and drooled on your shirt. Somehow, the giggling and chattering of his sisters didn’t wake him up. Maybe the drumming of your heart, or the safety of a warmth he hadn’t known until now, drowned all of it out. 

He didn’t even stir when his sisters screeched.

You closed your eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. God, please just let it be a spider, please just let it be a spider. You sat up, holding your baby to your chest as you plucked a gun from the side table. You carefully set Nico down into the warmth of where you were laying before stalking to the door and whipping it open, gun poised and ready for–oh. A big spider.

“What the fuck, Miguel,” you hissed, beyond exasperated as you lowered the gun. “Why the–what–I could’ve shot you.” 

Miguel looked beyond bewildered, though some would say entirely bamboozled. He had his hands up like the police had them in his sights, his face was a combination of embarrassed, shocked and annoyed, and his claws had popped out in his flustered panic. His spiderman suit was still on, but he had that white hoodie thrown on top like it’d hide the fact he was spiderman. Hopefully it did. 

“I–” Miguel started.

“Ah-ah.” You cut him off like a dog misbehaving. “Girls?” Their heads popped up from behind the couch and you sighed in relief. “It’s alright, he’s a friend. From work.”

One of your daughters gasped. “It’s the weirdo that’s suuuper into dad!” Isabella cried, jumping out from behind the couch and pointing an accusatory finger at a very unamused-looking Miguel. 

“For the last time, I’m not–”

“You so are!”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are!”

“Yeah!” Natalie joined in, hopping up and down by her sister excitedly and pointing at the man they deemed guilty. “You are, you are!”

Miguel, probably halfway to an early grave, looked to you for help. But you flashed him a tight-lipped smile that said more than words could offer: perish. 

You let the girls hound him while you turned on your heel, heading back into the bedroom to sooth your stirring little boy. The gun found itself back in the drawer, safety on, magazine removed, before you scooped the tiny being into your arms and smooshed up against your chest. Your son quieted and clung to you. You left a kiss on the top of his head to welcome him.

"So," you started as you came back to the scene of the crime, "the hell're you here for, Boss?" You asked, completely unfazed by how the girls had corralled him onto the couch and had his hands in their own, their curious fingers pushing on his tendons and making his claws pop in and out. Honestly, you were pretty tempted to do the same. 

Miguel pursed his lips and ignored the gremlins on him as he looked at you again, something distant softening his features. 

"I, uh. I heard you were sick," he confessed with a small shrug. "Just thought…y’know." 

You hummed as you rubbed your son's back. "Huh. How'd you find that out?" 

"Peter mentioned it." 

"Pete doesn't know I'm sick." 

"Must've been Jess, then." 

"Jessie doesn't know either." 

Miguel was caught. His ears grew red before his cheeks did, and you smirked. Cute. Way too cute. 

"Lyla told me," Miguel grumbled, finally. 

"Ah. There it is. Not so hard to tell the truth now is it, Miggs?" You said with a Cheshire smile and a wink. "Good to know you've got your confidant spying on me." 

Miguel freed himself from the children and stood up quickly. "It's not--I'm not spying on you, I–you–" Miguel pursed his lips. "I don't need to explain myself." 

That made you laugh. "Relax, tough guy. I don't mind ya swinging by. Or, hm, guess I don't mind ya portal-ing in." Miguel didn't seem to think you were that funny, but thankfully Nico, in his haze of dreams, giggled at the right moment. "Nicky thinks I'm funny. You should take notes."

It didn't take much convincing to get Miguel to stay for dinner. You made him take a shower, though, and leant him some clothes to lounge in while you cooked everything from scratch. From scratch. Miguel couldn't remember the last time he had a home cooked meal. 

"Yeah? That's sad as shit," you remarked nonchalantly as you diced vegetables. "Tell ya what, you make it a habit of coming around, and I'll make sure I make extra for you, yeah? It's important to have that home cooked goodness for your soul 'n what not." 

Miguel felt his chest fill with something fluffy and warm. "Good point." But it wasn't, really. "Guess I'll have to make it a habit." He leaned back against the counter as he watched you prep everything. "Wouldn't want you putting in all that extra effort for nothing."

You twitched a bit of a smile and nodded. "My thoughts exactly." 

You spared a glance at Miguel. He looked calm, at ease, like the threat of the dimensions collapsing wasn't at the forefront of his mind for once. You thought, maybe, this might be the first time in a long time that he had his mind off work. Maybe he was doing that whole human thing and enjoying the present for a change. Jumping to conclusions wasn't really your style, though. 

Crimson eyes flickered, then, gazing towards the crib settled in your bedroom. He must've heard your little man stir. He must've wanted to do something about it, if his sudden shiftiness told you anything. 

"You mind checking on him?" You asked softly, knowing that, maybe, this was a big ask for a man who only had a phantom to tuck in at night. "He's fussy. Likes to be held." 

"You're sure?" The other man asked, brows furrowed in concern. 

"You kidding? If there's any guy I'd trust with my kid, it's you." You fiddled with the wrapper of the packaged chicken meat before ultimately stabbing it with a knife. "Go on. Before he starts crying." 

And Miguel wandered off to the little one. His voice had that sound to it when he spotted him, that kind of gentleness a man unlocked when he felt what it meant to be a father, a protector of a smaller soul. You listened hard for Miguel's smile, and felt your heart throb when you heard, "Hey, mijo. ¿Estas bien?" leave his lips. Your little boy cooed, and Miguel made a noise that sounded so frightfully domestic and dad-like, you thought you might perish on the spot, or fall in love in a second. 

Get it together, get it together. A deep breath steadied your blitzing nerves when Miguel came back to the kitchen, Nico in his arms, smooshed up against his chest. You stole a glance, smiling to yourself when you caught Miguel mooning over the lazy bundle of joy. 

You worked fast, feeling a weird, undeniable desire to talk after you had your army of children fed and sent to bed. Miguel didn’t leave your side, nor did he deign to put Nico down, not through soup and sandwiches, not through 20 questions hosted by Isabella and Natalie, and not through the moments alone where you herded the young ladies off to wash up before getting them to bed for the night. 

“Y’know, you’re gonna spoil that kid,” you said with a smile when you came back to find Miguel on the couch with your son. You sat down by him with a dad-like sigh and peered at the little one snoozing away. “He’s gonna demand you hold him every time you come around.”

Miguel huffed a laugh. “You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”

“Hey, with arms ‘n pecs like that?” You pat one of Miguel’s impressive biceps to prove a point. “I get where he’s coming from. Lots of free real estate with good foundations.”

“Oh? You want me to hold you too?” Miguel offered, some sort of impish lilt lifting his voice as he looked over at you.

You fought back the urge to swallow. “Sure. If you’re offering.” But Miguel looked a little caught again, a little unsure of how much to tease and how hard to press, so you let him off the hook with a laugh. 

“Man, you really remind me of her.” You rested your head against the couch, maybe a little bit on Miguel’s shoulder, as you watched your boy sleep. “Liliana,” you amended, “Isabella’s mom.” 

Scarlet eyes flickered to you. Seems you caught his attention. “Liliana,” Miguel tested the name on his tongue slowly, thoughtfully. “Isabella’s mom.” And after another pause, he asked, “I guess she’s gone?”

“Gone. Yeah.” You blinked slowly, and let the words rotting in your lungs breach the surface: “I killed her.” Ah, maybe you said that with too much nonchalance, you worried, but Miguel’s low hum seemed to suggest otherwise. 

It felt good. You couldn't stop yourself from talking. “It was an accident, I guess. She was a scientist. Geneticist, I think. Made me into, well, whatever I am now.” You flexed your hand and looked it over, like the blueprints of your design were still hidden under tired skin. “‘Cause, y’know, I was a soldier, she said I was gonna be the next Captain America, but… that doesn’t matter. Anyway, side effects were bad, really bad. I freaked out, then--then, y'know.” You took a breath. “Killed my little girl’s mom.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you stared at nothing, sucked back into a daze and a trance you’d long forgotten about. But you remembered the blood, the screaming, the way you and those webs ignited and how the white lab coats all howled and screamed and popped. The scent of roasted flesh should have disgusted you, it should have knocked some sense into you and dragged you out of whatever episode you were having, but instead–

Your stomach growled, and you cleared your throat. 

“Yeah. That was a bad day.” 

“I get it,” Miguel said, and sounded like he meant it. “Guess something like that happened to me.” 

You peered up at him, glimpsing his conflicted, troubled look. 

“Yeah?” Thought Spiderman had a boring, normal story. Because, in totality, you were something more demented than just Spiderman, so your story was more fucked up than the rest. Maybe you were wrong.

“Yeah. I was–my research killed someone when I was trying to make them into, well, Spiderman.” Miguel sighed and shook his head, admonishing himself from the past. “I didn’t want to. I got pressured into it. Drugged when I wanted to quit. It was a mess.

“Tried to rewrite my DNA, and then a colleague shocked that up for me, and I ended up with the claws, the fangs, the–the everything. Slashed his throat by accident, got some other people killed when they tried to help me, killed some baddies when I didn’t mean to.” 

Miguel’s gaze turned to you. “So don’t think you’re alone.” 

“Huh,” you said astutely. “Guess you really meant it when you called us ‘miserable bastards.’”

“Takes one to know one, I guess.” Miguel’s shoulder shifted slightly, easing down so your head could rest more comfortably against him. Your chest swirled with errant embers, but you tried not to think too hard about it. 

“You said I reminded you of her. Of Liliana?” Miguel asked, quiet and tentative. 

You hummed. “Yeah. The good parts.” You smiled (when had that gotten so easy?) and reached over to brush some dark hair from Nico’s tiny forehead. “She was smokin’ hot.” 

“...Huh.”

“Way too smart for her own good,” you continued. “It's always the smart ones that get me, y'know? Anyway, she was sly 'n funny in a mean way, but hey, I like that shit. Maybe I'm a masochist." 

"So," Miguel started, shifting slightly to face you more, "let me get this straight. You think I'm 'smoking hot,' 'too smart for my own good,' and 'funny in a mean way'?" The grin on his face was too much for you to handle. Why did you feel so hot suddenly? Why was he so close suddenly?

"I think that sums it up." 

"Huh. Anyone ever tell you you're an asshole?" 

"Ouch. Okay, what if I throw in 'she was born to be a bangin' mom','' you offered, feeling a long-forgotten rush of excitement as you sat up and leaned in close, so close, your hand coming up to cup the side of his strong neck as you kept talking, "and that she made me feel somethin' for the first time in a long time?" 

You could feel Miguel's breath hitch in his throat as he measured the gap between you two, his eyes flicking down to your lips and back to your eyes in debate. You wanted to close it. With every inch of your being you wanted to take the plunge and crash your lips against his. 

But, with every fibre of your soul, you didn't want to fuck this up. You didn't have words for what this even was, but you cherished it. Sauntering down this line of friendship, of companionship, was better than taking the dive back into that world of icy yearning and wilting roses–this type of love, the platonic sort shared between brothers and men, was meaningful in and of itself. It was good enough.

Wasn't it?

You looked over his face, in disbelief with yourself. "Who am I kidding?" You whispered, letting your hand fall from his neck like a glacier shearing away from its home. 

A small, tired laugh crawled from your chest, and you rubbed your face. "I, uh, think I oughta call it a night. I'm gonna–I gotta tuck Nicky into his crib." And carefully, gently, you scooped up your monkey and whispered quiet thanks into his hair–your little man was the perfect scapegoat. 

What're you thinking? Careful hands pulled up the banana-patterned blanket over Nico's tiny form after you'd set him down in the cozy crib that he loathed so much. You thought it was nice and comfy. Hell, if you could fit, you'd probably snooze in there all day. 

"Good work today, Nicky. I think you made the big guy relax a little, y'know?" Your son cooed sweetly in his sleep, and your spirit lifted just slightly. It almost gave you the strength to go face Miguel after coming onto him so hard. 

Finding the last bit of courage yourself, you gave your boy one last kiss on the noggin and quietly snuck out, closing the door with utmost caution behind you, only to be pressed up against it a moment later, and smothered with a kiss. 

A bolt of lightning kicked your pulse into triple time as you kissed Miguel back. His hands caught you by your hips, and your arms hooked around his shoulders and pulled him in closer. The simple thing was exhilarating. He was exhilarating. The embodiment of strength and resilience, of power and intelligence, was crushing you up against a door and taking the air from your lungs with such ease. 

"Fuck," you gasped when you parted with a wet noise that sounded far too Hollywood. "You're not half bad." 

"You've got a talent for ruining the mood." Miguel scoffed and tilted your chin up. His half-lidded eyes drank you in as soft breaths left his parted lips. You wanted nothing more than to be eaten whole by him (was that weird?). 

"I got a few other talents, too," you purred, voice swirling with velvety dark chocolate. "But that might be too much for an old man like–" 

Your squawked indignantly when he scooped you up and hoisted you over his shoulder like you were nothing but a petulant child. Your hands scrabbled against his back, and a shocked bout of laughter bubbled up from your core as he slapped you on the ass hard. Was this real? Were you seriously getting manhandled and spanked by Miguel O'hara? 

Miguel almost threw you onto the couch, but you guessed the children snoozing in the next room over hampered that decision. 

"If there's one thing I'm never too old for," Miguel murmured lightly, almost condescendingly as he set you down on the couch and got on top of you, "it's sex." 

Your eager hands flitted across his taut muscles, too excited and undecided as to where to land first. "Thought you were too old to sleep around?" 

"I don't sleep around," Miguel corrected, letting you fill in the blanks. 

That helped you relax a little. "Yeah?" 

He looked so conflicted, a little embarrassed, too. But that was becoming more and more common these days, thanks to you. "Yeah." 

You nodded and reached a hand up to his cheek, and he leaned in graciously as a needy cat might. "Okay. Then I don't either." 

Miguel hummed, and turned to mark your palm with a little kiss. "Alright." 

"And maybe…we don't fuck tonight." His sleepy gaze found you again with one dark brow raised, surprised. "I'm, uh, I think I'm down pretty bad for you, Boss. I don't wanna fuck this up." 

And, truth be told, you wanted to give him some respite. Maybe you wanted to give some to yourself, too; Liliana and Dahlia danced through your mind so much these days, no thanks to the burgeoning fondness growing for Miguel. He reminded you of both of them, of Winter and Summer, of snow and flowers. But it wasn't fair, not to you or him, to compare him to the epitome of cold and the apex of warmth. You needed time, too. Time to learn how to compare him to no one.

Miguel smiled, small and sincere. You admired the fine lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. He looked so handsome when he smiled. You wanted him to do it more. Were you enough to make him smile more?

"Yeah. I don't want you to shock this up either," he said, and your brows raised, incredulous. 

"This is what I get for trying to be mature ‘n romantic, huh?” Your fingers drummed against the arms caging you in. You thought about chancing a finger-taser to his ribs, but with those damn claws of his, you were a little too worried about your couch cushions getting demolished.

His handsome smile turned into a punchable smirk. “What? I’m agreeing with you.” 

“Ah-huh, ah-huh, that’s all, hey?” You leaned up and kissed Miguel again, slower and tamer this time, but still burning with want. Ugh. Why did you have to try to be all mature and romantic? “You’re just being a good boy?”

Miguel’s hips twitched at that, and it was your turn to smirk. Oh, how the tables turn. 

“Lay down,” you ordered, sitting up to get out from under him. “Come on.”

“I–what?” He grumbled, looking a little befuddled and frustrated. Cute, cute cute. “Thought we agreed on–”

“Heavy petting’s not off the table, right?” You cut him off. Miguel perked a little bit at the suggestion and did as he was ordered, his hands finding your hips again as you took your turn straddling him. “Luckily for you, I’m an expert at the clothes-on experience.” You winked and Miguel sucked in a breath. 

“Show me.” He ordered, voice deep and gravelly.

And you did.

[fluffypotatey]

Jake’s Cousin Tyler

finally gave into the tgm x twisters (2024) brain(rot)worms so here’s part 1 of this silly crossover

-

Jake’s got an annoying cousin from Arkansas. Very annoying. And it has nothing to do with his silly youtube channel or his ragtag band of friends— those two joined the fray a lot later. No, his beef with his cousin began when the two boys were barely ten and only beginning to grasp their role in this reality. Most family members (Jake’s siblings) call this feud baseless at best and snicker whenever anyone asks how it all began. (Traitors, all of them.)

“So, what really makes you greater than Oklahoma?” 

That, there, was the fateful question. One asked by Jake's baby cousin, Tyler Owens. He, his mother, and aunt drove over all the way from Conway to Amarillo, so one can assume little Tyler saw a lot of the infamous state, as well as his mother sharing the notorious rivalry between Texas and Oklahoma (with Aunt Jo’s commentary). And, well, for anyone hearing about said rivalry from an outsider’s perspective like Tyler’s, it sure does look silly and ridiculous. They just happened to be two neighbor states with similar cultures and history. What was there to dislike about each other? Why all the pride?

And unfortunately, little Tyler decided to ask Jake these questions. 

And, maybe, take some joy in pissing his (slightly) older cousin off.

“I really don’t see the difference here.”

“And how could you! Everything you see is sur-surface level shit!”

There was a hissed Language! that went unheard between all the huffing and giggling. The only adult present was Jake’s brother Collin, who was finding all of this too hilarious to stop. (It was one of the biggest betrayals Jake had ever felt, and one he sulked about for weeks. After the thirty-something apology Jake caved and “allowed” Collin to read him those silly botany books.)

“Be-besides!” Jake stomped (not cutely, thank you). “Everything here is a lot bigger than it is in Oklahoma! Not to mention some of their land used to be ours and—”

“I thought Alaska was the biggest state.”

“I WASN’T TALKING ABOUT ALASKA!”

Suffice to say, this was the moment a line between the Seresins and Owens was drawn. Specifically between Jake and Tyler. Only. It was like in the blink of an eye the two little cousins became rivals. Enemies. Nemesis. 

Tyler was in the elementary choir? Well, Jake was in the state honor choir both his 4th and 5th grade years. Jake is said to be into paints? Oh lookie here! Tyler’s humble little pastel portrait won 1st prize and was showcased in the state fair! Tyler got all A’s in his science classes? Well, Jake got all A’s too, and all his science projects received top marks— oh wait, it seems Tyler won his school science fair. Twice! 

“I hate him.”

“Sweetheart, hate is a strong word.”

“Well, I feel strongly that I hate him, Mama! Why’s he gotta one-up me like that. He’s in a whole other state and yet—”

“Are you not doing the same thing?”

“No!” Jake lied. It wouldn’t do him any good to admit such a petty thing to his mother. “I’m minding my own business over here”—

“Uh huh.”

—“and it’s like a week after you share something with Aunt Trix and Jo, Tyler suddenly has something grander to share.”

“Oh?” The smile on her face made Jake feel caught. “You find them grander?”

“No! He just tells it like that because he’s Tyler and ‘oh so special’ because he won that stupid fucking science fair with that tornado.”

“Language. And we saw that project at Christmas. You even admitted to it being cool-looking.”

Jake grumbled and scuffed his feet. “It was Christmas.”

His mother scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Hm, yes, my mistake.”

link to the rest :3

[r0se1111]

Merry Brandybuck x Reader

I love this little guy so here's an idea I had rattling around in my brain for a bit :P Takes place during the events of The Two Towers! (Also I’m very tired and did not proofread… apologies in advance)

You should really be dead right now. Logically speaking, you mean. Kidnapped by orcs who had no use for you other than a potential snack. Your hands bound, you watched as your friends were tossed around and forced to drink vile "medicine" as the orc captain had called it. Battered and bruised, you crawled along with Merry and Pippin away from the slaughter of the company that had stolen you in the first place. Passing the point of exhaustion, you ran from an orc who managed to survive the human soldiers, the one who had been so adamant about eating you all in the first place, before being saved by a talking tree-excuse me- an ent, then passing out on a soft bed of moss and grass, feeling safer than you had felt for days with your friends secure by your side. It's really a miracle you managed to get to this point at all.

Which is why, in the early morning when you awoke to streaming ribbons of sunlight warming your sore body and a cheerful greeting from Pippin, who had already woken up and was drinking from some strange large jug, you took it upon yourself to make sure this all was real. That you weren't eaten alive by a pack of rabid orcs, that you all were safe and healthy. Specifically, that your friends were safe and healthy.

Your worried internal monologue was cut short as you heard the rustle of leaves next to you, then a soft groan that meant Merry was awake and feeling the after effects of your little adventure. Your eyes drifted over to him, still feeling too sleepy to warrant an actual head turn, and you flushed a little as the sun caught his hair perfectly in its rays, giving him a momentary halo before he shifted to look to you. The sudden pressure of his full attention on you ended your brief indulgence, and you quickly darted your gaze to your scuffed up shoes peeking out from your legs, folded up crisscross-applesauce style. "G'morning."

"I don't know if I'd call this a good morning. My whole body hurts, ugh."

You smile at Merry's grumbles and risk a full look at him. Before you could even feel the usual butterflies that looking at him usually brings, a sharp red gash on his brow stops your breath in your throat. "Merry!"

"Hm?" He looks up from where he was brushing dried grass off his clothes with raised eyebrows. It would make you laugh if you weren't so distressed by his injury.

Scrambling over your feet and knees, you shifted closer to Merry and squint at his forehead where a blow from one of the orcs had dried into a bloody stream, going down into his eyebrow and stopping just short of his eye. That's on his head. Your heart lurches. A head injury can be bad. Really bad. You frown and hover your hands over Merry's head in conflicted hesitation. "You're hurt!"

Merry looks a little surprised and a little red as you peer into his face and reach to brush his hair back to examine the lesion. You feel a warm puff of air on your forearm as he exhales a shaky laugh to reassure you. "It's just a little bump, Y/N. Takes more than that to take me out. We hobbits are hardier than we look."

Pulling back, you tilt your head and muster up the best serious looking glare you can form in the light of Merry's endeared expression. A small, close-lipped smile that goes up further on one side than the other like he's holding back a laugh for the sake of your own dignity.

"I'm serious! A bump on your head can be dangerous! Do you feel nauseous? Have you had any vision problems? Headaches?" Each shake of his head made you feel better, but your hands were still itching, like you needed to have physical proof that Merry was okay. "Can I- I mean, would you mind... I could clean it?" You chew your lip and hope you look an appropriate amount of pleading, but not totally desperate.

Merry actually chuckles at that, and for a moment you feel like floating. Then, he scoots forward so that your knees are touching, and you seriously considering anchoring yourself to the ground. "If it makes you feel better."

Your shoulders nearly concave in relief as you reach around to grab a spare rag and slightly wet it, carefully leaning closer and so, so softly, dabbing it to his wound. As the dried blood blots away, you see a small cut right where his hairline begins. Huh. I guess it looked worse than it was. Heat pools in the apples of your cheeks and you feel eternally grateful that Merry doesn't bring it up.

"Thank you." You whisper.

"Thank you? I should be thanking you. It's nice to have my own personal nurse."

You scoff a laugh at that before replying. "Really though. I know I might be a little bit... much when I worry. I just." You pause your attention to Merry's head. "I really didn't know if we... if you... were going to be ok. I mean, you were unconscious, Merry."

Steady hands coming to cover yours and bring them into your lap make you realize your hands are trembling, and more importantly, realize that Merry is touching you. He's rubbing small, grounding circles into the sensitive skin where your hands and wrists meet. He waits until you meet his gaze before saying in the most confident, sure tone you had ever heard him use. "I'm ok. Thank you."

Gravity gives out on you as you find yourself nearly falling into Merry's lap at those words. Luckily, you don't completely embarrass yourself, and instead end up pressing your forehead into his shoulder. You inhale deeply and exhale into a light giggle.

"What's so funny?" Sounding breathless for whatever reason, Merry questions your outburst.

"You smell like pipeweed." You laugh even harder as Merry's own chuckle joins yours.

It's so easy like this, you think. With him. Reluctantly, you pull back and exhale, ready to go back to your own personal space bubble and feeling a bit overwhelmed with giddiness from sharing it with Merry for so long. You don't get very far before hands make their way under your chin and make you freeze. You think he's joking again, so you prepare some sort of witty remark as you let your head follow where his hand moves it. But Merry doesn't look like he's joking this time. His eyes look deep, but still warm, and intense. The air deflates out of you under the pressure of it and you can only look at him helplessly.

You feel the pressure lessen as his eyes leave yours, only to return tenfold as you realize oh. Is he- he's looking lower. He's looking at my-well definitely not my eyes anymore. You lick your lips in a self-conscious act under Merry's scrutiny. Then, you gather up all the courage you had wished for when that ugly orc captain had hit Merry over the head in the first place, and you lean in.

You think he's leaning in too, in fact, you're sure he is, because you feel his breath on your lips, and it makes your own breath hitch and your stomach do a funny little somersault. You feel like you're only capable of leaning closer at that moment, pulled by some invisible magnetic force, or some string of fate. Closer and closer, until-

"Merry! You're awake!"

Merry and you jolt apart as if electrocuted at Pippin's bright greeting, naively unaware of the moment he'd just walked into. You scoot back as Pippin weasels his way next to Merry, tugging at his vest in blissful excitement as he shared all his cousin had missed in the few hours he'd been awake while Merry was still asleep. Pippin's excitement was contagious though, and as much as you mourned the loss of- you don't even fully know what- you smile along with his antics. His energy is enough to get you and Merry up on your feet and ready to face the new day. He babbles about Treebeard and magic water and so on, wandering a bit beyond the both of you in his recollection.

As you make your way to follow the excitable hobbit, you feel a tug on your sleeve that makes you double back. Merry's there, giving you an apologetic grimace, though his eyes still look the same as when you were certain he was going to kiss you. Feeling cheeky and confident with this newfound revelation that he had meant to kiss you, he wanted to- wants to- kiss you, you smirk at him, reaching out to brush your hand along his now clean wound that will surely scar. "Later." You nearly whisper, before turning on your heel and traipsing after Pippin.

Later.

[finalgirlkateausten]

the stakes are high, the water's rough

set during "fire and water". kate has a lot of pent-up energy, and it looks to her like claire and aaron could use a bodyguard. claire tries to get her friend to relax.

"Kate, come here."

Kate pauses, scuffing the toe of her boot in the sand. She turns briefly to glance at Claire before scanning the horizon once more. "Hm? Whatcha need?"

"Just thought you might want to sit down," Claire answers. "I mean, you're pacing like a guard dog." She laughs.

Kate sighs, pulling the elastic from her hair. The braid is giving her a headache. "I don't want to sit down. I've been sitting enough. Ever since that asshole grabbed me off the side of the mountain Jack has barely let me leave camp." She frowns, kicking the sand harder. It sprays toward Claire's shaded picnic blanket. "Not that he tells me what to do, I just-- ugh!"

Claire pats the blanket, giving Kate a tired smile. "Come sit down."

Kate drops obediently with a groan, kicking her boots off so she can tuck her feet underneath her. "Boys are stupid. My ten-year-old self had the right idea."

Claire giggles. "You don't think it's sweet, how worried he is? Every time I see you two together, Jack is staring at you like an adorable little puppy. I think you're lucky."

She's right, which makes Kate feel even more guilty. "I tried to go hunting yesterday," she says, pressing her fingers into the blanket hard enough to make dents in the sand beneath. "I speared a couple squirrel-looking things. It put me in a good mood, 'cause we haven't had much meat lately. And then I got back and Jack was asking everyone he ran into if they'd seen me... and it didn't make me angry. I just felt bad for worrying him. I don't know-- I didn't realize once we started talking about our feelings, they would just... get everywhere."

Claire raises her eyebrows. "Well... at least he hasn't tried to drown your baby."

Kate winces, her eyes falling to where Aaron is snoozing in his mother's arms. "I'm really sorry about Charlie."

"I thought he'd changed," Claire says, her voice shaking. "For the better, I mean. We've all moved past the things we went through before the crash... but when I saw what was inside those statues..."

Kate swallows hard. She's definitely had a few late-night conversations with Jack that she couldn't have voiced in the light of the day, but Claire's right-- Charlie has actively chosen to backpedal, to make things worse for himself and everyone else.

"I don't think he wants to hurt you," she says slowly, "either of you. He's just..." she trails off, realizing she has no idea how Charlie and Claire have ended up here. "I mean, if he is using, he's living in a very different world than the rest of us."

Claire's mouth forms a moue of disappointment. "I want him to come back," she admits. "As scared as I am, of what he wants with Aaron now, I miss him. But I don't know how to help him."

Kate stares out toward the horizon and thinks about white-knuckling a steering wheel as gunshots ring out. "Not everyone can be helped," she rasps.

"Maybe not," Claire agrees, with a heavy sigh. "But I think you can help him." She lifts her chin, and Kate follows her gaze to where Jack is handing pills to Sawyer. Even from here, she thinks he looks tired.

She'll help him sleep tonight, when they're not sweaty and stressed and weighed down by the dozen other things they have to focus on. Now, though...

"I'd rather be your bodyguard," she tells Claire with a grin.

"Let's make a deal, then," Claire retorts, offering her own dimpled smile. "When I don't need a bodyguard anymore... you tell Jack you don't need one either." She looks serious now. "Tell him it wasn't his fault."

Kate's stomach flips, and for a moment she tastes dirty cloth in her mouth again. But Claire is right.

The younger woman is holding out her pinky, and Kate can't help but laugh. She interlocks her own with it. "Deal."

As soon as they let go, there's the sound of shouting from further down the beach. Claire's smile drops.

"I'd better get bodyguarding," Kate says with a scowl. "Don't worry, Claire, okay? It'll work out."

[revasserium]

*runs in* ISAWYOURAUPOSTNAJSJSJSJJS Omg hiii

I really like your blog! It's like yummy food for my tired brain, so I got really excited to see you're making aus!

Can I ask for roommate au with Jamil? I'm down bad for him;;;

for my 31 days of au challenge @bakedgrape

a story in reverse

jamil; 3,571 words; fluff and slightly suggestive themes though it's never actually nsfw; college roommates!au + implied fwb...; you can read the story top the bottom or bottom to top ;)

day 273.

on the last day of term, you say goodbye for the very first time — and it stings like an unsuspecting papercut found by a thoughtless dollop of hand sanitizer, sharp and bitter with the pang of betrayal.

“ah… i guess this is it, huh?” jamil’s voice is lighter than it usually is, and just as forced.

“you say that like we’re not coming back next year…” you say, though there’s a twist in your stomach that makes your throat seize at the thought, even if it is just a thought.

“s-sorry! i just meant —“ he clears his throat and tries again, “i meant that i’ll see you soon, hm?”

for a second, you don’t know what to say — you can feel a torrent of unsaid words pushing up against the back of your throat like an insistent tide, crashing against the shore of your tongue. but then, jamil is reaching out to tip your chin back, brushing his lips to yours.

“soon. i promise,” he whispers, his eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them, gray and bright as the breaking dawn.

“yeah — i’ll see you soon, jamil.”

you pull your lips into a smile and watch as he jogs towards the curb, kalim already waiting there for him with their family car (rich boys, ugh), a dark-suited man in shades dipping his head in your general direction before slipping into the driver’s seat. you wave as jamil and kalim both turn towards you, raising their hands.

“see you next year!” jamil calls even as you nod.

“yeah, see you!”

and then they’re pulling away from the curb, leaving you standing there amidst your three rather large, well-scuffed suitcases. you let out a long sigh, plopping down on the largest one, the shell painted red and gold, though the colors barely peak out now from beneath the countless travel stickers to places that you’ve never been to (but jamil had promised he’d take you to all of them, didn’t he?)

well. there’s always next year.

day 212.

“are you gonna dorm again next year?”

“hm? i’m not sure… kalim says that we should just get a place together, so that’s what i might do.”

“oh.”

you pause over your half-eaten tub of haagen-daz, licking your lips of the mint-chocolate flavor. jamil glances over, reaching out to dig his spoon into the melting icecream.

“don’t worry though, wherever you’re staying, i’m sure we’ll be able to find a place nearby,” jamil says, flashing you a smile and a wink even as you duck, your cheeks flooding with color.

“that’s not what i was thinking about!”

“no? hm… i could’ve sworn that’s what you were looking so upset over but… well, if i’m wrong…” you can hear the mock-seriousness in jamil’s voice as he shrugs and heaves a melodramatic sigh.

“you’re the worst…” but you can’t keep from grinning as he cocks a challenging eyebrow in your direction before pouncing on you, pinning you beneath him on the sofa, the springs squeaking beneath you as the nearly drop the nearly empty pint of icecream.

“j-jamil! the ac’s still out —“

“mm… but isn’t that why we got icecream?”

his lips chase fire over the plains of your skin and despite everything, you find yourself shivering.

“y-yeah but —“

but your words die on your lips as he sinks his teeth into the juncture of your shoulder and neck, tearing a gasp from your throat as your head tips back.

day 196.

he’s always running high after his dance competitions, and this time it’s not different. so when he comes home, his eyes limned in glitter and khol, you’re not surprised to feel yourself being hauled out of your chair and into his lap, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as you purse your lips, card your fingers through his hair and hold his face steady with a teasing grin.

“i’m guessing that you guys won?”

“course we did,” he says, his breath still coming in short enough pants, his irises blown nearly black as he leans up to nip at your jawline, “we swept.”

“mm — i mean, you guys are pretty damn good.”

“how would you know? you never come to our competitions, even when i ask.”

you pull back with a dainty smack of your lips, pressing a finger to his frown.

“you guys could try to have competitions that aren’t either overseas or during exam weeks — then i might actually be able to go.”

jamil rolls his eyes, readjusting your in his lap even as he lets his head fall back against the sofa cushions.

“stupid exams…”

“just because some people are geniuses doesn’t mean we all are —“

your breath hitches as he narrows his eyes, a quicksilver glint flashing behind them as he hoists you up into a bridal carry and makes a beeline for the bedroom door.

“but since some other people finished their most stressful exam today… don’t you think they deserve to be… rewarded?”

a delicious shiver races down the length of your spine as you allow yourself to be plopped down on your too-narrow bed. jamil grins like the devil as he tugs off his sweat shirt and you can’t help the way your stomach clenches at the sight of him — so lithe and muscular, his skin smooth and perfectly sun-kissed. you’d never get tired of looking at his body, not in a million years, you think.

“i… i suppose one night off wouldn’t hurt…”

“mm, that’s what i like to hear.”

day 120.

“dance practice again tonight?”

“yeah. every monday, wednesday, and thursday —“

“— and sometimes fridays and sundays —“ you grin as you watch him shove a towel into his sports bag.

“here,” you say, holding out his water bottle, “i — uhm — you said you wanted to try liquid iv’s the other day so i put a packet in for you — i don’t know if you’d like the flavor but…”

jamil blinks as he pauses over his half-tied shoes.

“thanks.” he reaches out to take the bottle from you, giving it an experimental shake, “i — uh — i’m sure it’ll taste just fine. that was… really thoughtful of you.”

you hate the heat creeping up your cheeks as you turn back to your studies.

“it’s nothing. they had them at the farmer’s market i passed by this morning so…”

“uhm… will you be… up… when i get back?”

your head snaps up as you turn to look at him, eyes wide. fire courses through you, followed quickly by the sobering cool of uncertainty but still. you gulp and lick your suddenly very chapped lips.

“i — i don’t know… may… maybe?” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, casting your eyes back at your half-written notes, your mind already spinning over the calculations of how long it’d take for you to finish them properly.

memories from the past few weeks flood through your mind and you can’t help the twisting coil of tension thrumming at the base of your belly.

“well… i’ll text you later when i’m on my way back then,” jamil says, double-knotting his sneakers and flashing a grin your way. he gives you a two-fingered salute before he’s off and out the door, leaving you very nearly squirming in your seat at the mere thought of ‘later’.

day 101.

the third time it happens, neither of you can blame the alcohol. there was no party this time, no crush of ill-dressed bodies, no too-loud music and too-cheap beer. this time, there was just you and him and a shared bowl of under-salted popcorn, the lights off, a rerun of some movie both of you have watched at some indefinite point in time.

you don’t quite remember who made the first move — maybe it was you, when you’d coiled your legs under you, pressing your knee to the outside of his thigh and leaving it there. maybe it was him, when he’d rested his arm along the back of the sofa and let his fingers tangle absently in your hair.

maybe it was the moment of breath between one scene and the next, when the screen had gone miraculously dark and left nothing but the imprint of light behind both your eyes and before either of you could blink it away, your lips had found each other.

there’s nothing to blame this time but yourselves and each other, no questions to ask but the ones you’d already answered — right here, right now, because it feels good, because it feels right.

you fall asleep tangled in each other’s limbs, half beneath the silken covers of jamil’s brand new sheets.

and when you both wake up this time, it’s to the warmth of each other’s arms, the steady of one another’s breaths. jamil doesn’t pull away and you don’t try to think of something casual to say. instead, you both just look at each other and jamil grins.

“so… breakfast?”

you laugh, letting your head thump back onto his uber-plush pillows.

“yeah. that sounds fantastic.”

day 75.

the second time it happens, you blame the alcohol. you blame the crush of ill-dressed bodies, the too-loud music and the too-cheap beer. who’s idea was it to host a house party in your dorm room of all places anyway? and why is jamil’s entire dance crew suddenly here? hooting and hollering and grinning knowingly in your direction, a few of them even tossing you obvious winks.

as if they knew.

do they know?

you curl into yourself, press your body against the cool of the wall and toss back your drink, grimacing at the taste. whatever jamil had put in the punch bowl originally, there’s no question that it’s since been spiked with maybe a dozen different alcohols. and the mixture is fowl as it burns through your chest into your stomach.

the room spins, and eventually, you find yourself being pressed up against the back of your bedroom door, the party still booming along outside.

“f-fuck —” you fist your fingers in jamil’s long hair and tug; he lets out a hiss as his head jerks back, but even in your alcohol-induced haze, you can see the desire burning bright within him.

“sorry — did i —?”

“no — just f-feels good —” you bury your face in his shoulder, your body going soft and languid in his arms even as he slots a leg between your thighs to keep you still against the too-thin door. your hips ruck down against him and he lets out a thick groan at the way you shake against him.

“yeah? g-good… i like that —” he tugs you back with him and the pair of you topple onto your bed, all desperate fingers and dirty hands, sloppy lips, taking what you can, each from the other as if your bodies were endless things. and like this, with his hand pinning your wrists above your head, his gasping breaths bursting by your ear, you think they just might be.

the next morning, you wake up to an empty bed and cold pancakes on the kitchen counter.

day 47.

“why don’t you just talk to her about it?” kalim asks.

jamil frowns, running through his cooldown stretches, his eyes focused on his own form in the mirror even as kalim glances over at him.

“because — what’s there to talk about? i mean — it was just… one of those things.”

kalim shrugs, turning back to the mirror as well.

“if you say so but… it seems like you wanna talk to her about it.”

“it’s fine.”

“till it happens again.”

“it’s not gonna happen again.”

kalim slates him a look; jamil scowls even harder.

“if it does —” kalim’s voice is light as they both pack up their stuff and click off the lights to the dance studio.

“i said its not gonna happen again,” jamil snipes, readjusting his bag on his shoulder and digging out his phone. your message thread is pulled up and he’s halfway through the sentence — on my way back — before he catches himself and shoves his phone back into his pocket.

kalim grins, looking a bit too smug as jamil clears his throat and tries to play it off as if nothing’s happened.

“if it does… you should make her breakfast the morning after.”

“w-why the hell would i do that?”

kalim laughs, “because! then she’ll know that you might want to spend more time with her — time when you’re not —”

“okay! okay — ugh… but like… what do i even make her for breakfast anyway?”

kalim looks much, much too pleased with himself as he peers into jamil’s face.

“how about pancakes?”

day 31.

the first time it happens, it’s barely more than a month into your co-habitation. it’d been a not-quite-accident kind of accident. it’d been one of those rare nights when jamil doesn’t have dance practice and you’d finished all your work early.

“wanna play a game?”

jamil’s smile had been viper-sweet and just as dangerous.

“only if drinks are involved.”

you roll your eyes but agree.

“never have i ever.”

jamil shrugs, “sure. we drink if we’ve done the thing, right?”

you nod, pouring a row of malibu shots. jamil grimaces.

“why malibu?”

“cause — it’s sweet and it’s cheap and it’s the only thing we had in the cabinet.”

“fair. alright — you go first.” jamil pulls a glass towards him, his eyes fixed on you. he watches as you swirl your own shot glass with a contemplative look on your face, and he wonders if you know how terribly tantalizing you look.

so… he might’ve caught himself staring a few times right after you’d gotten out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel, your hair tracing water down the bare skin of your shoulders and back. and he might’ve lingered over your uncapped bottle of perfume, swallowing hard as he catches a whiff of the vaguely floral fragrance, the base warm and woody and dizzying.

“never have i ever… gone to three different countries in one month.” your smile, when he finally fixes his gaze on you again, is nothing short of wicked.

he narrows his eyes as he takes his shot, “that’s not fair — you know i have to travel for my dance crew’s international competitions.”

you roll your eyes, “yeah, and i’ve never been to half the places you’ve been so…”

“i’ll take you with me one day,” he says, the words out of his mouth before he can stop himself. you cock your head as you stare at him, and then you raise your already refilled shot glass.

“i’ll hold you to it then.”

jamil refills his own glass and downs the shot.

“never have i ever… been walked in on after taking a shower.”

“hey! and who’s fault is that?”

jamil smirks, shrugging nonchalantly as you take your shot, quick and vindictive.

“fine — never have i ever walked in on someone after they’d just taken a shower.”

jamil takes his own shot in stride, swallowing down the burn with a wide, satisfied smile.

so it goes on like this, the never-have-i-evers getting more and more ludicrous till you’re both drunk and laughing and more than a little hot beneath the collar.

“never… have i ever… hm…” you muses, your head lolling back as you cast your eyes up at the ceiling, as if an interesting thing not to have done might be written there.

“what’s something… super cliché?” jamil wonders aloud, letting his gaze flicker up as well.

you pause for a moment before dissolving into a pile of red-faced giggles.

“oh! never have i ever hooked up with a roommate! there — that’s a good one.” you smile wide and sure, looking proud of your own accomplishment in thinking up this thing that you’re certain he’s done.

jamil licks his lips and swallows, his eyes meeting your as he lets out a breath.

“i haven’t either.”

the air between the pair of you thickens as your eyes flash down towards your empty shot glass.

“oh.”

“but i guess it is kinda cliché, huh…” he says, setting down his glass and dragging a thumb along his bottom lip before popping into his mouth.

he hears rather than sees the way your breath hitches and he can’t help the pleased purr rumbling through him at the thought of being able to do this to you.

“y-yeah… i guess it is…” you lick your own lips, “makes you feel a little left out, doesn’t it?”

jamil hums in response, and it isn’t till you look up again that you realize he’s leaned over the graveyard of now-emptied shot glasses, his lips hovering inches from your own.

“but how about we change that, hm?”

day 15.

it only takes two weeks for one of you to walk in on the other in the bathroom, and all things considered, it was kind of a miracle that it hadn’t happened sooner. the bathroom door doesn’t really lock and jamil had been too preoccupied with scrolling through the music for their next showcase to see the tell-tale strip of light beneath the door that usually indicates that the bathroom is currently occupied.

when he pushes through, it’s to find you stepping out of the shower, the steam still rising from your skin in thick, white wisps, your hand reaching for the towel on the rack.

“wh —”

jamil stares, drop-jawed and dumbstruck as his eyes rake over your very, very naked body, the music still thumping from his large headphones as he blinks.

you scream.

he slams the door shut.

15 minutes later when you leave the bathroom, your cheeks flushed a deep shade of maroon, your hair still damp, but your body now covered in a long t-shirt and sweats, neither of you says a thing.

day 3.

three days in and you have to admit that it’s kind of nice, having a super rich trust fund boy as your roommate. if nothing else, all the furniture he’s brought along is gorgeous — from the thick persian rugs to the tasteful suede sofa, you very quickly find yourself living in a dorm that looks like it might have belonged in the pages of a crate & barrel magazine spread.

“but apparently, his cousin’s family is even better off —” one of your friends had informed you after you’d looked up jamil’s family online, very quickly finding the wiki page that links him to the al-asim family.

“oh yeah? what do they even do?” you squint at the wikipedia page detailing the al-asim family legacy.

“i think something to do with… water filtration?” your friend peers over your shoulder as you scroll through the page before clicking back to google. she tugs your phone out of your hand and quickly types something into the search bar before making a gagging noise and turning the phone results back towards you.

“holy shit.”

“holy is right,” your friend had said.

“with a net worth like that… what the hell are they doing in school?” you ask, your eyes wide as you look back up.

your friend shrugs, a wicked grin twisting her lips as she leans over the library table and whispers in your ear —

“but y’know if you can bag jamil you’ll be set for life!”

you flush and shove her away, “shut up! we’re just roommates!”

your friend tuts, “plenty of people end up hooking up with their roommates — it’s a literal cliché at this point.”

you roll your eyes, “well not for us, it won’t — and e-even if we do… there’s a long way between ‘hooking up’ and bagging someone for life.”

your friend giggles, batting her lashes floridly at you, “never say never!”

day 1.

“o-oh! hi — sorry, you must be…”

jamil frowns, turning around at the sound of your voice.

“jamil viper…” he says as his eyes land on you for the very first time, taking in the three large suitcases gathered around your legs, and the light blush dusting your cheeks from what he assumes is the exertion of having wrangled them down the too-long hallway.

“yes — right…” you purse your lips, tucking a strand of hair behind your ears.

“and you must be my new roommate, right?” jamil says, recovering from his momentary shock to offer you his hand.

pretty, is his first thought, smells like flowers, is his second.

you beam up at him, nodding.

“it’s lovely to finally meet you!”