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acapelladitty · 18 hours

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ok but,,,, Mr "the" ghoul subbing for his so/ for the first time and he's all unsure and tryna be cocky but he's actually a big softie who loves being taken care of and told what to do 💥

light me up and breathe in

Pairing: Cooper Howard/F!Reader

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

Summary - After some convincing, Cooper agrees to let you give him a chest massage.

(tw: heavy petting, teasing, cockwarming, threats of violence, cannibalism mention, dirty talk)

Convincing Cooper to let you take care of him was a task better suited for the great thinkers of the world, people who had the patience and the fortitude to deal with his stubborn bullshit as he dodged your every attempt. However, time was always on your side and you weren't convinced if it was the appeal of a massage or the promise that you would stop asking if he relented, but he had eventually given in.

His upper clothing had been shed quickly enough, exposing his bare torso to your greedy eyes. A shapely sight, his body wasn't overly muscular, but clearly held a core strength as it formed a solid expanse - the skin scarred and textured across every visible inch.

Reclined on his chair, his eyes were wary but heated as he watched you clamber onto his lap with a childish eagerness.

"That desperate, huh?"

"Shut up."

Rolling your hands along his chest, the rough texture of his skin left a pleasant tingle in your fingers as you follow the natural contours of his body. Patchy and pitted beyond reason, you map out the ridges with a faint smile and your fascination with his skin didn't go unnoticed.

"You staring at me like that makes me wonder if you're thinking 'bout taking a bite?" Cooper's low voice, dulled by his forced nonchalance, filled the air between you and you refuse to look up and meet his eye as you answer.

"Maybe." You tease, trailing a finger along the column of his neck. "It's about time you had something to worry about so maybe I'll cannibalise some part of you to shut you up for a while."

"If you're gonna wrap those pretty lips around a part of me then I've got some ideas, darlin'."

Gaze flitting across his body as you ignore his suggestion, you settle on his nipples and admire the deep red colour which stands free of his chest. You can imagine him in a better time, picture how dense the chest hair which would have coated him would feel below your fingers. How fun it would be to run your digits across the thick mat and pull at it teasingly, forcing him to shift up and meet your lips with a single tug.

But no.

Hairless.

It really was a cruel world.

Still, there was more than one way to get a reaction and you clamp your thumbs and forefingers around his nipples as you pinch the nubs with malicious intent.

"Maybe I'll focus on these. They're very sensitive."

A strangled gasp escapes him but he covers it quickly by curving his thick hands around the swell of your ass.

"True that, sweetie, but if you tear 'em off I'll be taking yours to replace them. With my teeth, mind."

Pulling at the nubs even more roughly, the discomfort forces a warning rumble from his throat as he arches his back against the chair.

"Not how this works, Coop. You have to say please if you want me to stop."

Scowling, he relents regardless, having alresdy agreed to the terms of the game. "Please."

"That's better, handsome."

Hands feeling dry, you get a move on with your agreement and add a healthy dollop of the unscented lotion which you had stumbled on in an abandoned pharmacy. Its discovery had prompted this little game and you can't hold back your grin as you spread it across his skin - sinking into the intimate contact with a soft sigh.

Tense as hell, Cooper is every inch a coiled serpent ready to strike out. He's subtle with it though; matching your wry comments with his own and visibly attempting to force himself to relax into the earnest touch. For a creature who was wrapped around you like a glove when you fucked, this type of intimate engagement appeared to give him more anxiety than staring death down the barrel of a gun.

"Relax." You soothe, hands running across his collarbone to wrap around his shoulders.

"I am relaxed." He lied.

"Liar." You call him out with a teasing smile. "But if a little massage is so scary for the big, bad bounty hunter then let me make you a bit more comfortable."

Dropping your slickened hand to his groin, you cup his hardened cock through the fabric, wasting no time in opening his fly and releasing him; allowing the girthy length to jut free in the cool air.

"Wow, Mr. Howard," you tease, gripping your hand around his length and stroking along it with a firm grip, "this looks painful. What are we going to do about it?"

"Cruel to play with a man's bone and not give him somewhere to bury it." Cooper rumbled, his hips bucking into your hand as you tighten your fingers around the base of a cock, denying him any further stimulation until he settles. "Might drive a man to do something dangerous, sweetie."

"Oh well in that case." Raising yourself off his lap by planting your feet on the floor, you slip further towards his body and line up his blunted cockhead with your hole - arousal making your lips feels swollen and sensitive as you run his cock along your slickened folds. "Would be a shame to waste it then."

Sinking down on his cock, you drop your head to his neck to hide the discomforting gasp as the familiar stretch of him makes your walls burn with the sudden intrusion. The texture of his cock adds an intensity that makes your legs tremble as it rubs along those sweet spots which make stars fly behind your eyes.

You adjust your hips until you're able to sit flush against his groin, the angle a little awkward but fucking delicious as every slight jostle sparks fresh pleasure. His eyes pin you with a greater ferocity than his cock as his head tilts up to keep line with your gaze.

"Tight as a drum." Cooper growls, the feel of you wrapped around him making his hips move of their own accord as he fucks himself deeper; each small rut leaving your cunt wanting more.

But no.

That wasn't the game.

Slapping a hand to his exposed chest, the skin there still moist from the lotion - you cupped your other hand around the back of his neck and scowl at him with a playful anger.

"Hey! Did I tell you to fuck me?"

Stilling his hips, Cooper curled his lips into a smirk.

"That you did not, darlin'."

"Then stop moving and let me have my fun. You focus on keeping that big ol' gun of yours holstered somewhere I know it likes, and I'll focus on what I want to do."

"You drive a hard bargain, missy." He replies, amusement playing across his harsh features. "But a deal's a deal and, hell, I'm sure there's gonna be a reward of some kind for such agreeable behaviours."

"Keep dreaming, handsome. I'm letting you warm your cock in me. Isn't that enough?"

"From you?" Flashing his teeth with an almost feral grin, Cooper's arm snapped around your waist to pull you flush to his chest as his rough lips brushed your ear. "Never."

Squeezing your cunt around him, the action netting you a muted groan, you push him away and roll your hips as your hands return to his chest.

"Nice try, buddy. But no amount of, admittedly, great cock is going to stop me from rubbing every inch of you."

"Stubborn bitch."

Cooper mutters the words without heat, his hands returning to their original position around your ass as you edge yourself on his cock; determined to explore every inch of him before allowing him to get his rocks off.

"Yours."

#sooo hot want to touch the hiney awoooooooo #fallout #fallout 2024 #cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #ghoul x reader #ghoul x you #the ghoul #cooper howard smut #cooper howard fic #ghoul smut #ghoul fic #walton goggins

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paarthursass · 2 days

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my controversial tdv opinion is that mark seibert's krolock is good, actually. like i get why we clown on mark. i do. i do. but his krolock is actually. he's a bitch. he's a clown. he has the STRONGEST dad energy. he will PERFECTLY play the part of the lovestruck hero for sarah if that's what she wants and then will go and hiss at a bunch of vampires like they're misbehaving kittens.

other krolocks might have more consistent performances, but BECAUSE he switches it up so often it gives his krolock the feeling of being a fucking chameleon. he will lure you in by pretending to be so earnest and sincere and a little bit goofy and then he'll rip your throat out. and then he'll turn and go back to being a little goofy with his son.

#sophie.txt #tanz der vampire #graf von krolock #mark seibert #like. his performance as krolock is actually Fascinating to me #and tbh he's probably Up There in my ranking of krolocks #it's just so. it's so Different from other interpretations in a way i find fascinating #and it doesn't even necessarily go Against who krolock is either #it doesn't feel at odds with the text #it's just another interpretation. and i think ppl dislike it bcs he doesn't lean into the menace as much #but in a way that makes those moments where he IS a bit more menacing all the more striking. bcs he chooses his moments carefully!!#and he doesn't ever do it while mugging or being insincere as an actor. which i feel. another popular krolock. does.

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looneyleyle · 2 days

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the self-destructive habits of a hopeless romantic ~ j. hughes

synopsis: monetizing one's self-sabotaging habits, surprisingly, has its downfalls. one of them being leaving that one attractive hockey player that is an absolute gentleman who loves you with his whole entire heart.

warnings: self-sabotage, self-deprecation, angsty (but with happy ending)

word count: 3425 words

note: once again unedited but i wanted to get this one out there

???'s pov

time and time again, the world has seen the self destructive habits of humans. well, that makes it seem serious. the world has seen the countless missed opportunities due to a fear of another's reaction. the world has seen the blunders due to saving face. the world has seen the heartbreaks due to miscommunication. time and time again, the world has seen how people sabotage their own lives for the dumbest reasons.

esther graham was no different.

in fact, she capitalized on her ability to put herself into the worst emotional distress possible. every heartbreak produced a great work of literature that would nearly sell out in bookstores all over the northeast. she wasn't a new york times best seller by any means, but she was a small town writer from mont vernon, new hampshire. she made a name for herself during her time at hamilton college in their creative writing program. in her junior year of college, she published her first book, woes of a teenage failure, a novel following what could have been for a young college drop out named sophia. the book was a hit amongst her peers and professors, and by word of mouth, ended up selling 200 copies. the book, as ms. graham remarked, was her own "what-if" story, as she almost dropped out of college the beginning of her sophomore year.

and how do i know so much about ms. graham?

well, because i am ms. esther graham.

and i'm here to tell you all about the biggest blunder of my life.

after my first book, i hit major writing block. i would stare at my computer screen for hours just to delete the only three words that i could come up with. i would sit in coffee shops, pen in hand, ready for inspiration to strike, and yet, nothing. i was nearing the end of my college career, riding on the coattails of my first and only book's success, and couldn't figure out how to continue. my professors taught me plenty of ways to try and combat writer's block, but nothing worked.

until i met ryan. a devilishly handsome man all the way from the cheese state of wisconsin, who was meeting up with some college friends for the annual boston beanpot. we had our meet cute at a nearby pizza joint, in which i sat down and started chatting with him, thinking he was a publisher that i was supposed to meet with. after realizing my blunder when he had absolutely no idea what an anthology was, he asked if i wanted to join him and his friends at the beanpot, as one of their friends had cancelled, leaving them with an extra ticket.

ryan and i dated for four months. we would take turns traveling between my college in new york and his in wisconsin until eventually it became too much, or should i say, too little for him, and he broke it off. in my rage and complete depression from the breakup, i wrote my next hit, until the sun sets, a 142-page anthology of gut-wrenching poems, which was eventually integrated into hamilton college's curriculum for their young adult modern literature class. i was quite proud of that.

after that, i found myself yet again staring at blanks screens and empty notepads.

that is, until chloe. a beautiful new york native whom i had actually met while dating ryan. she was a hostess at a restaurant ryan and i would always go to. she was pursuing her masters in psychology, which gave me fascinating insights and tactics to use in my books. we were never officially together, but we had something for almost three months before she was whisked off by some californian named ella. i never saw her again, which prompted my next book, the ninth floor, a murder mystery following a closeted lesbian couple in 1940's hollywood (it was one of the girlfriends the whole time).

at this point, when i hit a creative block for the third time, i realized that i needed my heart or brain to be in absolute shambles in order to produce my best work. i needed to be at some sort of life crisis, and the easiest way to do so was to love another and let that love be ripped out of your life.

so, i began dating for the sake of my career. it was like i sought out the most manipulative, scummy people in the world who were able to get away with it just because they were attractive. over the course of a year, my first year out of college, i dated a total of three men and one woman, and poured my emotions out into a collection of short stories titled lavender.

and that was when i met jack.

i was in new jersey for a book signing at this little bookstore which, as it turns out, was right by the prudential center. as i left the bookstore, i was nearly run over by an overly excited man-child with a giant bag slung upon his shoulder.

"luke, watch out, you nearly killed that woman!" a voice yelled from where the man came from.

"i'm so sorry about that miss, my brother can get a bit overexcited sometimes." looking at the person talking to me, i found a young, very attractive brunet with the most adorable smile. i straightened myself up instinctively, wanting to appear presentable.

"no worries. if you don't mind me asking, what got him so riled up that he almost trampled me?" the man let out a laugh at my statement.

"of course, we owe you at least that much for your near-death experience. he just got nominated for the calder trophy." he explained, as if those words meant anything to me. seeing my blank stare, he clarified. "a rookie of the year award. we play for the new jersey devils." the boy in question came up and joined us, grinning ear to ear.

"ahhh, i see. i'm not a big hockey watcher, which i know is absolute blasphemy for someone who grew up in new hampshire." his jaw nearly dropped.

"you're from up here and don't like hockey? we have to change that." he exclaimed. in my peripheral vision, i could see his brother trying to hide his laughter at his brother's forwardness.

"ill have to come and watch a game sometime." i mused.

"we have a game coming up next week against the blue jackets. i could maybe snatch you a seat in exchange for your number." he proposed. his brother snorted at that, having to turn around to hide his obvious laughter. the man paid his brother no mind, just looking at me with a big smile on his face.

"trying to bribe me mister?"

"is it working?" i put my hand out and he immediately put his phone in my hand, adding my information into his contacts.

"esther? that's nice, you look like a esther." i quirked an eyebrow at him, but continued on anyways.

"and you? what should i call you?"

"call me yours. or jack, either works." the brother was doubled over on the floor at this point, jack finally acknowledging him by kicking him slightly, making him fall over.

"anyways, ms. esther, we have to get going, but ill see you next week at our game." he put out his hand for me to shake.

"you've got yourself a deal jack."

and just like that, jack and i started talking. his eagerness was cute, he texted me no more than ten minutes after meeting me. we talked every day, mainly on calls, asking each other questions and such to get to know each other.

and sure enough, the next week, i found myself back in new jersey watching the brothers play. i assumed jack was going to be some sort of benchwarmer or something, but that didn't seem to be the case. despite my lack of hockey knowledge, i could tell the boy was good, and he had quite a fan base if the amount of women wearing his jersey meant anything. and i felt severely out of place, simply wearing a grey sweater and jeans, unlike everyone else in the stands, decked out in red.

after that, i found myself going to a couple more hockey games, for no particular reason. jack would try to explain the game over video calls and our occasional coffee meet ups, but i couldn't for the life of me wrap my head around it. why do they all get off the ice every five seconds? and what the hell is offsides?? jack always laughed at my confusion, telling me that i'd get it one day.

we spent a couple months thriving off of video chats and once-in-a-blue-moon hangouts, until i got a job as an editor for a local paper. i was good at editing, always having good grammar and an eye for design, but it wasn't my dream. despite it not being my dream, i needed a stable income, and fast. my mind was devoid of ideas, and it didn't seem like that would change any time soon.

plus, it helped that this stable income happened to be in new york city, putting me a lot closer to a certain someone. and, with me being closer, that certain someone would pop on by a lot more than before. and eventually, chinese takeout dinners turned into staying the night, which turned into coming up for the weekend, which turned into the line of friendship being crossed into something more.

and then, i made the dumbest mistake of my life.

i let him go.

now, i know what you must be thinking. he must have done something wrong, he must have cheated or neglected me or done something so completely unforgivable that i would just throw away the most amazing thing in my life. and i wish i was here to tell you that was the truth.

but it wasn't.

jack was nothing but a gentleman, and i was just a broken girl doing the only thing i knew how to do: leave. i like to tell myself that it was for my career, that i needed to write another book, that i wasn't fulfilled in my job and that i was putting myself first by doing this, but i was perfectly content with my life. i was an editor for a major publishing company, i started writing little happy poems about my mundane life with jack, and wanted nothing more. i had no reason to run away. i just woke up in his bed one day and realized that i wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, and i couldn't accept that. i had gotten so used to leaving people that i assumed that they would leave me if i hadn't done so first, and i couldn't lose the one real thing i ever had.

so naturally, my self-destructive, self-sabotaging self let him go, the exact opposite of what i wanted.

and when i got back to my apartment after writing jack a confusing and half-assed letter, i cried. i cried and cried and cried, and i always wrote about characters crying until they couldn't anymore, but that day, i couldn't find the end to my tears. for hours tears would either slowly leak or violently pour from my eyes, and they never did end, not even when i passed out on my couch from exhaustion.

and after a week, i was expecting to pick myself up and start writing my next best seller, coping with my writing. but i sat there, and my florescent computer screen simply sat there, staring back at me. and when i left my apartment for a change of scenery, the blank pages of my notebook mocked me. i flipped through past works, all of them being little poems about jack, and the waterworks continued, right in the middle of a starbucks.

after a week and four days, i couldn't take it. i had to make things right, i had to at least see him. it always worked in the books, right? someone makes a huge mistake, they break up, they see each other again and realize they're both miserable without each other and then get back together and live happily ever after.

when i knocked on the door to jack's apartment, i was met with an unimpressed looking luke. at the sight of him, the waterworks started up again.

"you're an idiot, you know that?" i nodded furiously at this, sobs wrecking through my body. i couldn't see through the tears in my eyes, but i could tell the luke hadn't moved a muscle.

"he deserved better and you know that." i felt my soul being crushed. "i mean, a letter? seriously esther? and a half-assed one at that. i know damn well you don't have a degree in creative writing for that bullshit."

i opened my mouth to explain, but nothing came up. what would i say, that i was a broken person? cop out. that i did it to everyone? not much better. that i got scared? fucking coward.

"if you think that you deserve to see my brother, then i'll let you in." he told me, moving out of the way, door open wide. i just stood there, staring at him through teary eyes. my brain cheered, finally able to go in, but my feet wouldn't move.

my heart still clenched and ached, and with every thought of moving forward, into that apartment, it hurt more. jack didn't deserve this. after all the nights of him reading my poems about him and praising my work, after all the sweet things he'd say when i was down, after all the little acts of kindness he showed me, after all the love he poured into us, he didn't deserve to be broken by me. hurt people hurt people, the scholars had that right. he didn't deserve to be broken.

and so, i got ready to leave, again.

"i'm sorry." was all i said, turning around with heavy legs and a heavy heart. i heard luke let out a sigh as i walked away, closing the door behind him.

a couple of days went by and i found myself back at their apartment. i knew they wouldn't be there, they had an away game in anaheim the night before, and i knew from my time with jack that they would always spend the night in the city before coming back, especially after a win, a 5-0 win no less.

i stood there in front of their door, a small box in my hands, contemplating. jack didn't deserve this, but a selfish part of me needed this. i placed the box gingerly outside of their door and left the building. if the box was taken by some nosy neighbor, or thrown in the trash by some janitor, then it would be fate. it would be a sign to move on. but, there was a chance that jack and luke would come back to their apartment, and would pick up the box, and jack would recognize my handwriting. and, instead of throwing the box in the trash like any normal self-respecting person receiving a box from their shitty ex, he would take it to his room, and open it up to see my notebook, with a bookmark starting at the pages when i first started seeing him. and he would read the poems and maybe, just maybe, he'd see the note written on the bookmark to meet me at the park near his apartment, and maybe, just maybe, he'd be willing to hear me out.

i went to that park every single day for exactly one month and six days, always arriving by 1 pm, never late. and i would stay there until 4 pm, waiting.

on the 37th day, i was sitting there, editing, funnily enough, a sports column about the recent devils and islanders game. i watched it, absolutely terrible game it was, the islanders beating the devils for the first time in the season. our sports journalist, while passionate and very knowledgeable about seemingly every sport out there, had a knack for writing long, run-on sentences that reflected his rambling nature. as i sat there on the same park bench i had been sitting on for the previous 36 days, a figure stopped in front of me. i finished up the sentence i was working on before looking up.

and while i hate cliches, the wind was absolutely knocked out of my lungs.

"h-hey jack." i started, immediately putting away my work, giving him my full attention.

"hey esther." a shiver ran down my spine from him just saying my name. it had been so long, and while it lost its loving tone, i welcomed it with open arms. jack moved, taking the spot next to me, looking out at the trees in front of us. when it became apparent he wasn't going to say anything, i started the conversation.

"i see you read the notebook."

"i finished it three weeks ago." he replied, voice lacking its usual emotion. tears welled up in my eyes. three weeks.

"oh."

"i came here immediately after finishing it." i felt my eyes bulge out of their sockets at that. he continued, "i went to that bench over there and watched as you fidgeted in your spot, looking frantically at everyone who passed by. i watched the next day as you sat in the pouring rain with no umbrella. i sat over on that bench every day that i was here since reading your notebook."

a silence fell upon us, my mind reeling, trying to figure out what he was trying to say, from his emotionless face to the fact that he came.

"do you know how much it hurt? waking up to empty sheets and some half-assed note with the lamest excuses on earth?" i hadn't really paid mind to the tears rolling down my cheeks until he brought that up, sending me back to that morning, quickly scribbling out some gibberish before leaving the best part of my life behind.

"i was going to wait another month, y'know. to see if you were still gonna come here every day."

"so why didn't you?" i asked, sniffling intensely, trying to calm down my sobs.

"luke said i was absolutely miserable without you. coach told me i wasn't focused. my teammates pointed out that i barely left my apartment. the icing on the cake was when my mom started asking if you would be coming over to the lakehouse this summer. i realized, as pathetic as it seems, that i can't live without you."

my attempts at stopping my crying were thrown out the window at that. i could probably fill the hudson river with the amount of tears i had shed over the past two months.

"how can i make it up to you. please, please let me make it up to you." i begged, fully facing him, my hands angrily playing with the sleeves of my shirt because if i didn't, i would be reaching out to the man in front of me.

"never pull that shit again." he bargained, looking me dead in the eyes for the first time in months. and in that moment, i saw just how bad he was doing. sunken eyes with heavy bags, his skin dull, hair slightly unkempt under his hat.

"never again." i promised, putting out my pinky to him, something he would always do when he promised me to not get hurt in games. he let out a hoarse laugh, looking away from me, and when he looked back, i saw the tears brewing in his eyes. he took my pinky in his and held it there, between us.

"now, i'm not gonna just take you right back after all that. that was really shitty and i need some time to get over that. but, as i've found out, i can't really function without you. so maybe you could start with coming to my games again, and i could take you out for coffee next week."

"sounds perfect."

i accepted my life as an editor for the local newspaper, accepted that i probably wouldn't write another page-turning sell-out book, accepted that i was completely content with whatever happened to me, so long as jack was there with me.

and with that, my self-destructive, soul-crushing, heart-breaking tendencies reached their end.

#jack hughes #jack hughes x oc #new jersey devils #fanfic

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lisbeth-kk · 1 day

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Sherlock fandom.

Zealous Movement

John hates it, Sherlock loves it.

“Too many people. Crowded. Hateful,” John grumbles.

“Yes, to the amount, no to latter. It’s fascinating,” Sherlock tells him.

John huffs and holds on to the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat when the train comes rushing into the Embankment station.

“Don’t even try to get rid of me,” John hisses when Sherlock tries to wrestle his arm free from John’s iron grip.

Sherlock looks at John and realises that perspiration is coating John’s forehead, and his eyes have something reminiscent of panic about them. He moves closer to John, interlacing their fingers together.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmurs in John’s ear.

John relaxes and exhales shakily when they walk through the doors to the carriage. Ever since Sherlock came back from the dead, John’s been dreading being apart from him, particularly when they’re taking the tube. In a flash, Sherlock may vanish again, deliberately or not, but John has a hard time coping. He tries, but today is not a good day for it.

“Come here,” Sherlock says, manhandling John to stand beside the opposite doors.

He crowds in on John, shielding him from the other passengers with the Belstaff, creating a cocoon for the two of them. John holds on to the lapels of the great coat and takes steadying breaths to calm himself. Sherlock’s low murmurings help too.

“I’m here, John. Safe. Home. With you. Always. I love you.”

John’s on the brink of tears and leans his forehead against Sherlock’s chest, listening to the steady heartbeats.

“Alive. Safe. Home,” John whispers to himself.

The train is loud and fast, racing through the tunnels of London’s underground. Steady, like heartbeats. Reliable when there’s no strikes or other obstacles.

John understands why Sherlock loves it. After all, he’s always on the move himself. Even when he’s lying on the sofa at Baker Street, his brain is running the halls of his mind palace.

Before the Fall, John thought nothing of taking the tube. He did it all the time, though he did prefer a proper train. The speed felt slower, and there wasn’t a rush to get off and change lines. And you were mostly overground. Things to look at. Less crowded.

Screeching brakes bring John back from his reverie. He’s still enveloped in Sherlock’s embrace, his smell, his even breathing, his reassuring heartbeats.

“This is our stop,” Sherlock says softly. “Ready?”

John looks up into cerulean eyes that are concerned, worried. He cradles Sherlock’s cheek and nods.

“Let’s do this,” John says confidently. “How hard can it be?”

“Well, if anyone would know, it’d be you, John. You did after all invade Afghanistan,” Sherlock quips and kisses John’s palm.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @safedistancefrombeingsmart @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @raina-at @gregorovitch-adler @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @7-percent @ninasnakie @peanitbear

#flash fiction friday #sherlock fandom #sherlock #john watson #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfic #FFF250 #rushing train

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draculasfavoritewife · 3 days

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Miguel O'Hara x Reader Headcanons

Summary: How you and Miguel found yourselves in a situationship of sorts.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!Spider!Reader

Warnings: Miguel gets angry when he's worried (it's a canon event guys). A very sultry kiss and implied smut towards the end. Me using far too many of the adjectives at my disposal just to describe this man and all the things he makes me feel.

I went and saw Across the Spiderverse TWICE in a week while it was in my hometown, and immediately started drafting fic for this goddamn gorgeous problem of a man 🔥 He just gave me too much to work with and I may or may not have spent entire months watching every single compilation I could find for "scientific inspiration". For my headcanon purposes, reader is a spider-hero as well, but I left her pretty vague on purpose -- feel free to fill in her costume/powers/skill set with your own spidersona :)

*Spanish translations at the end! (I am fairly bilingual, but if I made a lil mistake here or there do forgive me)

• He would say he had no idea when or how it started -- you, on the other hand, were taken by him from the first time he gave you his whole "canon" spiel.

• How could you not be? He towered above you, body chiseled like a Greek God, angular face equal parts weary and arrogant.

• And that voice -- rich and smooth as a silky black coffee -- it would be safe to say you were pretty smitten right away.

• To his surprise, you worked your way into his inner circle fairly quickly for a new recruit. Although you definitely had your own opinions, you knew when and how to push his boundaries and when he wasn't in the mood for it.

• Soon he trusted you to handle yourself with minimal supervision from him -- and maybe that trust was the beginnings of it for him. Because even though he recognized your competence, he still found himself continually assigning you to his personal strike squad, not to look after you, but because you somehow didn't annoy the hell out of him.

• Which comes in handy for everyone else after a while, because soon that translates over to you soothing the proverbial beast when he's biting the heads off of the more sensitive Spiders.

"How could you be so STUPID -- !"

"Okay, Miguel, I think they got the point."

"But they -- !"

"I know. They know. It's okay, let's all just take a breath."

"¡Ay coño! Nadie me oye. Todos son idiotas."

But he does back off, and does take a breath, and everyone else stares at you like you're the second coming of Christ.

• Your fascination and admiration for the intense head of the Society soon turns to a genuine enjoyment of his company. He's not much of a conversationalist, but you're okay with silence, and sometimes you just...end up keeping him company in the monitor tower after missions and he just...lets you.

• You soon notice the ungodly hours he keeps and start leaving him an empanada and a black coffee at the end of the day when you leave -- you know how dangerous he gets when hangry and undercaffeinated.

• It's a bit strange for him at first (someone is actually choosing his company over the bombastic personalities of the other spiders?) but Miguel soon gets used to you hanging around, and the hairs on the back of his neck finally stop bristling at having a fellow person in the room.

• One thing he absolutely can't figure out is why the scent of fear never radiates from you, even when you witness his occasional equipment-trashing tantrums. But he somehow doesn't quite mind that he can't intimidate you.

• He would strongly deny he ever gave you favorite treatment, but some of the others do realize he's not QUITE as hard on you when you challenge his decisions.

• Sometimes you check on him late at night before you go home; you can tell when he hasn't slept in a couple days by the way his shoulders hunch and how often he pinches the bridge of his nose against an oncoming headache (though sometimes that's just from dealing with Peter (x100) for too long).

• And that turns into you staying in late to keep him company while he swipes through screens upon screens of things that require his personal attention.

• That's how you end up finally seeing the videos of him and his little girl; he probably forgot you were there and her loss hit him all over again and before he knew it you had seen what he was like once, when the lines on his handsome face were from smiling so widely instead of losing sleep over the fate of all of reality.

• Neither of you really address it for a long time, but you know, and he knows you do, and there's this weird comfort that settles between the two of you after that.

• He already knows your story of course, and your canon events, but when the pair of you finally start talking during those late nights you share the little details, and you have the feeling that he wants to care about the small things, he just can't with the much larger picture he has to handle.

• It's little things that make it past his unbreakable outer walls -- the fleeting brush of your hand across his back as you pass behind him, the way you can hold eye contact with him longer than anyone else, the seemingly flippant way you blow him a kiss every so often when he sends you off to go make yourself useful elsewhere. Casual things, but he notices.

• And you want to tell him you're in love with him, but have a feeling he doesn't want to hear those words, because once they're out in the air, it means you both can't sidestep it anymore, so you don't.

• After a particularly rough mission, he's angry and you're shaken up, and he doesn't mean to react the way he does, but he takes it out on you, scolding you for what almost happened, and you fire right back because you're emotional, and the two of you end up raising your voices and everyone else just kind of...leaves the room.

• Then silence.

• You and Miguel are breathing hard, staring at each other. And something fragile takes root in the empty space between you.

• "Could you do me a favor and maybe not get yourself shocking killed?!" he growls at last, and there's a raw edge to it you haven't heard before.

• You laugh brokenly. "What do you really care, O'Hara? There's literally hundreds of Spiders here; I think you'd be okay."

• "¡Coño! How can you be so blind?!" He's snarling now, full lips pulled back and sharp teeth on display. "I thought we were on the same page for once."

• You're totally unprepared for when he grabs your shoulders and forces you to look up, right at him. "I can't lose someone else."

• He's so close, and his angry mouth has softened. And maybe you've lost your mind, but he's already angry, so what do you have to lose, really? At least that's what you tell yourself as you take the plunge and lean in.

• And to your surprise, he not only meets your lips, he kisses you back with matching fire, and what was supposed to be a simple, singular impulse turns into an unexpectedly heavy ongoing process -- fingers raking through hair, bodies pressing together, hotly whispering things neither of you remembers.

• And then as quickly as it happened, it's over, and you're on opposite sides of the room again like sulking cats, and he sends you home.

• You don't talk about the incident for weeks. Life goes on.

• But then one night, he offers to take you home when you both stay behind late, and at your door he apologizes for his lapse in professionalism, and you admit you...didn't mind. At all. He doesn't seem in a hurry to leave, and wanting to distract him from his work for at least a little while, you invite him in.

• And somehow what was supposed to be a sweet goodbye-and-thank-you kiss a couple hours later turned into exploring touches and murmured questions and agreements and how damn good his arms feel locked around your body; and when the sun filters in through your window in the morning he's long gone but your skin still smells like him and you realize that actually happened.

• You assume it's a one-time thing. People make mistakes, after all, no hard feelings.

• Bur when Miguel holds you back after a mission several days later and wants to make absolutely sure that the other night didn't make things uncomfortable between you, you go out on a limb and admit to him that you really enjoyed it.

• And he has to take some time and process that.

• But eventually he shows up at your place late one night again, and it starts to become a bit of a regular thing. So much so that you give him the spare key to your apartment and he starts to leave some of his clothes there sometimes. You love wearing his shirts, because they're enormous as hell on you, and you sleep in his clothes whenever you can't have his skin against yours.

• (For his part, he also likes when you wear his shirts, because then your throat, shoulders, and thighs are that much easier to get at.)

• And life goes on.

¡Ay coño! = (Expletive)

Nadie me oye = No one listens to/hears me

Todos son idiotas = They're all idiots

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