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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

Text

ruined, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: Why is there a mostly shirtless man in your bedroom and why is it Kim Namjoon's, your roommate's, fault? All you want to do is play League of Legends, not be visually attacked by ridiculously attractive Jeon Jungkook as his six friends perform living room karaoke at the top of their very drunk lungs.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; classic Namjoon ripping clothes; you don't have to know how to play LoL, I explain most of it; smut (fem reader, dirty talk, begging, scratching / marking, nipple play, edging / orgasm denial, handjob, (unintentional?) voyeurism, little bit of cum-eating, choking, cowgirl, cock warming); non-idol!BTS – purple-haired, kind-of-a-brat, sub!Jungkook x gamer, noona, dom!reader, ft OT6 being chaotic in the background XD

@yn-the-reader linked me in this and I was already writing about him. a prophet, maybe? XD

“WHY ARE YOU SHIRTLESS?”

You died.

Not literally, but also literally.

“Fuck!”

Now you had thirty-seven seconds of gray screen to figure out why the fuck Jeon Jungkook had busted into your bedroom on this cheerful night with his black dress shirt three-quarters of the way unbuttoned, revealing most of his – oh, sweet Satan, very muscular – pecs and the upper half of his abs. He was holding something in his hands, looking helpless and sad, while you were panic buying Liandry's Anguish and experiencing a special form of anguish yourself.

“Noona, um–”

That’s right, because you were in the middle of a League of Legends game, playing Cassiopeia, the Serpent’s Embrace, also known as half-snake lady or the lamia of the champion roster or a mean version of Monster Musume’s Miia (if you know, you know, and if you don’t, be glad you don’t). Your roommate was having friends over after going drinking. All this was fine and dandy with you, because you were going to spend all night wearing headphones and playing League of Legends, therefore ignoring the outside world, until the outside world came to bother you in the form of Kim Namjoon’s – your roommate’s – mostly shirtless friend Jeon Jungkook.

He wasn’t mostly shirtless most of the time, only right now.

“Noona, Namjoon-hyung ripped my shirt…” Jungkook whimpered hesitantly, chewing on his lip. He looked awkward and distraught despite his long dark purple hair giving him a rather fierce, bad-boy look.

Namjoon was a great roommate. He was smart, conversational, and insightful. A chat with him usually led to an enriching, open-minded perspective. He was relatively clean, considerate, communicative, nonjudgmental, fun to be around, and only set the kitchen on fire twice.

The second time was your fault.

You shouldn’t have let Namjoon in the kitchen the second time.

Also, Namjoon with his friends was a wildly chaotic time. All of his friends, especially drunk, were fucking nuts. Normally, they were probably relatively calm people (maybe not Kim Seokjin or Jung Hoseok, they were very excitable), but together they were a mess. You often wondered how they could function as a group.

Currently, however, you were trying to collect your brain cells as you had mere seconds before respawning onto the platform and were forced to play again. Timing in League of Legends was very important. Seconds can mess up wave management of minions and wave mismanagement can lead to game losses if you weren’t careful. The nuances of the game were often ignored by casual players.

You were, in short, a nerd about it.

“Fucking s-shit, what h-happened?” you sputtered out, turning back to your screen, unable to look at mostly shirtless Jungkook because he was MOSTLY SHIRTLESS. Honestly, he had quite nice pecs, and you should not be thinking about that, but it was incredibly distracting, just like how it used to be distracting when Namjoon was shirtless, but several years of living with him made you accustomed to his impressive pectoral muscles, to the point where you could joke about them with him.

But this was not Namjoon – this was his younger friend Jungkook and you had no idea Jungkook was ripped, mostly because you didn’t pay attention to Namjoon’s friends.

There were too many of them and you were too introverted for that.

“I don’t know, he just grabbed my shirt and it ripped and I managed to find all the buttons, but, but…”

Cassiopeia respawned on the platform and you couldn’t ignore the snake lady any longer. You had to play the game because four random people on your team were counting on you and you couldn’t exactly type, sorry, there’s a hot man in my room with his shirt practically off and I don’t know what to do with my life, so you had to suck it up and play the damn game.

Right-clicking and keeping your eyes only on your computer monitor.

Half-listening to that trembling, silvery voice coming up behind you, making your hairs stand on end even though all he was doing was dumping the tiny buttons on your desk.

Oh, fuck me, you thought to yourself.

“Can you repair it? Please? My mom bought me this shirt and Namjoon-hyung said you can sew, so maybe you can sew them back on? Please?”

“Yes, Jungkook, I can, just not right now, I’m in the middle of a game,” you rambled, suddenly trading damage with the enemy Viktor, trying to avoid the laser from the Machine Herald, swearing under your breath as you stutter-stepped and stunned him, poisoning him quickly enough with your abilities to avoid dying. “I will help you, I just – fucking shit, get the fuck away from me Udyr, fuck!”

“Wow, you curse a lot, noona. It’s kind of funny.”

“I – fuck– I mean, sometimes, and what are you guys doing out there? It sounds like a deranged cabaret club,” you remarked, ticking your head towards the direction of your bedroom door.

“Karaoke!” Jungkook replied brightly, still standing behind you, why was he standing behind you, it was freaking you out a little, but Ocean Dragon was being taken and a team fight was about to happen, so you had to ignore it and support your teammates in chasing down the enemy support.

Seokjin hit a high note that was so shrill that you heard it through your headphones.

“… Wow, he’s got some lungs on him.”

“Do you wanna join us, noona?”

“I can’t sing.”

“Neither can we.”

“Pretty sure all of you can sing better than I can, even Yoongi and Namjoon. I’m fucking terrible.”

“I’m not that good.”

You barely survived with thirty hit points after that debacle of a team fight, but your team had the dragon and you all were slowly on your way to victory. You pressed the ‘B’ key to return to base, but kept your eyes on the screen, lest Udyr, the Spirit Walker and serial bear stun-slapping enemy jungler, ran your ass down and killed you.

“Jungkook, your voice is absolutely heavenly. Fucking beautiful. I’m sure every human being on Earth would want to be serenaded by you.”

Silence that you didn’t notice was awkward for him because you were too busy letting out a sigh of relief and building your next item, typing quickly to your teammates. You all were about to set up for vision around Baron Nashor, a large purple worm-dragon monster that when killed provided a significant, sometimes game-ending buff.

“R… really?”

“Yeah, and you’re handsome, gorgeous, and hot as hell too, so the whole damn package,” you responded absentmindedly, realizing the enemy were trying to split-push and trade objectives so you sent some pings to your teammate to take care of that as you accompanied the main group to help clear waves of minions.

Heat.

You heard him shift beside you and suddenly his face was next to yours, watching your screen closely.

Side-step, cast your ultimate, cast your Miasma ability to ground the enemies and prevent them from dashing away, switching between auto-attacking and piercing them with Twin Fang, all in the span of a mild freak-out because why was Jungkook so FUCKING close?

“Wow, you’re so good at League.”

“I’m Diamond rank, so not that good, but definitely better than all seven of you combined.”

“Haha, true, we’re all pretty bad,” Jungkook laughed next to your ear and, oh, shit, is warm breath feathered on your neck, why weren’t you wearing a turtleneck or something and not your self-cropped oversized band t-shirt and slinky black leggings, why weren’t you cocooned in layers of clothes, because you were quickly highly aware of how attractive Namjoon’s friends were.

To top it all off, you were in the middle of a game, so you just had to tolerate it and stay calm for the sake of your teammates and your elo.

“Maybe you could teach us and we’ll teach you something in return.”

“You guys don’t even listen to each other, why would I assume you all would listen to me?”

“I’d listen to you, noona.”

Now your team was doing the Baron dance, skirting in and out of vision, daring the other team to make a move, daring each other to make a mistake so the other could capitalize on it, slowly, slowly, watch the waves, watch the minimap. Careful. You could control the situation if you were calm and not too trigger-happy. Tension in your fingers and tension in your neck because your roommate’s friend was right next to your head, observing your every move.

His violet hair brushed your shoulder.

Soft, delicate strands against your skin.

“You’re more experienced, so you would know what to do.”

Your support snap-engaged a fight and you were immediately in the zone, right clicking rapidly, cycling through your abilities, keeping track of the opponents’ spells, determined not to let any of them get away, following your teammate’s calls and not hesitating, because hesitation as death and loss, and you were so close to winning you could taste it, going after it with passionate vigor and a slow-forming grin, seeing and hearing the in-game announcer declaring, QUADRA KILL.

You didn’t kill all five of them because someone took the pentakill from you.

You might have cared about that except your ear exploded into clapping as Jungkook excitedly applauded for you, cheering you on, reminding you that a mostly shirtless man was standing right next to you.

Thanks, Namjoon, you thought sarcastically.

“Wow, you played that so well, dodging the Viktor ult and stunning three people like that–”

You felt your cheeks heat at the compliments, busying yourself with your team killing Baron. You didn’t usually have someone commenting on your games. Your eyes flickered to the small buttons on your desk.

Especially not a mostly shirtless guy.

Mostly shirtless hot guy.

Back to screen, seeing your jungler’s typed instructions, suggesting you all to destroy as many structures as you could and then prepare for the next fight for Ocean Dragon Soul and – oh? Your eyebrows raised as the screen abruptly jerked to the enemy base, the nexus inside exploding into shiny gem-like fragments that became the VICTORY banner.

“They surrendered?” you uttered with surprise, clicking on the CONTINUE button. “Why?”

Your eyes flickered to the kill score.

“Oh, thirty-two to nine… maybe that’s why….”

Your team had the nine deaths and the opponent team had thirty-two so, well, maybe that’s why they surrendered the game.

“Aw, that’s no fun,” Jungkook pouted as you clicked on the damage screen. Second most damage. Okay, you could take that. You were a little distracted.

“So, about your problem–”

You spun around to, ack, realize that, yes, Jungkook’s shirt was still flapped wide open to expose his chest like an unwrapped piece of caramel candy. He seemed to realize it too, making a surprised face and yanking the sides closed, as if you hadn’t gotten a damn eyeful already.

“I can resew the buttons back on, but you should borrow a shirt from Namjoon in the meantime,” you managed to say, clearing your throat. “Because I, ah, can’t really sew it when you’re still wearing the shirt.”

“Oh… Oh, right, yeah.”

Then he started yanking his shirt out of his slacks.

UMMMMMMM.

Usually, you didn’t care about this stuff. Men were men. They had chests. But you had things you liked too. Just like how men like tits and ass, you liked well-built pecs and forearms. Actually, you appreciated a nice ass and thighs too. And cute faces. Fuck, you loved a cute face.

“Uh, Jungkook…”

He looked up, questioningly. Big round brown eyes, his violet bangs framing his chiseled jaw, parted pink lips, the small mole underneath his lower lip looking so, so kissable, quivering slightly.

Fuck, Jungkook had a cute face.

His shirt was very open.

Fuck, his lightly tanned skin.

He was hesitating around a button, his deft fingers flexed, ink black tattoos standing out on his knuckles and the back of his hand. Your legs were slightly spread, thighs flush to your gaming chair. Half a second and Jungkook’s eyes flickered back up to your face, pretending he hadn’t been looking.

You raised your eyebrows.

“Are you really just gonna strip in my room and walk out asking Namjoon for a shirt and hope none of the six guys think anything about it?”

His eyes shifted around your room. Bed with black sheets and black velvet duvet. Television with your gaming consoles. Your collection of character figurines from various games. Your black denim jacket hanging on a hook, covered in monotone patches that you had sewn yourself, mostly occult-themed, skeletons, skulls, cats, ghosts, potions, eyeballs, that kind of thing. Back to your desk.

Your legs.

Really staring at your thighs, hips, and crotch.

Up your torso, your hands, your exposed collarbones.

Your face.

Guarding his expression, testing the waters.

“Maybe,” Jungkook said slowly. His eyes darted away and back, teeth catching his lower lip. “I really am hoping you can fix my shirt.”

You watched his face carefully, the flare of darkness in those brown orbs, a hint of naughtiness, dancing with danger. Jungkook had a mischievous streak. You could tell by the way he interacted with his hyungs, listening but talking back, helping them with things but not without a roll of his eyes or a smart remark added, probably because all his friends were older and he was the youngest. He knew he could get away with it.

In short.

Brat.

“What would you like in return, noona?” Jungkook purred, smile dancing on his lips.

Honorifics were supposed to honor you. Show a sign of respect and all that shit.

All I wanted to do was play video games, you grumbled internally. Not suddenly have a thirst fest for one of Namjoon’s best friends. You narrowed your eyes a little, seeing the smirk on that perfectly shaped mouth. He’s not stopping either.

Outside your room, something fell with a loud crash. Probably Namjoon by the depth of that startled yelp. Everyone else started laughing and a very loud, cheerful melody was blasting from the living room television. Nobody was coming to investigate you and Jungkook.

Yet.

“Turn around and ask for a shirt,” you sighed, waving a hand. “Then take off your shirt in the bathroom and then, only then, do you come back and give me your dress shirt.”

You saw Jungkook frown, not expecting that as your answer.

“Oh. Okay.”

He seemed disappointed, lowering his hands.

The silky fabric of the dress shirt slid off his right shoulder, partly revealing his tattoo sleeve and fully revealing his right collarbone and shoulder.

You sucked in a breath, eyes flickering to it. Then his face. Then back to his body. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Jungkook jumped, startled by the fallen fabric and reached over to grab the fallen collar. Your hand moved faster than you had time to think. You had good reaction time. It was the gaming obsession.

You slapped his hand down.

Jungkook squeaked, head snapping up, purple hair floating around him, gold chain on his neck glittering as he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Strangely, his chain resembled your sterling silver choker that you were wearing right now, except you also wore another necklace with a circular white gold pendant with your zodiac sign.

Not that anyone was ever close enough to inspect it.

“N-Noona?” he breathed, sounding strangely winded.

Shit.

You hadn’t meant to do that. Your body reacted faster than your head.

Shit.

Fuck, he had a nice body. His pecs. Even had a nice dark nipple – well, he probably had two, but you could only see one at the moment – and it all trimmed down to a slim waist and shapely hips. You could tell because of his tailored black slacks. He had been wearing a blazer earlier in the evening too. It was probably on a chair somewhere in the apartment.

Shit.

What did Jungkook need to look so damn good for?

“Where did you guys go to be dressed like that?”

Yes, you were really just going to interrogate him with his shirt dangling off like that.

Jungkook chewed on his lower lip, the tiny mole underneath bouncing up and down as he spoke. “We went to a fancy hotel rooftop bar to celebrate Yoongi-hyung’s award that he won at the music show for producing that song–”

“Ah, right, Namjoon mentioned that earlier today.” Dress code must have been black tie.

Those dark brown eyes found yours, observing you carefully.

“I would have liked to see you there, noona.”

You stopped staring at the tattoos on his bicep and made eye contact. Fuck. Those eyes. Sparkling with deviousness. Trying to see how far he could push your buttons.

“I wonder what kind of dress would you have worn?” he murmured, musing to himself. “I bet you would have looked hotter than any girl there.” Jungkook smiled, playful and boyish. He wasn’t being sleazy about it. Every word was light and honest. “A tight little black dress? Maybe bright red? Short, because you have incredible legs. It would be a crime not to show them off.” He was only complimenting you. His tone wasn’t trying to be suggestive.

Yet.

You didn’t close your legs. You had nothing to be shy about.

Instead, you leaned back in your gaming chair as if it was a throne, resting your left elbow on the armrest and your chin on two fingers, thighs wide open, and your other hand in between them, fingers curled inward to your inner thigh.

Jungkook’s pink lips curved ever higher, ever more roguish.

“Whatever you would have chosen, you would have looked so, so sexy.”

You ticked your head.

“I know.”

Because you did.

Look here, Jeon Jungkook, I’m here minding my own damn business and you’re here inserting yourself into my life, so if you can’t handle me knowing my self-worth, you can fuck right off.

He reached up and tucked a bit of his purple hair behind his right ear, grinning at you.

“You sure you don’t want anything from me?” he asked, a slight flicker of pink tongue between white teeth. “I can give first and then you can decide whether or not you want to help.”

Honestly, those sultry eyes could stop a heart.

You removed your hand from your chin, tapping the air with those two fingers in a dismissive manner.

“Hm.”

Outside, Kim Taehyung and Jung Hoseok were singing a soulful duet and Park Jimin was hooting at inappropriate moments to ruin the atmosphere as much as possible. That raspy, breathless laugh was Min Yoongi, who was probably doubled over on the floor in his expensive suit. Classic genius music producer of the year behavior right there.

Jungkook tucked his hands in his pockets, shirt sleeve falling down, revealing his blacked-out inner elbow. Mountains with a dark sky. It must have hurt, doing something like that. Still, he did it. For aesthetics?

You heard the smirk rather than seeing it, mostly because you were looking at his body.

“I would look so damn good on you, noona.”

Alright.

You closed your eyes slowly and reopened them to look directly into those dangerous, dangerous eyes.

“Lock the door.”

Not really an order. More of a statement. Jungkook could do it or not, you knew. He couldn’t be coerced to do anything. He did things because he wanted to do them. He was nice because he wanted to be nice. He was childish when he wanted to be childish.

And.

Jungkook was obedient when he wanted to be obedient.

He turned around, went to your bedroom door, and locked it.

Well then.

He came back and stood in front of you. A little closer now.

You cocked an eyebrow. “They’re going to come looking for you.”

Jungkook smiled down at you. “I’m sure they will.”

You frowned, lowering your hand to tap the end of the armrest. “They’re going to think I started this.”

“You kind of did.”

Your eyes narrowed sharply. He grinned, taking a step closer.

“Because it’s not my fault you look so good,” Jungkook breathed, voice deepening, leaning down, your expression unchanging, not pulling back but not encouraging anything either. “Not my fault your body is hotter than a summer. Not my fault your confidence is the biggest turn-on I’ve ever had in my life.”

Your thighs were still as open as his shirt.

Jungkook put his knee in between them.

His dress shirt was basically almost completely off his body now, falling off the left shoulder too and dangling off his forearms, exposed collarbones and shoulders, tan skin taut over muscle. A delicious body line, so fucking close to you that you could feel the heat. You still didn’t do anything. You weren’t going to do anything. You didn’t prompt this. You were simply minding your own business commanding a snake lady to victory, not expecting to get seduced by a mischievous bunny-like smile and a tiny black mole under a cute pout.

“I can’t help myself around you.”

You usually didn’t say more to Namjoon’s friends than a mere hello, not wanting to bother them with your presence. They were all men after all. You expected them to want bro time or whatever. Also, you were too busy being obsessed with men that didn’t exist in real life to pursue men that did exist in real life.

At least League of Legends had 3D models so no one could say you lived only the 2D lifestyle.

That didn’t mean that you didn’t partake when the dinner laid themselves out to be eaten. They often had to, because you wouldn’t pay attention otherwise.

Purple hair drifted into your vision, surrounding you in a curtain of violet and dark brown eyes, warm exhale and trembling pink lips, trapping you in Jungkook’s gaze, but you refused to relent, keeping your gaze even. Steady breaths to disguise your racing heart.

You kept your hands closed to prevent him from seeing your shaking fingers.

“Every time I see you, I want you to touch me,” he whispered, trying to hide the edge of nervousness by lowering his voice, enticing you to lean in to hear him better because someone was wiping a damn window in the living room outside your door or was that Kim Seokjin laughing?

There was no difference.

Jungkook’s forehead touched yours and you stopped thinking about Seokjin.

“I just want you to feel me up, rip my clothes off, and fuck me until I can’t think straight. Use me, abuse me, wreck me, ruin me,” he shuddered, definitely thinking about it, and one blink and you spied the obvious tent in his pants.

“Maybe I’m a lazy girl,” you finally said, touching your nose to his, inhaling his breath, a little bit of alcohol, a little bit of fruitiness, and that hint of cologne, fresh, clean, and intense. Something else too. Musk, maybe his pheromones or something like that. Whatever it was smelled fucking delicious, just like you. What did your perfume smell like? Spiced fire blended with addictive sweetness.

You shrugged casually.

“Maybe I’m a pillow princess.”

Jungkook chuckled.

“I can tell you’re not.”

You had to smirk.

Of course, you weren’t.

You closed your thighs around his knee and squeezed, raising to your tiptoes. He gasped softly, shivering at the simple touch of your soft thighs pressing around his muscular leg. It was disturbingly noisy out there, but here it was silent, pared down to your breathing and Jungkook’s breathing, mixing together, blazingly hot, closer, closer, doing the careful dance, daring each other to make the move that was so obviously going to happen.

“What are you gonna say when they ask you where you’ve been all this time?” you whispered, avoiding letting your lips brush against his.

“The truth.”

His tongue flickered out and barely touched your lips.

You didn’t make a sound.

Jungkook moaned, the sound drifting into your throat, and you could taste his desire.

“I tripped and fell into your lap.”

Your lips curved into a smirk.

He kissed you.

His hands on the armrests of your rolling chair, pushing it back into your desk, pressing his lips to yours, inhaling deeply, wanting to breathe you, wanting to taste you, wanting you, shivering as you finally touched him with your hands, but this was you, and your first touch wasn’t going to be wasted on a conventional innocent touch.

Your fingers closed in on his rock-hard erection and stroked him through his pants.

Jungkook moaned your name right in your mouth, eyes half-lidded, his violet hair encircling your face as he rolled his hips into your palm, whining deep in his chest.

“Fuck, yes, noona, play with me…”

You flitted your tongue between his lips and he chased it, begging you for more, and yet you continued to tease, light flicks between those soft pillows, nipping at them, even pushing up his lower lip so the tip of your tongue could draw a small heart around that mole, kissing it, so gentle, so delicate. His entire body shook, your hand palming his hardness through his pants, nails scraping against his balls, caressing all of it, acting like you owned it. Jungkook was certainly humping your hand like you did.

“You only want me because I didn’t want you,” you taunted, not bothering to hide your smirk and your slight disapproval.

“That’s not true,” he panted, attempting to get you to touch his chest, pushing you back into your chair, and yet you kept the fingers of your free hand on the cusp of what he wanted, heat close but no contact, causing him to whimper every time your fingernails barely nicked his skin. “I want you because you’re pretty, gorgeous, and hot as hell.”

Hm, that sounded familiar.

“I want you because I love watching you play your favorite games,” he chuckled, kissing the side of your lips, nose to nose. “I want you because I love that little smirk you make when you do something good. I want you because I love that aggressiveness that comes out and how you seem to lose your filter. Shit, it’s so fucking hot when you’re focused. Makes me wanna see your face when you’re pinning me down and having your way with me. Makes me want to obey you and disobey you at the same time, because I want you to reward me and punish me, I just can’t decide, fuck, you make life so hard for me.”

He punctuated hard by violently humping your hand, rattling your desk with his force.

Outside you heard Namjoon yelling “CANNONBALL” and throwing himself onto that giant gray furry beanbag you paid far too much for about six months ago. It was now a household party favorite, due to its massive size and fluffiness. At the moment, it sounded like a pile of six guys in semi-formal clothing was beginning and, instead of watching this heap of hot dudes being constructed, you were making out with the seventh guy’s face and grabbing his dick.

You’ll take this trade.

You felt Jungkook’s hands groping around, undoing his pants and the zipper, trying to get you to touch more, more, desperate for you to be all over him.

“P-Please… please, I don’t know when they’re going to notice…” he pleaded. “You’re so close, so close, ah, I can’t think, please…”

“Shh…” you soothed. “The door is locked.”

Your fingertips finally touched his chest, not disappointed in the slightest when you touched those delicious-looking pecs. They felt just as nice under your palm, his pounding heart and wanton moan vibrating up your arm.

“Aren’t you a needy little brat trying to distract me from my games, hm?”

Your fingertips hooked over the waistband of his boxer briefs.

“You’re going to have to face the consequences, Jungkook.”

You said his name like a delicious sweet about to be eaten, growl in your throat as you yanked down his underwear, capturing his lips, robbing him of his cries as you clawed down his chest, grasping his cock and pumping him, long, complete strokes from base to tip, curling your fingers around his balls, juggling them with your fingers teasingly as he squirmed and groaned. Your free arm shot around his back, digging your nails into his spine, not letting him get away. His black dress shirt was falling, falling to your floor, his bluish-purple hair in your face and his strong hands on your shoulders, sliding down, kneading your breasts through your clothes, whining that you were still wearing a bra – of course, you were, six dudes were coming over and they didn’t need to see your magnificent nipples on display, although clearly one of them wanted to see – and he was trying to get to the hem of your shirt, but you smacked his hands away, building the pressure and speed, pre-cum leaking between your fingers and adding slickness to lessen the dry friction.

Fuck, you could smell him and he smelled so fucking good.

“Noona, please…” Jungkook gasped, hands on the armrests of your chair, tipping his head back at the pleasure, pants at his fucking knees, chest, crotch, thighs on display. “This is… embarrassing…”

He meant him being mostly naked and you being dressed.

You shrugged, acting indifferent. “Not for me.”

He whimpered at your words, so noticeably dominant despite not using an aggressive or commanding tone. Either that or he was very invested in you jacking him off. You suspected it was a combination of the two, considering how eagerly his cock twitched when you answered.

“What should I do, Jungkook? Should I let you cum? Or should I play with you and stop, make you put your clothes back on and walk out there, desperate to be finished off?” you mused aloud, running your nails up his back, not that hard, but he leaned back into it so they sank into him, wordlessly begging you to do it harder, so you did, setting your jaw and scratching at his back, forcing him back into position. His cock throbbed in your hand, pulsating wildly.

Hm, he really loved it, huh.

“P-Please… wanna cum, please don’t be mean…” he gasped, thrusting his hips into your punishingly tight grip.

“Hm, why does it matter? You’ll just run to the bathroom and finish yourself off anyway, right?”

“Want you to do it, please,” he begged, his long hair curling around his jaw, dark purple locks framing the sharpness, lashes fluttering as you rubbed your thumb against the underside of the head, smearing pre-cum over the slit. “Your hand feels so good, so fucking good, better than I thought, please, I need you to touch me or I can’t get off, please…”

You removed your hand.

Jungkook cried out in denied despair, pitch hiking, the sinful sound clearly audible despite the debaucherously loud ruckus outside your bedroom door that included not one, but two people howling like werewolves for some unknown reason. At this point, you were mildly curious.

But you had a job to do.

He grabbed the front of your shirt, almost sobbing with need. Somehow his violet hair was a mess and you hadn’t even touched it. It cascaded over one of his eyes, an indigo curtain, the other chocolate orb shaking and pupil dilated, black prominent in the dark brown.

“Please don’t–”

You shoved two fingers from your right hand into that pleading mouth and raised your left.

He choked, gagging a little on your fingers.

You stuck your tongue out and licked your palm, slathering it with a thick layer of slick saliva.

Jungkook’s eyes widened at the dirty action and then rolled back into his head as you wrapped your hand around his aching cock once more, now covered in saliva, swiftly and fervently jacking him off, hard, fast, tight, nearly choking his cock, pushing his chin up and his chest to your hungry mouth, tongue and teeth and lips, all over those dark nipples hardening under your persistent touch, heedless to his rising moans, so very obvious now what was happening in your bedroom.

It didn’t bother you at all. Jungkook walked in here and asked you to wreck and ruin him, so you did exactly what he asked you to do, leaving harsh bite marks and slippery saliva all over his soft skin, your perfume rubbing off onto his body, coating his chest in your scent and his pulsating thick length with your spit, and he was so fucking hard that you were impressed, feeling his mouth suck on your fingers desperately and wetly, your name a messy garble above your head.

“Fuck, yes, umpf, oh fuck, I’m so close, so close, gonna cum, goona cum for you…!”

“Jungkook?”

You had no idea who called his name through your door, because the next second Jungkook was pitching forward and shooting his cum up your thigh and chest, thick white strings painting your leggings and band t-shirt, soaking into the fabric and creating a sticky mess on your skin, your head lifting in response to his movement to avoid knocking into him, your fingers sliding out of his lips, strings of saliva snapping as they left, and suddenly Jungkook’s face was in your face, his lips on yours in a passionate kiss, rutting into your hand to increase the sensitivity, shoulders and hips flinching, whimpering gratitude and ecstasy into your mouth, his hands in your hair, kissing you deeper, more ravenously, ignoring the questioning voices, lost in the pleasure of his orgasm.

You heard Namjoon say outside your door, “I think he made his move.”

You asshole, at least warn me, you thought irritably.

“You’re so good… so good, exactly what I need… I knew you would be… fuck…”

You thrust your tongue into his lips once and backed off, chuckling as he whined for more.

“Go ask for a shirt.”

Jungkook shook his head rapidly, violet hair flying everywhere. Your hand was still wrapped around his semi-hard cock, his cum dripping onto your wrist. His ears were turning red.

“I can’t… They know something is going on…” he mumbled, scooting closer to you, as if your body heat could somehow mask the fact that you just jacked him off with six of his friends standing outside your bedroom door whispering.

“Maybe you wanted them to know.”

You squeezed his ass and he trembled, clutching your shoulders.

“Easy way to tell them that you want to be owned by me, right?”

You could tell by the way his eyes were darting around rapidly that the thought crossed his mind more than once.

“Jungkook.”

You said it loud enough for a keen ear to hear it if they were really eavesdropping. You looked up at Jungkook, his eyes immediately fixating on yours because of your tone.

In control, not to be questioned.

“Get on your knees.”

Dead silence outside your bedroom.

“B… but…”

His cheeks flushed pink.

You took his chin and pulled him down to your face, murmuring to that mole under his lips, pecking it daintily, almost innocently, his wispy moan drifting over your nose. Your words were barely above a whisper, only for him.

“You made a mess. Clean it up.”

You stroked Jungkook’s chin with your thumb, your other hand tucking his long hair behind his ear.

“I’ll let you sleep in my bed tonight, so be a good boy for me right now and I’ll let you be a bad boy in bed.”

His head tilted and Jungkook whispered your name into your mouth, drenched with desire.

You smirked, stroking his jaw fondly.

He got to his knees, in between your open thighs, leaning forward, subservient eyes on your face as his pink tongue extended, licking at his own cum staining your clothes, eyes closing at your hand on the top of his head, not directing the movement, but reminding him who was in charge here, reminding him with nails in his scalp that he was going to be fucked until he couldn’t think straight.

Used, abused, wrecked, ruined.

“I don’t wanna.”

“We both know you do.”

“But I want to fuck you,” Jungkook protested, speaking softly because everyone was sleeping, or at least it seemed that way, not that either you or Jungkook cared, because you were forcing him to his knees on your bed, pushing his torso back, nails digging into his chest, towering over him, his naked body already covered in your bites and scratches, focused on his inner thighs and chest, none on his neck because that’s where he wanted it the most.

And you knew it.

“Noona, please…”

He said please a lot for someone who did not, in fact, want to be pleased, but tortured.

You grabbed him by the chin, cocking an eyebrow.

His hands were behind him, arms shaking as they held him up, shivering delightfully under your petrifying gaze.

“Please what? Hm? Saying please when you come crawling into my room, begging for dirty things with your friends right outside, saying please when you interrupt me and distract me, jeopardizing my chances to win my game?”

You leaned in close, you knowing you were only crafting a scene, him knowing that you didn’t actually care, but Jungkook wanted to hear the words, wanted you to put that malice in your tone to caress his ears, wanted you to cannibalize his sanity and put him in a different headspace, his cock already responding to it, bobbing in the air, purple-red and achingly hard from multiple orgasms, and he still wanted more.

“Saying please so you can say please when you’re under me, helplessly begging me to let you cum?”

You could hear his whines vibrating under your fingertips, pupils blown wide, lower lip trembling, begging you already, such a needy little thing, those lovely brown eyes full of submission, muscles tense with anticipation, every passing second spiraling him into increased frustration, because instead of doing anything, you were only smirking wider and wider, pushing his head back.

“Well? Tell me if you’re a dirty boy or not. Maybe I’ll do what you want.”

His violet hair cascaded to his shoulder blades, his low moan coursing through your fingertips and the heated air of your bedroom.

“Y… Yes, I’m a d-dirty boy…”

“Noona,” you prompted.

Just because you could.

His lips curved into an open smile, two of your fingers hooked over his lower lip, fingertips rubbing his tongue. Your thumb nail pressed into his mole.

“Noona.”

You ripped the condom open with your teeth, which was not advisable unless you were the kind of person that practiced that for hours on end, spending an obscene amount of money on unused condoms to perfect your technique, because nobody wants a broken condom or lube in their teeth. Why would you want to learn such a thing? You were a stickler for details. A perfectionist in perfecting a perfect display of raw dominance.

You spat out the torn corner onto Jungkook’s chest and he whimpered, unashamedly amazed.

Your left hand removed the condom from the package and your right slid out of his mouth and encircled his neck.

You inspected the condom, lazily turning it to the correct position, fingers pressed to the sides of his neck, leaving plenty of space for his trachea between your thumb and forefinger. You didn’t bother looking at his face. Instead, you spread your legs, poised and naked over him and his throbbing cock.

Your right hand started choking him.

Your left hand started rolling the condom down his thick, hard length.

Your name leaked out of his lips in a thin gurgle, his eyes rolling back into his head.

“Say please, Jungkook.”

A sharp, distinct order.

“P… Please…” he gasped out, chest shuddering.

Your hand tightened around his throat and your pussy clenched around his cock as you forced yourself down on him.

“Oh, fuuuuuuuck…”

You didn’t bother asking if he liked it. His vicious fisting of your sheets and trembling body, cries and cock included, told you everything you needed to know. You only watched the color of his cheeks, knowing there were limits to how long you could choke him. Therefore there was no time to be wasted, already starting your favorite pace, rough and hard, filling yourself with that delicious cock built to take your abuse, jaw set, gripping his throat, blood pounding under your fingertips, slapping hips to crotch, heat sparking though your veins, hotter, hotter, your smirk growing more and more smug, tongue tracing your lips as you witnessed Jungkook’s descent into sin, raising his head so he could watch you bounce on his cock with hazed brown orbs, mouth open, tongue lolling out, circulation thinning, purple hair wild around that cute, distressed face.

You let up the pressure on his neck, dark snicker rumbling in your chest.

“This pussy worth it, brat?”

The rush of missing blood into his brain, the suffocating pleasure of your pulsating walls wrapped around his twitching cock, your authoritative growl and merciless words tearing through him – you saw it all taking over Jungkook, forced to respond honestly from pure instinct because there was no time to compile pretty words or a smart comeback.

“Yes, noona, yes, I love it, I love it, this brat fucking loves what you do to him…”

You immediately choked him again and slapped your pussy onto his cock like you were whipping him.

His eyes rolled back and a wild moan tore out of his chest, cut off by your hand.

The bed creaked under you, bearing the weight of your roughness.

“I know you love it,” you snarled, leaning in, fucking him into your bed with vigor, straining his knees, so uncomfortable and so comfortable for him at the same time, pain and pleasure, clearly something he craved and loved from how hard he was. “You said you need me to touch you or you can’t get off.”

You knew that couldn’t be true.

Jungkook probably got off hundreds of times thinking about you, otherwise he wouldn’t be so ecstatic about you violently riding his dick right now.

His teeth sank into his swollen lower lip, staring at you through his lashes, his voice a thin whisper laced with insatiable need.

“I can’t cum without you anymore.”

You removed your hand.

Your hips stopped abruptly, fulling sheathing his cock inside you.

“No!”

His shout was so loud and desperate that you had to conceal your surprise, not expecting the frantic ferocity of his tone, nearly an agonized sob as he grabbed your upper arms in a crushing grip, his indigo locks crashing into his high cheekbones, sticking to his sweaty face and sharp jaw. It took everything in you to stay calm, everything to not give in and let him have what he wanted. Maybe it was stubbornness, maybe it was knowing the role you were playing, maybe it was the sadistic side of you, who the fuck knew, but there was only a beat of hesitation, a second of you staring into those beautiful dark brown eyes, so perfect.

Just perfect.

Perfectly wrecked, willing to do anything in this moment for you to continue.

Before he could utter a peep of a plea, you shook out of his grip and seized his head, crashing his lips onto your neck.

Jungkook bit you.

Instant, searing pain, taking out all his sexual frustration on your neck, sucking at the skin, hot tongue lapping, groaning, moaning, half-crying because you didn’t move. You just sat on his dick and forced his mouth onto your neck, gleefully savoring his despair, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to feel the pleasure, his hands and nails digging into your waist, his teeth latched to the side of your throat, his stiff cock shuddering inside you, your tight heat keeping him hard but not letting him cum, repeatedly squeezing the engorged head brutally, driving him insane.

Insane.

You could feel his lips move, but you muffled his words, pushing his head into your neck.

Please.

Deep inhale, his wonderful scent filling your nose.

Please.

Riding the high that was Jungkook’s desire for you, fingers tangled into violet strands.

Please.

He felt so, so good, spoon-feeding the dom in you with his tiny whimpers and distraught sniffles.

“P… Please…”

You pressed your lips to his hair, murmuring his name sweetly.

“Jungkook.”

No quiver to your tone, only serene calm.

“Noona…”

His hands slid up your back as your hips began to rock, slow, so painfully slow, building the frenzy layer by layer, his hardness swelling inside you, his soft lips pressed to his hickey onto your neck, even more turned on because he knew you let him mark you, he knew in this moment you were his and only his, everything he wanted and more, his hips rising to meet yours, deepening your thrusts, matching your force, burying his face into your skin and your scent, wanting nothing more than your command over his body.

You turned his head, tucking his hair behind one ear, speaking dark whispers into that curve.

“You look the best when on your knees for me, Jungkook.”

He shivered, your name falling sloppily from his lips, drunk from your power and lost in his service.

You let go of his head and grabbed his shoulders instead, putting all of your weight onto him, now letting yourself chase it, chase the orgasm that you had been building for yourself all this time, letting yourself feel Jungkook and feel the full force of the pleasure he gave you, because, yes, of course, you served him first before you, even if it didn’t seem like it.

Because when it came down to it, Jungkook came to you, opening himself petal by petal to show you his vulnerable side, testing the waters, hoping, wishing, praying that maybe, just maybe, you were the kind of person that he was expecting, wanting, needing, and you, knowing how difficult that was because, well, you had made it difficult, only focusing on games and not on those longing eyes that watched you whenever you came into his view.

Eyes that you looked into now.

Half-lidded, glazed over, fucked-out, still honest.

His large hands were still on your waist, holding you to him as you rode him with furious slaps, muscles flexed in his chest and arms, tattoos on his right arm tense and taut from holding this position for so long. He looked so good. Felt so good. Had an amazing cock.

And fuck.

Jungkook had a cute face.

You genuinely smiled.

“I’ll take care of everything,” you drawled, injecting your words with conviction and adoration.

That did it.

His lips parted, low groan emitting from his throat as his head tipped back, purple waterfalling onto his back, thrusting up into you and shooting into the condom with fierce jolts, unable to hold back any longer, his entire length flinching uncontrollably, sweet whimpers at his release, feeling sorry that he didn’t let you cum first, but that didn’t matter, because you rode through it, already there, falling, falling, your sigh like laden smoke as your orgasm slammed into you, welcoming the bolts of cruel pulses flying through you, concentrated onto your core, Jungkook’s moans hiking into pitched ecstasy at the convulsing clenches of his oversensitive, overused cock, arms embracing you tightly, hugging you for dear life, chest to chest, pounding heart against yours.

Your fingers tangled into his hair.

His hand fitted around your head.

Lips to lips and you took care of everything, claiming that mouth as yours, holding him up even though you were the one in his lap, your kiss onto that perfect mole under that pretty pout, cherishing every mumble of your name, lowering him onto your pillows, soft kisses in between. You took care of everything, lifting yourself off him, chuckling as he whined, pawing for you to come back, but you rapped his knuckles and calmed him, removing the condom and cleaning him off gently with a towel, soft kisses in between because he wanted the attention, deliberately not closing his eyes until you crawled back into the bed, tucking the covers around you and him, Jungkook immediately turning and yanking you into his chest, nose against your skin.

“Who’s the pillow princess?” you teased, ruffling his long violet locks.

His lips pressed onto your hickey, his mark on you, and he sighed in content, drifting into sleep.

In the morning, you found a pile of five guys in the living room sleeping in various positions on the giant gray furry beanbag and the sofa. Jungkook was in your bed, passed out. The last guy, Min Yoongi, was in Kim Namjoon’s room, sleeping on his bed, because he was a smart man and took advantage of a perfectly good bed that five drunk hooligans undoubtedly forgot about.

You chuckled and rubbed your neck as you brushed your teeth, seeing yourself and the large purple hickey Jungkook had made last night in the bathroom mirror.

You went back to your room after retrieving the sewing basket from the living room, spending the morning calmly stitching the small buttons back onto his black dress shirt as the seven guys in your apartment continued to snore away.

Then you went back to playing League of Legends.

Ah, Cassiopeia, I had an eventful evening, but I have returned to you.

drabble morning-after hungover breakfast

masterpost

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts smut #jeongguk x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you

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lilliagradiewrites · 3 years

Text

go get her, kid. (peter parker)

Summary: Peter Parker is hopelessly in love with Tony Starks’ teenage daughter, and Stark encourages him to shoot his shot.

WC: 7.4k (holy shit)

Warnings: Bad language, , really nothing else. A lot of cute peter and a painful amount fluff. A tiny bit of angst too.

A/N: I found myself watching Tom Holland interview clips today and I just couldn’t help myself. Here we are: my first peter parker/ spiderman one shot! I have some Harry and Jj pieces in the works, so keep eyes out for that!

LET’S DO IT!!!

--------

Peter found himself in this position far too often. Staring at you shamelessly while you worked away at whatever was on your desk, usually a school assignment or some tech project. His crush had been going on for quite some time, but it was getting more and more difficult to hide.

You and Peter had been best friends ever since your dad first recruited him. Something clicked between the two of you, causing an instant friendship. As time went on, you grew closer and closer to the superhero, and he quickly became your best friend. You began surrounding yourself with his friends without even realizing it, becoming close with Ned and MJ almost instantly. They were great people, and you loved being around them, but something about Peter was just different. Your energies matched perfectly for some reason. He got your humour, liked the same things as you, plus he was a great conversationalist and an even better listener. Some of your favorite memories were made with Peter.

Despite knowing practically everything about the boy, you were completely oblivious about his huge crush on you. Ned was the only person who truly knew, though many other people had their suspicions. The Avengers had an idea about it, considering you were what he talked about 90 percent of the time. MJ could tell because of the way he looked at you. When he looked your way, his pupils enlarged, his cheeks went pink, and the look on his face was entirely lovey-dovey. It was so obvious just in the way he gazed at you when you spoke.

He was looking at you in that way now, though you weren’t aware. He was meant to be studying (it was the whole reason he came over to your house, or at least that’s the reason he told you), but he couldn’t bring himself to care about chemistry homework when you looked so damn beautiful. Your hair was pulled back into a low ponytail keeping it away from your face as you worked. Your hands flew across the keyboard on your laptop, typing out something Peter probably wouldn’t understand. He was smart, sure, but you were intelligent in a different way. You were insightful and observant, you got things other people couldn’t begin to process. Your brain understood things in a different capacity than most. Peter assumes you got this trait from your father, who was the exact same way.

“What’re you typing? Something for school?”

You nodded, your attention not wavering from the laptop screen. “Yeah, an assignment for AP Lit.”

“Oh, that one project you told me about? With the essay and the powerpoint?”

You nodded again. “Mhm.”

Peter furrowed his brows, moving off your bed to come stand near you at your desk in an attempt to get a better look at what you were working so eagerly on. “I thought that project wasn’t due for another month.

“It’s not. I had an idea for the essay, and I figured if I get started early, I have more time to edit and perfect it.”

“You’re such a perfectionist.” Peter says with a light chuckle, looking at the state of your desk. It was both chaotic and organized at the same time. Pens, highlighters, pieces of paper, a book with annotations scribbled in the margins, notebooks with neat class notes printed inside of them in your pretty handwriting. They were all scattered about the surface, but Peter knew you well enough to know that there was always a method to your madness. As you observed longer, he realized that all of the items were in different sections on your desk, based on categories and subjects. He smiled lightly, realizing that this messy but technically neat surface was probably a very accurate representation of what goes on in your mind.

You finished the paragraph you were typing with a flourish, a satisfied smile resting on your lips. “There. I have a basic outline done for the essay portion. Obviously, I’ll have to go back and add a little more and elaborate on the points, but the basics are there.”

Peter glanced up at your laptop screen. His eyes were met with a never ending sea of typed out words. He smiled; this was so you. Your ‘outline’ is another student's essay doubled.

“You’re gonna write more than that?”

You looked back at him, and he saw your face for the first time during the encounter. His cheeks went slightly pink at the sight of you, and he prayed that you didn’t notice.

You didn’t, or perhaps you just didn’t say anything. You continued on with the conversation without skipping a beat, and relief washed over Peter because of this.

“Of course I am.” You stated with furrowed brows, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “This is so boring and basic, and has no detail whatsoever. Anybody who reads the summary of the book online could write this. I want my teacher to know that I thoroughly read and understood the novel, you know? I don’t want to submit some surface-level shit, I want to really pick apart the undertones of and the meaning behind the story.”

Peter nods, pretending to understand what you meant. He’d barely been paying attention to the words you were saying, too encapsulated with your beautiful eyes to do so. You turned back around towards your work, causing your best friend to snap out of his trance-like state.

“Do you wanna watch a movie or something? I’m bored.”

You had now picked up a pencil and a highlighter, working on the chemistry notes he was supposed to be taking. “Don’t you have work to do, Pete?”

“...No.”

You paused your writing to gaze at him skeptically.

“So you did your book report for english?”

“Yes.”

“Your worksheets for pre-calc?”

“Mhm.”

“You read the assigned chapters for Pschycology and finished the quiz you had to take on them?”

A nod was your only answer.

“What about chem? We have notes, essay questions, assigned reading, and a formulas worksheet due next tuesday. Have you done all of that?”

Peter hesitated for a moment. “Yes, I have.” It was a clear lie. “Can we watch a movie now?”

“There’s no way you did all of that. Go finish your work, and then we can watch a movie.”

A groan escapes Peters lips as he turns, resting against your desk. “But that’ll take forever. Your dad kicks me out at 11:00. We’ll never have time to watch one.” He whines.

You smile slightly, unable to fight it. Not replying to your friend, you spin around in your chair, raising your voice slightly, “FRIDAY, connect to dad please.”, the command directed to nowhere in particular.

“Connecting to Mr. Stark.” The familiar robotic voice echoes throughout your room.

“What’s up, Y/N/N?”

“Hey, Dad? Can Peter stay a bit later tonight?”

“Why?” Your dad’s voice replies through a hidden speaker, his tone almost accusatory.

“Because he wants to watch a movie but I won’t let him until we’re done with homework. We won’t have enough time to finish the movie if he leaves at normal curfew? Pleeeaseee, Dad?”

You can hear your father sigh. “Fine, but only because it’s not a school night and I’m feeling generous. He’s gotta be gone by one though, no exceptions.”

Both of you smiled widely, and you erupted in cheers. “Thanks, Dad!”

“Kid, be ready for training at eight. A later curfew doesn’t mean an exception from your early morning saturday sessions.” The statement was directed at Peter, who nodded, despite your father not being able to see him.

“Got it, Mr. Stark.”

“FRIDAY, disconnect.” You heard Tony’s voice from the other side.

“Disconnected.” The sound of the AI confirming the command filled your room, and the space fell into a brief silence once again.

You spun in your chair, turning to face Peter with a smug smile on your face. “There, now we can get our work done, and watch a movie. Satisfied?”

Peter nodded, giving a roll of his eyes and heading back over to his workspace on your bed, plopping down and continuing his assignments.

An hour and half later, Peter gave a heavy sigh, finally closing his textbook with a smile. “All done!” he announced proudly.

“With everything?”

“Yes, everything.”

You closed your notebook you’d been working in, standing up. “Great. I’ve been done for half an hour, I’ve been working on future assignments while I waited for you to finish up. Ready to watch that movie?”

Peter nodded excitedly. He loved watching movies with you, because you always cuddled up close to him on your bed while you watched. Peter loved being in close proximity to you, even though it made him a little nervous.

“What do you wanna watch?” He asked, beginning to clear his things off your bed.

“I don’t know. We can discuss while we go make popcorn.”

Peter’s eyes lit up; he loved popcorn.

“Okay!” He tossed the rest of his things in his school bag, zipping it up quickly and dropping it in the corner of your room. “Lets go!”

You chuckled at his childlike behavior, following him out of your bedroom door towards your kitchen. The entire journey down the stairs, down the hall, and to the kitchen was filled with Peter going on and on about movies he wanted to see.

You grabbed the microwave popcorn from the pantry, unwrapping it and tossing it in, starting up the machine.

You continued to listen to Peter as soft popping sounds filled your kitchen.

“Oh, you guys have Disney plus, right? What if we watched that new star wars show thingy? The mandalorian?”

You smiled at this statement. Though you didn’t see the boy in any way but a friend (at least that’s what you told yourself), you found Peter’s Star Wars obsession very cute.

“I mean, I would watch that, but I don’t think I’d understand it.”

Peter’s brows furrowed. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve never seen the movies.”

You watched in amusement as Peter’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening in shock. “You’ve NEVER seen the Star Wars movies? Are you kidding me, Y/N?”

You laughed at his reaction, moving to fetch the fully popped popcorn from the microwave and transfer it into a bowl. “No, I’m not kidding. I’ve been meaning to watch them forever, but I guess I never got around to it.”

“I can’t believe this!” Peter exclaims in disbelief. “We’ve been friends for a year and a half now, and you’ve never seen the Star Wars movies? This is insane! I talk about them so much… did you just never understand what I was talking about?”

You shook your head, chuckling. “Nope, I never have. I kinda just let you talk about it, because I planned on watching the movies. I figured I’d understand what you meant when I watched them.”

“Holy shit… we’re watching the first one tonight, Y/N. No arguments, we’re doing it.”

You grabbed the now prepared bowl of popcorn, smiling at your friend. “Alright, let’s do it.”

You headed back up the stairs, the sound of your footsteps accompanied with the sound of Peter murmuring in disbelief as you made your way to your room.

Once the two of you arrived at your destination, you closed the door, placing the bowl of popcorn on your still cluttered desk.

Peter climbed into your bed, while you rummaged through your drawers in search of comfy clothes. “I’m gonna change into pj’s before we start, i want to be comfy.”

Peter nodded. “FRIDAY, put Star Wars: The Phantom Menace on Y/N’s TV.” He spoke out in a slightly raised voice. The movie appeared on your screen, waiting to be started as you changed.

A few moments later, you emerged from your bathroom, now wearing a pair of Nike shorts and a slightly oversized t-shirt.

“Y/N, this is about to change your li-” Peter’s voice trailed off as he looked at you. The oversized shirt you were wearing… was his.

He choked on the piece of popcorn he’d been eating. “I-is that my shirt?”

You looked down on what you were wearing, realizing that it was, in fact, Peter's. “Oh shit. Yeah, sorry. You left it at the lab once, dad gave it to me to give to you, and I guess it just got mixed in with my clothes. I’ll wash it and give it back.

Peter shook his head, coughing again. “No, it’s okay. You can keep it. It looks better on you anyway.” his cheeks went pink as he realized what had just left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say the last part.

Your cheeks went even pinker at the compliment, which you couldn’t deny made your stomach flutter a little bit. “Okay, thanks.” You smiled at your friend, climbing into the bed beside him. You cuddled in close to him, probably closer than need be, but Peter didn’t seem to mind.

“FRIDAY, start the movie.”

---

A few hours later, the credits were rolling, and Peter was red in the face. You had fallen asleep halfway through the movie, and had moved even closer to him in your slumber. You were now full-on cuddling the boy, and he had no idea what to do. Your leg was moved over his, your head lay on his chest. One arm thrown around his waist. He liked having you this close, but his stomach was in a constant state of butterflies, and he was worried that the sound of his heart beating loudly in his chest would wake you.

He didn’t know what time it was, but it must’ve been close to one, because a knock sounded from the other side of your bedroom door.

Without waiting for an answer, Tony entered the room. “Alright, kids, it’s almost curfew, time to wrap it up…”

His eyes landed on you and Peter, cuddled up in your bed.

“Kid, what the hell is going on here?”

“Mr. Stark! Um, Y/N fell asleep while we were watching the movie and she kinda… I don’t know.. Ended up like this? Nothing’s going on, I swear, it’s just… I didn’t want to wake her up…”

Peter’s face was the color of a tomato at this point. Stark still had his suspicions about the boy’s intentions, but had a feeling that Peter was telling the truth. “Alright, then. You’d better get your ass home and get some sleep. Like I said, you don’t get a free pass from training because you were cuddling with my daughter till one am.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “No, Mr. Stark, I- We weren’t… I Wasn’t…”

Stark chuckled at the boy’s flustered state. “I’m screwing with you, Kid. Now get the hell out of my house. I’ll see you at 8 AM sharp at the compound”

Peter nodded frantically. “Yes, sir. 8 AM. Got it.”

Tony turned and left without another word, leaving Peter slightly panicked. Did Mr. Stark think that something was going on between him and Y/N? Would he be mad if there was? Peter didn’t know what to think, but he knew that he should probably leave before Tony decided to come back.

Peter climbed carefully out from underneath Y/N, setting her head gently on her pillow. He tried his very best not to wake her as he moved out of the bed.

“Goodnight, Y/N. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Love you lots.” Peter whispered to his ‘best friend’, planting a sweet kiss on her forehead. With that, he slid your window open, climbing out of it and swinging his way home.

Peter was completely oblivious to the fact that Tony had been standing quietly outside your door when Peter said his goodbyes, and Tony saw the entire encounter. The ‘goodnight’, the ‘i love you’, the sweet forehead kiss.

Tony had his suspicions, but that night it was confirmed: his newest recruit had it bad for his daughter.

Strangely, Tony didn’t find himself terribly angry over it.

The next morning, you awoke to the sound of your alarm blaring frustratingly loud. You groaned at the noise, picking up your phone to turn it off. The time on your phone screen read 7:00 AM. Groaning again, you pulled yourself reluctantly out of bed. As much as you hated getting up out of bed, you knew you had to if you ever wanted to complete your training. Your father had promised you that you’d get a spot on his team if you trained hard enough, and you were extremely determined. It had been your dream for years to become an Avenger, so you had been training your ass off for months to earn your spot.

This is how all of your Saturdays had begun for many weeks. An alarm going off at seven in the morning, waking you up to get ready for training at eight. It was a normal routine for you at this point, but for some reason the early wake up never got easier.

You moved about your regular morning routine, heading straight for your bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face. Once your basic hygiene was done, you brushed through your hair, changed into some clothes (your training uniform was at the compound), grabbed your phone, and headed downstairs.

You made a beeline for the kitchen, where your father was already making his morning coffee. When he noticed your presence, he gave you a tired smile.

“Morning, Y/N/N. Sleep well?”

Still half asleep, you gave an exhausted nod. “I shouldn’t have stayed up that late last night. I’ll yell at Peter when I see him. He always manages to convince me to let him stay late.”

For some reason, your father gave a light chuckle at your words. “I bet he does, sweetheart.”

Your brows furrowed at his statement. Something about his tone of voice didn’t sit right with you. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, making your way over to fix yourself a cup of coffee.

Your father smiled smugly at you, passing over the coffee pot and a mug. “Nothing, honey. Be ready in fifteen.”

Still suspicious, your eyes followed him as he placed his coffee mug in the sink and moved from the room. Why was he acting like this? Did Peter do something last night? You remembered falling asleep halfway through the movie, not being able to make it through the whole thing. Had something happened while you were sleeping?

Deciding not to let it bother you, you pushed the interaction from your mind, focusing solely on fixing your coffee. You were barely functional without it, and you knew you needed to be fully aware for training. You had to prove to your father that you could keep up with the Avengers, and that you’d be a useful asset to their team.

You downed the coffee quickly, knowing you had only a few minutes left to get ready. When your father gave you a time warning, he always meant it. And, you knew all too well, he would leave you behind if you were going to make him late.

He’d done it twice before.

Once you had finished chugging the remnants of your coffee, you placed the mug neatly in the sink, right beside where your father had left his. The drink had been an instant pick-me-up, and you automatically felt more awake. You found yourself getting more and more excited for the day ahead of you. Though waking up early on saturday mornings was a pain in the ass, you did enjoy training. You got to exercise, learn about cool technology, and screw around with your best friend. What wasn’t there to like?

Now that your best friend had crossed your mind, you pulled out your phone to text him. You sent him a message every morning, or he sent one to you. It was just a thing the two of you did. Over the past year the two of you had been close, it became some sort of routine.

Y/N/N: morning spidey. u awake?

Within moments, he was typing out a reply. He always answered your messages quickly.

Spidey: yes i am :) ready for training? I’m gonna kick ur ass in sprints today

You chuckled lightly at his response. You and Peter had always been insanely competitive towards each other, and it really jumped out during training. Unfortunately for you, Peter usually won the challenges. You always blamed it on the fact that he had more experience and super strength; he blamed it on the fact that ‘you suck’ and ‘he’s just that awesome’.

Y/N/N: u can try, but idk how that will work out. I’ve beaten u in all of the other sprints for weeks.

Spidey: doesn’t matter. I’m showing out today

Spidey: bring ur a-game, irongirl.

You smiled at the message.

Y/N/N: always do, spiderboy

He started typing back immediately, and you knew exactly why. He called you irongirl to screw with you, so you had begun calling him spiderboy to get on his nerves. It worked every time.

Spidey: Y/N!!! It’s spiderman!!!

Y/N/N: spiderboy!!! It’s nova!!!

Spidey: ugh. Ur impossible.

You grinned widely. Your playful banter with Peter has always been one of your favorite parts of the friendship.

Y/N/N: but u love me anyways :)))) see u soon

Spidey: u better be glad i do. see u soon

You reread the texts, unable to fight the smile on your face. Everytime you interact with Peter, you remember how much you truly love him. Being an avenger, and the daughter of one of the smartest and most famous men on the planet, wasn’t easy. Peter was the only one who had a taste of the madness that was your life. Having him around was having a sense of normalcy, and so were incredibly grateful for him.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of your voice being called from the front door of your house.

“Y/N! Time to leave!” Without hesitation, you locked your phone, slipping it into the pocket of your sweatpants.

You hurried towards the front door, not wanting to be left behind again. When you arrived, your father was already standing there, holding the door open. You gave him a smile and a quick thank you for holding the door, then made your way out. The driver was already waiting patiently in front of your house. This was one of your dad’s six drivers.

“Morning, Bernard.” You say kindly to the driver, climbing into the back seat of the range rover. “How are you today?”

“I’m doing wonderful, Y/N. How are you?” The older man replied. You really liked Bernard, he was one of your favorite drivers. He was an older man, in his mid seventies, and you found him to be the sweetest person in the universe. Sometimes, he’d bring you your favorite candy when he used to pick you up from school, and he was always so considerate and kind.

“I’m good. Tired, but good.”

The man smiled at your reply. By this point, your dad had finished locking up the front door of the house, and he climbed in the backseat beside you.

“Good morning, Mr. Stark.” Bernard said professionally to his new passenger, and your dad nodded as a reply.

“Morning, bernard.”

The conversation ended there between the two men. Your father wasn’t a very social person with people he didn’t know, and Bernard was aware of this fact. He mostly talked to you when you were in the car, and Tony went on his phone and did Lord knows what.

“How is Dorothy doing? Is she feeling better?” You asked the man as he began pulling out of your driveway. Dorothy was Bernard’s wife, and she’d gotten sick the week prior. Given her age, Bernard was very worried about her.

Bernard smiled at your question. “Much, much better. They released her from the hospital yesterday, she’s back home and doing great. Thanks for asking.”

“Of course!” You grinned back. “Did you ever find out what she had?”

“Pneumonia, just a very bad case of it.”

You nodded in understanding. “Well, I’m glad she’s better! I was worried when you first told me.”

The conversation continued, talking about anything and everything as you drove to the compound. He told you about his wife, his four kids and what they’re doing. His granddaughter had a baby a few days before, and he was extremely excited about it.

After a 20 minute drive, you pulled up to the building you knew so well. Bernard went to the normal procedure of getting through the front gates, and then pulled up to the front of the compound.

“Well, here we are.” Bernard announced, parking the vehicle. You and your father began climbing out of the backseat.

“Thank you, bernard. Tell your granddaughter I said congratulations!”

He wished you a kind goodbye, and then you were gone, leaving the car and heading towards the compound.

When you walked into the main section of the building, you spotted your best friend in the kitchen. You had to admit, he looked incredible, standing near an open window in the early morning light. He was already dressed in his sleek, black training uniform. It was tight against his body, showing off his muscled body. Sometimes, you forget how beautiful Peter is.

“You’re staring…” A singsong voice came in your ear. You whipped your head towards the voice to see your father walking away from you, smirking. You stood there, feeling slightly confused. Had you really been staring at Peter?

At times, you forget that Peter is only your best friend. The two of you act like an old married sometimes. You spend all of your time together, and you know each other so well.

Strange feelings you couldn’t understand had crept up on you before, especially recently. You couldn’t deny Peter was attractive, and he was a great person, too. How could you not love him? The issue is, you found yourself loving him in a different way than before…

You shook your head, clearing your thoughts. You couldn’t be thinking about this right now, it’s not the place or time. Peter was standing right in front of you, and you needed to be focused for training.

You could process your feelings and emotions at a later time.

You began walking up to Peter, who was leaning up against the counter holding a cup of coffee.

“Morning, loser.” You said teasingly, greeting your friend. His head snapped in your direction, and he smiled when his eyes found you. (You thought you could see his cheeks go pink, too, but you forced yourself to ignore it.)

“Hey! How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good.” You replied, leaning against the counter beside him. “I didn’t even notice that you left last night, I was really out. Did my Dad come in and tell you to leave?”

The pink in Peter’s cheeks darkened at your statement. Of course, this was the perfect time for your father to reenter the room. “Yeah, I did. He seemed very comfortable, but I kicked him out at one.”

Peter and your father were making direct eye contact. Your dad had that stupid smirk on his face, and peter was bright red.

You looked between the two of them, not knowing what to think. Before, you were just suspicious, but now it was confirmed: something happened last night between the two of them, and you were determined to find out what.

Hours later, you’re completely exhausted from training. You worked your ass off, and had successfully beat Peter in sprints.

“That’s right! You lost! How amazing is spiderboy now?”

Peter rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. “Whatever, Y/N. I let you win.”

Your jaw dropped. “You did not! I won because I’m better!”

Peter just smiled at you. You took a swig of the water bottle in your hands, turning around to look at your friend as you did.

The sight you were met with was very sweet. Peter stood there, smiling at you with a look you could only describe as adoration. You looked back at him, a small grin resting on your face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” The brunette boy says cheekily.

“Why are YOU looking at ME like that, Parker?”

You took a step closer to him, his eyes widening slightly at your movement. He said nothing in response to your question (though it felt more like an accusation), and you smiled again.”Got nothing to say?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“Parker!” You jumped what felt like 20 feet in the air at the sound of Natasha’s voice, breaking up the little moment between you and Peter.

You stepped back away from him, and you couldn’t help but notice the sadness flash across his face before he turned to the other woman in the room.

“Yeah, Nat?”

“Tony needs your help in the lab. I believe his exact words were ‘he needs to be here in five or I’ll kill him.’ A few minutes have already passed, I’d start running if I were you.”

Peter’s eyes widened for the second time. “Oh, shit, okay. Thanks, Nat.” He turned his head quickly in your direction. “I’ll meet you in your room when I’m done, okay?”

You nodded with a smile. Peter planted a quick kiss on your forehead before jetting off in the direction of the lounge.

Grinning to yourself, you turned towards the sink, your back facing Natasha. You begin cleaning out your now empty water bottle, thinking over the previous interaction with Peter. You loved when he kissed your forehead.

“So, how long have you liked him?” You were so deep in thought, Natasha’s voice made you jump once again. When you’d fully processed her words, your cheeks went pink.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, don’t give me that. I know you like him.”

“Like who?” Play dumb. That’ll throw her off your trail… right?

“Peter! Come on, you’re caught. Just admit it, Y/n, you’re making things harder on yourself.”

Finally, you sighed. Drying your hands on a towel, you turned reluctantly back towards Nathasha. “Is it really that obvious?”

The woman broke out into a grin at your words. “Of course it is! You two are hopelessly in love with each other. It’s almost hard to watch.”

Your cheeks went pink at her statement. “With each other? Oh, no. You mean I’m hopelessly in love with him. It’s not mutual. I’m just his best friend.”

Nat rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, come on! ‘Just his best friend’ my ass. He loves you, Y/N. He’s even more obvious than you are.”

You shook your head quickly. “No, I promise you’re wrong.”

She looked at you pointedly. “I was right about you, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, but…” Your voice trailed off. You couldn’t argue with that. Nat grinned smugly at your reaction.

“That’s what I thought. Please confess to him when he meets you in your room later. It’s painful to watch, I can’t do it any longer.” And with that, Natasha was gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Was it really thought obvious? Could everyone tell how you felt about peter? You could hardly even tell how you felt about him; the line between best friend and crush had been blurred for so long. If everyone could tell that you were hopelessly in love with your best friend, you would be incredibly embarrassed.

Even worse… what if Peter could tell that your in love with him?

You shook your head, as if clearing your thoughts. No. You couldn’t think like that. Of course he didn’t know; he would’ve said something.

Right?

Sighing, you walked off towards your room to take a shower, pretending you weren’t going to think of him while you were in there.

---

While Natasha was exposing your feelings, you were completely oblivious to the fact that Tony was doing the same thing to Peter in the lab.

When the boy walked in, Peter fully expected that he was being called for one of three reasons.

One: Tony had a new mission for Peter.

Two: Tony needed help with an experiment.

Or, three (the scariest option): Tony wanted to scold him for (albeit unintentionally) cuddling with his daughter the night before.

Peter could only be described as apprehensive as he walked carefully into the lab, where Tony was hunched over a table, working on something that Peter couldn’t see.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter spoke nervously, a timid way of letting Tony know of his presence. “Nat said you needed me. Is that true, or was she just trying to get rid of me?”

“No, no, I called for you.” Tony replied. He made a few last touches on whatever he was working on, then turned around towards peter. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Okay, option two is eliminated. Now, the question at hand is: will it be option one or three?

“Oh, okay. What about?” Peter said casually (or at least, that's how he hoped it came across.)

Tony gave a pointed look to the boy before speaking again. “My daughter.”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly.

Shit, shit, shit.

Option three it is.

“Is this about last night sir? I swear I can explain-” Peter was quickly speaking.

But, before he could finish, Tony was cutting him off.

“This isn’t about last night, kid. I mean, it kind of is, but not really.”

Peter’s brow furrowed.

Unknown option number four?

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I saw what happened before you left last night. The forehead kiss, the ‘I love you,’ all of it.”

Peter was bright red in seconds. “Oh…”

“Do you love my daughter, Peter?”

The boy’s cheeks somehow managed to go a darker shade of pink.

“I-I uh.. O-of course I do, she’s, uh, she’s my best friend.” Peter stammered out.

Tony narrowed his eyes. “That’s not what I mean, Peter.” The man says, his tone borderline accusatory. “Do you love her, love her?”

Silence. Peter didn’t know what to say, so he opted for nothing at all.

“I already know the answer, Peter, so you might as well just come out and say it.”

Peter pondered his next move. If he played his cards wrong, this conversation could end in him losing his life. Tony Stark was not one to be messed with, especially when it comes to Y/N.

On the other hand, Tony Stark was not one to be lied to, either.

Peter sighed, accepting his fate. “How did you know?”

Much to Peter’s surprise, Tony gave a small smile. “I see the way you look at her, kid. I’ve looked at many girls like that in my day. That enamoured look. You're in love with my daughter, and I have some questions.”

“Questions?”

“Yes, questions, kid. Keep up.”

Peter nodded. “Alright.”

“How long?” Tony asked.

“How long…?” Peter didn’t understand what Tony was aking.

“How long have you been in love with Y/N! How long have you known?”

Peter looked away, breaking eye contact momentarily out of nerves.

When did he begin loving you? Now that he’s truly thinking about it, he can’t really remember.

Maybe it was the first mission that the two of you did together, back when you still known as irongirl. It was a bank robbery, an easy task that Tony had given for your very first mission.

Maybe it was that one time when you dragged him out of bed at 6 AM so that you could show him your favorite coffee shop.

Perhaps it was when you took that faithful mission to Asgard, when you gained your powers accidentally, earning your new title as Nova.

Or, it could be the time that you and him stayed up late binge watching a show he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you that night. You looked so beautiful that night, getting excited as something cool happened in the show. Your hair was tied back, wearing an oversized shirt, your face makeup free. He couldn’t help but smile as you laughed, and didn’t think he’d ever heard a more beautiful sound in the world.

Yeah, he thinks it was that night.

“Um… about ten months ago, I think? That’s when I realized, but I think I’ve loved her for longer. I just forced myself not to acknowledge it, I guess.”

Tony nodded in understanding. “I get that. What is it about her?”

Another question the boy had to think about.

“There’s a lot of things, I think. Like how excited she gets when she talks about things she’s passionate about. Oh, and the way she laughs when something’s funny in a movie or a show or something. And the way she sends me memes or videos that she thinks are funny. They’re usually not very funny, but of course I think it’s hilarious just because she sent it to me. And she always listens to me when I talk, even if I’m talking about something stupid and boring like science stuff I think is interesting. She talks back to me like she cares what I’m saying, and I know she probably doesn’t, but she acts like she does, and that’s enough. She always drags me out to go on adventures, or, at least, that’s what she calls them. Usually it’s just going to get coffee or try out some new restaurant she heard about but it’s still fun. She’s just so amazing, and I think she makes me the best version of myself.”

The rant ended, and for a moment, Peter forgot that Tony was even in the room.

“Damn. I wasn’t expecting that. I’m impressed, kid. To be honest, I expected some shallow answer like ‘she looks hot in her suit’ or something like that.”

“No, sir. Of course, she’s beautiful, but Y/N is just so much more than that.”

Tony gave another sweet smile to the boy in front of him.

“She likes you, too, you know.”

Peter’s head snapped toward Tony again.

What the hell did he just say?

“What?”

“Y/N. She likes you.”

“No way. She just sees me as her best friend. I’m probably like a brother to her. She doesn’t like me like that.”

“But she does, kid. I know my daughter better than I know myself. She is head over heels for you, spidey. Which is why you should tell her how you feel.”

“Tell her how I feel? Why would I do that?”

“Because she likes you, too, and then you two will be stupid kids in love.”

“Are you serious?”

“Aren’t I always?”

Peter paused for a moment. “I thought you’d kill me when you found out I liked your daughter, not convince me to go talk to her about it.”

“I’m gonna be honest with you, kid. I brought you in here with the intention of killing you, or just telling you to stay away from my daughter. But after you went on that little rant about why you loved her, I just couldn’t tell you to keep away from her. You really love her, kid, I can tell. So go talk to her.”

“You’re sure you won’t be mad if I ask her out?”

Tony shook his head and smiled.

“Go get her, kid.”

-------

Freshly clean and feeling a significant amount better, you sat on your bed scrolling on your phone. Thoughts of Peter had begun to fade (mainly because you forced them out of your mind) and that helped to keep you from stressing about what’s to come.

You had decided to confess how you feel to Peter.

True, this plan could ruin everything. Today could be the day you lost your best friend, and that thought made you want to cry.

But today could also be the day you finally get to kiss the boy you’ve loved forever, and that thought also made you want to cry.

You didn't have much time to think about it further, however, because Peter was knocking on your bedroom door.

“Y/N? It’s me. Can I come in?”

You paused immediately, your heart rating speeding up.

Oh, shit. This is it. This could be the beginning or the end of you and Peter Parker.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. It was now or never.

“Yeah, Petey, come on in.”

The door opened, and the boy you loved so much walked in. His cheeks were pink, you noticed. His cheeks only went pink when he’s nervous. Why was he nervous?

You could tell by his damp hair that he had also showered before coming to your room.

“I need to talk to you about something.” He rushes out.

Oh.

“Same.” is your reply. What else are you meant to say?

“Oh, really? Well, uh, you can go first. I’ll wait.”

You shook your head frantically. “No, you first. You said it first, so it’s only right that you go.”

Peter’s hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing it. Another nervous habit of his.

“Can I sit down?”

You nodded. Why was he even asking? Usually he’d just plop down whenever he pleased, no questions asked. This behavior was very out of character for the boy you knew so well.

The boy sat down on the edge of your bed, and then took a deep breath. “Okay. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I just have to. I don’t want you to hate me, and I really hope this doesn’t affect our friendship, but…”

Peter paused for a moment, and looked into your eyes. They were brimming with concern, and he just couldn’t hold it back anymore. He broke the eye contact you’d been maintaining, mustered up all the courage he could, and then blurted it out.

“I’m in love with you. I have been for I don’t know how long. I wasn’t planning on telling you, because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, but it was starting to get physically painful and I just- I can’t hide it anymore. I love you and I’m sorry.”

Peter clenched his eyes shut, unable to look at your face. He waited (very anxiously) for a reaction, but it never came. Eventually, he opened his eyes, gaining the burst of bravery it took to look at you.

Your jaw was dropped, the expression on your face unreadable.

Oh, no. No no no no no. He’d fucked up. He fucked everything up and now you were never going to speak to him again. He’d lost you. Damn you, Tony Stark.

“Y/N…” He began his apology solemnly. “I’m-”

But he never got to finish his sentence.

Because you were pouncing on him before he had the chance to.

You were on him within seconds, kissing him with so much intensity that he fell back on the bed. He was taken aback for a moment, but quickly kissed you back.

For a moment, the two of you just lay there, wrapped in one another, kissing like there was no tomorrow.

A kiss that made up for all the ones both of you had longed to have in the months before.

You pulled away gently, looking into Peter’s eyes.

“I have loved you for so fucking long, Peter. I was going to tell you that I loved you today.”

“Are you serious?”

You laughed lightly. “Of course I’m serious, you dumbass.”

“Hey!” Peter feigned offense.

You pecked his lips. “You’re a cute dumbass, though.” And then you were kissing him again, and it’s all you could’ve asked for.

----

After a while, the two of you had finally tired each other out, and now you sat cuddled against each other on your bed. No movie or show was playing; it was just you and Peter, listening to each other’s breathing and the sound of your heartbeats.

You looked up at the beautiful boy you were cuddling with, only to find he was already looking down at you.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out, Parker?”

Peter’s eyes widened, and his cheeks went red (for the millionth time that day.)

“Oh, yeah, I- I just thought- nevermind, uh- Y/N, will-”

“Yes, of course I’ll be your girlfriend, Petey.” You cut him off, saving him a few extra minutes of nervous stammering.

He smiled sheepishly at you, then leaned down to bring you into a kiss.

You cuddled back down into his chest, smiling warmly.

You can confidently say that right now, in this moment, you are the happiest you’ve ever been.

#peter parker #peter parker one shot #peter parker fluff #peter parker smut #peter parker angst peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x reader #marvel fanfiction #mcu

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himbodjarin · 3 years

Text

LUNAR; CH11

18+ Explicit Content: Graphic descriptions of gore, violence, and smut; oral sex (male recieving), vaginal sex. Din Djarin/Third Person POV. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. Chapter Word Count: 12,951 holy fuck Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no use of y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate.

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN: STORM BOY

Tense. That’s the only word to describe the atmosphere—maybe a little suffocating, too—in Peli’s hangar; she’s been highly adaptable in regards to the Mandalorian’s extended stay, though he suspects she doesn’t mind one bit when the Child is in her arms. Speaking of which, he had eventually reawakened in the earlier hours of the morning when the twin suns were making their reappearance over the town. He hadn’t been acting like his usual self—hadn’t demanded attention nor nutrients all day and the Mandalorian doesn’t know how to restore his regular demeanour.

Mando isn’t a caretaker—he’s uneducated and inexperienced in regards to performing as someone’s guardian. It’s discouraging not being informed on what to do and there’s not a soul alive that can provide their insight into this situation. There isn’t exactly a whole lot of people in the galaxy who might understand the Child’s abilities, much less the side effects that come with it such as his recent behaviour changes.

Not to forget the Girl.

The Girl—the source of the leaps in his heart, twitching in his fingertips, and the harassing ache in his head. She’s impeccable in contrast to him, beautiful and soft and sweet but dank farrik if she doesn’t know how to invade his thoughts as if they were her own; splayed out in the midst of his consciousness serving as a constant reminder of everything he desires.

Between needing to prioritise the Child and wanting to surrender himself to the Girl, he’s going stir-crazy being confined in such small spaces surrounded by them, which brings him straight back here—pinned down by blaster fire and frantic screams in Huttese. It’s as though he likes it; enjoys the adrenaline coursing through his veins at every laser shot his way. It gives him an edge and provides a distraction from his thoughts, or it used to but since he took in the foundling his mind hasn’t had a chance to take a break—the arrival of the Girl only made matters harder for him. How’s he supposed to focus when all he can envision is her laying bare underneath him or wearing his shirt, only his shirt. It sends him numb from the waist down.

A twinkle of red flies overhead Mando as he army crawls along the metre-high wall to alternate positions, allowing him to gain an upper hand against the cluster of enemies defending their post. There’s a lot of them, fifteen at the least, all equipped with weapons ranging from vibroblades to flame projectors—he hadn’t prepared himself adequately for such a hefty job only armed with his handheld blaster alongside his amban rifle, though he’s running short on cartridges and decides to save them for when he’s in a pinch. Amongst his blasters he’s low on fuel for the flames in his vambrace, having used a vast majority of it on a heavy-duty lurker mere minutes prior to this shootout.

Putting it simply, Mando was in a dilemma—forced between a rock and a hard place—a real catch-22. He’s reliant on his blasters and that alone as he hadn’t communicated to the Girl about his commission received nor his departure from the hangar. There’s nobody coming to aid him—nobody here to watch as he takes one too many blaster bolts—but he doesn’t mind; actually, he prefers it. It’s as though he’s returned to his earlier years of being a Mandalorian, dependent on himself and his tools and unafraid of death; equipped with nothing but the beskar on his back and the decades-worth of abilities fine-tuned to suit his combat style perfectly.

Mando won’t go down easy, it’s not in his blood; not the blood of his relatives, but his manufactured Mandalorian blood. He’s been taught to fight - survive and to die here from lousy Klatoonian troopers wouldn’t be warriorlike—especially not with his head wracked with stubbornness regarding his crewmates. Nevertheless, there’s a heaviness in his chest - deep and thick and pleading with him to turn around; to return to the Crest with the Girl and the kid. It’s warning him—the increased beating in his ribs suggesting things aren’t in his favour, but he can’t just leave, not without figuring out what he’s to do for the Child.

And if he was to die here on this scummy rock of a planet, surrounded by nothing but sand, heat, and blasters, it wouldn’t necessarily be all that bad—it’d salvage the Girl and the kid from having to see him die, see him take his last breath.

They’ll be okay in the long run. They’ll care for each other and the Crest will protect them; be their support anchor.

They don’t need to be there when his heart stops beating.

They don’t need to see that.

It’s a macabre series of thoughts. He sighs groggily and hoists himself up to peer over the barricade, observing two Klatoonian soldiers communing at the top of their post, neither of their eyes on the Mandalorian stealthily underneath—it’s a good opportunity, one with a short duration to act. Mando scans the area for any others on the lookout and climbs the wooden rungs carefully, ensuring he’s making minimal sound to not drag their attention to him.

At the peak of the tower, Mando fires a bolt at the back of the head to the one on the right and it drops stiffly, the left’s turning around sharply and thrusting a spear in his direction. Mando’s leathers wrap around the shaft and yank it from his clasp, turning it around and penetrating the Klatoonian in the chest above his heart plate. His body plummets to the surface with the spear lodged inside of his torso and Mando steps up towards the edge of the watchtower, counting the visible heads aimed at the barricade he’d been behind a few moments ago. There’s eight to his left, five with rifles and three with melee weapons, and six to his left, all equipped with short-ranged blasters, and another couple secured in the structure below him.

It’s way out of his comfort zone—there’s far too many for him to take down without receiving some new scars to paint his flesh; he’d already obtained one today. It’s small, not something to fret over, but the gash on his side pulses each time he raises his arm to fire a laser. He’d been distracted while in the midst of combat, his thoughts preoccupied with large green batwing ears, and one of the Klatoonian’s managed a nasty slash to his waist. The assailant was taken care of, of course, but the damage was done and now his movements had been slowed by a hairline fracture—not a lot, but every second counted when on the battlefield.

Mando unclasps the strap of his amban rifle and rests it on the trim of the watchtower’s partition, gazing through the scope as he assesses the situation. There are only three canisters left. Three opportunities to disintegrate and put an end to an overabundance of hostiles. He needs to play it smart; needs to ensure he doesn’t exhaust his ammunition needlessly.

His eyes lock on to an unscathed, ominous-looking canister perched upon a table beside one of their campfires where six of them have gathered around, devouring what looked to be a scorched womp rat. They’re confident in their abilities, not concerning themselves with patrolling the borders for the Mandalorian’s reappearance—a mistake they won’t live to regret. Mando twists the mid-section of the rifle’s scope, scaling in to focus on the canisters’ hazardous symbol painted into the sides.

Surely they’re not that foolish.

It’s worth a shot—Mando aims for the weakest point in the canister and squeezes the trigger, leather crunching underneath his force and he traces the bolt of red as it nestles a burning hole through the capsule and explodes abruptly upon impact, producing a very loud bang that echoes through the valley for klicks. So they are that stupid to leave out combustible materials, right beside an open flame no less. Four of the six instantly plummet to the ground from the explosion, while the other two attempt to fight off the suffocating flames engulfing their bodies. It’s no use and they, too, fall to a charred heap among the grit; it sticks to their melting flesh with vengeance.

The remainder of the adversaries stand in stunned silence as their heads frantically spin and twist, searching for any sign of the direction the bolt had originated. Mando pops out the empty cartridge from his rifle, listening to the satisfying tink as it bounces along the wooden surface beneath his boots and rolls to a stop beside a corpse. Heaving his leg upwards, he slips another cylinder out of his boot and slides it into the chamber. The nest of Klatoonians have scattered throughout the campgrounds, shielding behind walls of sandstone and supply crates where they blend into a mass of dark greens and browns—Mando activates his thermal vision in order to distinguish the bodies as they peer curious heads out from behind their positions.

His sight is isolated to stone-blue over the landscape except for a blush of orange-red jutting out from the top of a crate, the unsuspecting Klatoonian’s head twisting and turning wildly. Mando shouldn’t fire—shouldn’t waste a shell on a singular soldier, not when there’s still plenty left—but, perhaps, if he eliminates one that’s hiding, they might fall into hysteria and rush out of their concealments. There’s not a whole lot of options from this position—if the watchtower was on the opposing side then he’d be set; easily pick them off one by one with his blaster pistol, but that’s not a course of action now.

Mando flexes his finger against the small of his trigger but doesn’t get the chance to squeeze before there’s a weight on his pauldron—faint, but enough for him to blindly thrust his arm against the figure and knock them against the railings, his hand retrieving his blaster from the holster on his thigh and directing it at the orange heat. Its hands raise swiftly, empty, and the familiar soft, sweet voice he’s grown accustomed to fills his ears, “Hey, hey, it’s me!”

“What’re-”

“Peli told me you went out. Something about a kidnapped girl? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffs, returns his blaster to its sleeve and disengages his thermal; returning the colour and the Girl’s features to his vision. She’s eyeing at his side, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but decides not to ask. “It was a ploy. There’s no girl.”

She sighs in relief but notes down his dismissal to her questioning. “Okay, let’s go then. I took out three on my way here and there’s more coming. We’re sitting mynocks up here.”

“No.”

The Girl cocks an eyebrow at Mando and he returns to his scope to avoid her attention. “Let’s go,” she whispers through clenched teeth, digging her fingers into the soft of his shoulder where his pauldron couldn’t shield. She drops the appendage when he shrugs underneath her clutch, obviously peeved at something she couldn’t read on him. “Mando, come on. There’s no girl, there’s nothing to prove to these guys.”

His throat grumbles as he attempts to stifle the thoughts in his head, not wanting to implode at the Girl and potentially startle her, but it’s difficult keeping everything caged up all the time—from his miserable thoughts regarding himself to the domineering cravings deep within his core. It’s too fucking much. If there was a key to it all he’d surely have tossed on a desolate planet by now, somewhere nobody, not even himself, will discover it.

He snaps.

“I have something to prove—I need to know I’m still useful.” Mando involuntarily groans at his childish outburst. It’s on par with the Child’s when he doesn’t get his way.

He’s not someone to express his emotions and especially not to direct it at another; not the Girl.

“Of course you’re useful, Mando. What’re you talking about?”

Caf-coloured eyes flicker behind the visor and he squeezes them shut, discarding the threats below as he tries to focus on not derailing all of his insecurities at the Girl. He doesn’t want to confess all of the little nitpickings he’s accumulated throughout his life—he’s learned to keep them buried underneath the rubble of trauma that is his daily life—and he especially doesn’t want her to see him so….sensitive; it’s not an attractive feature on him.

Mando’s mouth moves on it’s own accord, suppressed beliefs regarding himself misdirecting at the Girl in surges of angry jeering, “I used to be feared, used to wear this armour with pride; represented the Creed with the beskar the artisans forged for me. Ever since you waltzed in my life, I’ve…” He sighs, his shoulders visibly sagging as he exhales. “My competence has crumbled to dust that resolves from a gentle wind. I’m getting hit, shot, stabbed because I can’t get you off my fucking mind.”

He unknowingly strokes a finger down the barrel of his rifle, as if to imply he’d been shot with one of the pellets—nothing more than mere particles left of him.

He doesn’t need to look at her to acknowledge he’s gone too far—gone and pushed her away—and the lack of noise she produces is mockingly deafening.

But then there’s that faint, gentle weight on his pauldron again, dragging him from his dissecting and to her eyes filled with reassurance and tenacity. Mando finds himself like an icy dessert underneath the twin suns; liquefying beneath her gaze.

There’s a lot on his plate right now with the Child’s current situation and the Guild still coming after them—she knows this, and he knows that she knows; she’s accommodating to the unavoidable bursts that may escape him occasionally. She doesn’t need to, but she’s willing to; volunteers as his subject until it’s all out in open air and they can proceed. Mando simultaneously respects that—that he’s allowed to vent even if it means she gets a little bit of venom splattered at her—and despises himself for his misguided resentment.

Mando doesn’t genuinely blame the Girl for his lacking; he’s well aware it’s his own negligence. It’s his responsibility to maintain the upkeep of his abilities, his responsibility to protect himself and his companions as a Mandalorian. It’s just easier to push the blame on another; to pretend it’s out of his reach—out of his control.

“Let’s go,” she repeats, slower. “Please, Mando.”.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. I don’t mean it.

He’s never been good with words.

Hands more experienced than his vocals, he draws a line with his thumb across the curve of her jaw and settles it on the tip of her chin to crane her head back just enough that enables his eyes to swallow the stretched skin of her neck. “Okay,” he murmurs and releases her, withdrawing the rifle from its perch.

She sighs when his leather retires from her face and stumbles over one of the corpses in her daze. She takes the lead down the ladder while he keeps watch from the top, ensuring no Klatoonian’s sneak up on her while vulnerable, and she reciprocates the favour when she’s at the bottom.

“There’s a speeder bike just beyond the walls,” the Girl says once his boots are on firm ground, the sand crunching underneath his weight.

“We won’t both fit on it.”

“Sure we will,” she chuckles. “It’ll be snug, is all.”

Mando scoffs to himself and peers around a sandstone corner, squinting as the suns disorient his vision, but he gets a quick glance at a stroke of red about a metre ahead of him—and then a familiar symbol: hazardous product.

“Get down!” he yells, but it’s not fast enough - not fucking fast enough - and he’s flung into the parallelled wall. There’s pressure in his neck and spine, his helmet reverberates against the sandstone, and he slips onto his shoulder in the grit; his lesion collecting the sand molecules and painting them red. Pain stretches from the heels of his feet to the back of his head but he hasn’t got the opportunity to examine himself over—the Girl, where is the Girl?

Mando hisses as his head flexes, searching through the cloud of dust and rubble for his companion; heart hurdling over the gaps of beating and his fists balling against the land to keep him off his side.

“Mesh’la,” he croaks. “Where-oh, are-”

She’s hastily beside him, unscathed besides a few grazes across her forehead and hands—hands that are trembling against his beskar, investigating his condition with manic eyes. “Shit, shit, sh-”

There’s an attempt to calm her nerves on his part, placing a stocky leather weight on top of her hand to indicate he’ll be okay, but she doesn’t believe him—he’s still on the ground, apprehensive of moving in fear of what he may discover.

He moans at a twinge in his neck and carefully scrambles to his feet with her aid, her hands submerging into the flight suit for leverage, but it’s a mistake; his legs are numb and can’t support his weight and he has to rely on the wall to remain perpendicular and not tumble on top of her small frame.

She navigates a hand to his throbbing lesion, covering it with her palm to protect it from further invasion of particles, and the other rests against the back of his neck for reinforcement.

It’s exhausting standing like he’s made of beskar and not just wearing it - anchoring him to the ground, and it’s even worse attempting to move, his legs hot and heavy as his soles drag through the terrain.

“I got you,” she mumbles to herself, tucking into his side.

There’s a warmth at the back of his neck, his head, underneath her hand; hot, scalding and threatening. It fucking hurts—this isn’t a concussion, he quickly realises, he’s had plenty of them to discern easily; this is different, worse, concerning. The adrenaline is doing very little to conceal the pain and he emits half-groans-half-exhales in protest to his body’s tensing. It’s something he hadn’t experienced before, something that he can’t prepare himself to face the facts.

His leather tugs at the hand on his neck and the Girl hesitantly complies with his request, removing it from the cowl and bringing it ahead of his visor for examination. “What’s the mat- Shit, is that from your head?” she asks, hand trembling. ”

Mando confirms his suspicions; a dark thick coating of the finest Mandalorian blood staining the Girl’s delicate fingers. It’s not good, not ideal, but he wasn’t dead yet and they couldn’t stay pinned down here. “It’s not that bad,” he professes.

“Not that b- your fucking head is bleeding! Fuck, okay, okay. Sit down, here.” She aids him to sink onto an underturned crate against the stone wall and removes a small satchel that rests among her hip. “There’s a medpac in there. Fix yourself up while I go take care of these assholes. Don’t go anywhere.”

“No, wait-” Mando slips his blaster out of his holster and into her free hand, his leathers discreetly caressing the backs of bruising skin before letting her retreat. She glances at him one last time, doing her best to convince herself he won’t bleed out before she makes it back. “You better return,” he whispers as she disappears behind the corner, dual blasters aimed high in her sights.

You better return to me.

Mando turns his attention to the pounding at the back of his neck, the blood pooling inside his helmet, seeping into the thick of his cowl, running beneath the material of his back. What good was a helmet if not to protect your head?

Tatooine’s desert is no match for his throat, it’s suns mere wisps of flames—he’s starting to go into shock and he strives to fight it, his fists clenching and relaxing rhythmically but he can only hold on for so long before it overcomes him. Fuck, he’s so exhausted, his legs numb and throbbing with short bursts of tension beneath the muscles.

The satchel is heavy like a bantha offspring in his lap - taunting and restricting - but he raids its contents in the hope it’ll distract him; it doesn’t. Mando can’t—won’t—dress the wound, not here, not when there’s Klatoonian’s running around with murder on their mind and the Girl in their sights. It can wait—he can wait.

But he’s no help in this condition and he’ll only be a nuisance if he were to go against the Girl’s orders—he’s not that foolish.

He groans, deep and scratchy that tickles his dry throat, and tosses his head back against the wall—prompting a red reservoir to leak from his wound, his vision fuzzy with black and piercing white spots. Fuck. Stupid. So stupid.

“Mando. Mando?”

There’s a tapping against his visor that triggers his ears to ring and his head to throb. His eyes open to see the Girl before him, her face contorted into unpleasant angles of concern; he misses her smile, how her eyes squinted when she laughs.

“Come on, there’s a gap. We need to go.”

“Can’t move,” he whines.

“Use me then.”

He’s apprehensive; she’s small and dainty compared to all the beskar and with his worsening condition his weight will only multiply each step they take.

“Mando!”

She’ll only continue to persist and, to avoid her casualty along with his, he fists the fabric of her shirt and drags himself to his feet, utilising her as a crutch as she navigates him through the narrow alleys of the encampment. They follow a trail of corpses, blood, and blaster holes that he hadn’t even heard ring throughout the desert, his senses so colourless. His boots are alike durasteel; heavy and tight around his feet, constricting and dragging through the sand behind him. He yearns to kick them off, stretch his toes.

“Left here,” she instructs, twisting his body to a breach in their wall that’ll serve as their escape route perfectly; out of sight, in the far back that’ll provide them enough time to head for the dunes before they’re on their tail—or not. A bolt tinks against Mando’s vambrace grappled around her shoulders, but she’s not messing around - not letting a foolhardy Klatoonian interrupt their evasion. She bends her body just enough to point her blaster at the soldier without disturbing Mando’s positioning and crushes the trigger against the hilt, a vibrant red shooting out of the barrel, skimming through the air and whistling as it burrows a burning hole into his chest—all without looking.

Mando groans, impressed, “Where - where’d you learn that?”

She scoffs in amusement and continues trudging to the hole in the wall. “Well, you’re always so quick to point blasters you never let me show off. Could’ve aided you if you weren’t so metalheaded all the time.”

“Is that so?” Mando huffs a breath as a laugh. “Might have to upgrade your blaster then.”

“I think you need more upgrading than me right now.”

“Not - not a droid.”

She chuckles and assists him in ducking through the hole. “No, but you do need some repairs.”

The speeder bike sits only a few metres away from them; small, dainty, not suitable for a passenger. “Won’t-” he gasps, “-fit.”

She pats his chest for reassurance. “Well, you’re gonna have to. Get on.”

Mando slings a leg over either side of the speeder and lowers onto the back of it, uncomfortable and awkwardly positioned but it’ll have to do. “I can’t drive.”

She teases, “Oh, I know, I’ve seen you pilot.” She seats herself between the handlebars and Mando’s hunched body, patting the side of his thigh to indicate him to scooch closer. “Come on, you’ll fall off back there.”

Mando obeys her commands, his inner thighs pressing against the outside of her frame and beskar squeezed between both of their bodies, an arm gingerly curves around her midsection for greater support and it permits him an opportunity to be close to her - to hold her even if it’s not exactly how he imagines it.

“Go,” he instructs, visor tilted at the influx of Klatoonians emerging from the exit way.

Speeder hums to life, repulsorlift engine vibrates underneath their bodies and sags the vehicle towards the ground at the additional weight of him. She flexes her fingers around the throttle and zips off in the opposite direction of the gathering army, zigging and zagging to dodge the incoming bolts that kick up the dust ahead of them, one of them just barely managing to skid against Mando’s pauldron from this distance. She’s a good driver—avoiding missable dunes and anything else that might jolt him off, but the constant sharp turns don’t assist with his increasing headache and he tucks the peak of his helmet between her shoulder blades, concentrating on the rise and fall of her lungs.

In, out, in, out; fast and shaky like a collapsing tree in a brutish storm.

“Passed by an abandoned cantina on my way here,” the Girl says, mostly to ensure he doesn’t fall unconscious. “We can set up there. Take care of you. Be back before nightfall. Sound good?”

“Nnngh,” he groans. “Out of fucking action, again.”

“There was no way to know they had explosives. Don’t blame yourself.”

“That’s not true - used it against them. Should’ve - should’ve figured they’d do the same.”

The Girl’s back flexes as she twists the handlebars and sharply turns behind a cluster of boulders, casting them in a thick shadow and providing a break in blaster fire. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mando. I’ll fix you up and we’ll go see the kid, yeah? He’ll be waiting for ya.” It falls on deaf ears, Mando too preoccupied with not passing out and sliding off the speeder—there’s so traction, nothing to support his weight, and he maneuvers his chin to rest against her shoulder questing for the cushioning of flesh to soothe the throbbing in his head.

Normally, the heat of Tatooine suns posed as a nuisance with all of the layers he donned, but now it’s comforting and Mando welcomes it with open arms—the heat equalising with that of his neck—like a temperate bath drawn just for him and he sinks his toes in the waters, moaning at the buoyancy and how light he feels - how unrestricted he is without the beskar.

The Girl slaps his thigh, though it does very little to draw him out of his daydreaming; perceptions desensitising as his weight gradually distributes to her, forcing her shoulders down so she’s almost laying on the speeder with him atop of her.

“Mando, fuck, come on. Get up, you’re heavy - we’re gonna crash.”

“Can’t.”

It’s all he can manage to slip out of the drought of his mouth, his lips catching on his teeth. He’s so heavy, blood converted into uncured duracrete that sags through his veins, thick and clumpy and asphyxiating.

“Just hang in there, all right? We’re almost there. Stay awake.”

She sounds so far away, so out of his reach, and his fingers subconsciously dig into the shirt—struggling to latch onto her as though she’ll disappear if he doesn’t—but it feels like he’s grasping at mist; the particles just floating through his digits as he clenches around nothing. He’s breathing it in, dense and cloudy with a taste like smoke and rotten flesh, coagulating in his lungs until he’s spluttering inside the helm at the assault.

Mando doesn’t feel the speeder come to an abrupt stop, doesn’t register he’s been relocated inside the cantina she spoke of until he’s on the floor propped up against a wall; beskar scraping against the stone as he fights off not collapsing to his side and welcome the duracrete as his eternal resting spot. She blocks the door with a bystanding chair, just in case, and returns to his side on her knees, hands frantic and gliding all over his heaving body; it’s oddly comforting - her touches crafted with the healing properties of bacta and his eyes slip closed to envision them slow and grazing along his skin, along his chest and neck, dainty fingers wiping away the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“You didn’t dress the wound?” she questions, dipping her fingers into his cowl and amassing metallic crimson at the tips. “Stubborn son of a-”

“I won’t make it,” he interjects, helm twisting to admire her—memorising her beauty in hopes it’ll remain with him in the afterlife. Her lips raw from the onslaught of pearly whites, her eyebrows taut with concern, eyes shifty as she investigates his bodily injuries; it’s an unfortunate circumstance, yet her beauty knows no bounds—she’s in fear and shock of letting him slip through her fingers but she’s still so fucking breathtaking.

“You’re getting out of this.”

She files through the medpac stocked with minimal medical supplies, having used a vast sum of it on her the night prior. There’s not enough for both of them, her lashes still needing tending to, and Mando tries to stop her; tries to explain there’s a good chance the bacta won’t even make it to his system before he shuts down, but nothing but a soft groan flutters past his lips - his subconscious taking control over his obscurity. ”

The Girl’s scared, terrified, more than he’s ever seen her before, more than back on the spacecraft; more than when she speculated he would kill her. It shoves needles into his heart looking at her like this, looking at her be so fucking concerned for his health more than her own—she should leave, she needs to leave. They’ll be coming for him. This is why he came alone—why he didn’t want anybody around when his heart stops beating—why he’s been sidestepping around her.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so detached she’d be back safe in the Crest and he wouldn’t be slowly hemorrhaging to death.

She’s been around him too long; her brain picking up the most minute details he lets slip past his beskar walls. “I’m not leaving you,” she reassures, reading his mind.

“Need to.”

“I won’t.”

Mando whispers her name in short puffs, uttering the beautiful title that is solely her into the sand-buried cantina and strokes a delicate line across her cheekbone to her jaw where he rests his hand. It clenches underneath the leather - Mando swipes his thumb over the front of her chin sweetly, tenderly, just feeling her contours and arches. “Go.”

“Mando,” she forcibly smiles, “you’re an idiot if you think you’re dying here.”

She’s as stubborn as a Bluurg - he smiles.

He’s beginning to understand now—why the Girl hadn’t notified him of her past—or, then again, maybe he already figured it out and chose to ignore it, to replace desires with rationality. Perhaps that’s why, despite all of the suppressed emotions expanding against the confines of a metaphorical transparisteel bottle, he subconsciously found ways to distance himself from her. Utilising the Child’s priority, feigning resentment, straight-up leaving her in the dark—why he was still isolating himself even after their cin vhetin.

After all, it’s easier to care for a skeleton in the closet than the very alive passion in his chest. But it’s easier to neglect the corpse—forget the closet entirely—than the mania; that never stops, never allows him a brief moment to recuperate his thought process.

“I forgive you,” he mumbles with a smile, a smile she won’t get to see. “I forgive you, ner mesh’la.”

It’s only when you’ve forgiven her that you’ll truly move forward.

That’s what he wants; to move forward.

If he doesn’t make it out alive, she deserves to know—she should know how he feels towards her, even if it’s not reciprocated.

She freezes, hands hovering over him with a tremble that matches his heart’s; her eyes sliding close—it’s for his benefit, he realises, she doesn’t want her pathetic sobbing to be the last thing he sees.

It’s not pathetic in the slightest; how could somebody so intangible ever be considered pathetic?

With quivering muscles, Mando presses his leather flat against her cheek to collect a stray tear. It rolls along the curve of his thumb and soaks into the wrist of his flight suit, the moisture felt against his skin and he moans in a blend of delight and pain; a drops worth of Her converging against his flesh, staining it with salt.

“I forgive you,” Mando repeats to himself.

Grief is etched into her eyes when she finally peels the thin lids back, her pupils flickering across the visor desperate to discover the eyes behind the cold blackness. There’s a pang in her heart that pulsates each time his chest collapses underneath her hands, counting down the rise and falls until it inevitably discontinues. “You’re not dying here.” Her lips are pulled taut against her teeth, cheeks wet with tears. “I won’t allow it. The kid needs you. I need you. End of discussion, all right?”

Mando’s head tilts, an overly enthusiastic tug in the corner of his mouth.

“All right,” he permits.

“Good.” The Girl wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of the shirt; his shirt. “Sit forward, let me fix that head of yours.”

“Helmet,” he groans.

Oh, how his creed screws with him, obstructs him from the most basic aspects of life.

“It doesn’t need to come off.” She drives him forwards off the wall and wraps an arm across the front of his shoulders, a leg clipping behind him and another in front over his lap, snuggly positioning him between her legs so he doesn’t collapse either side. She’s tepid, pillowy, and he allows himself to lean into her, his pauldron squishing into her chest. “It’ll just be hard to tell if it’s sealed,” she narrates to herself as she digs through his cowl where it obscures the underneath of his helmet. “Is this okay?”

He nods, fingers itching in his gloves.

Delicate, smooth fingers trail beneath the rim of his helmet—his breath hitches—and slip through the gap. Mando swallows the moans and twitches she produces when she brushes around the wound, charting out its size, location, and severity. She’s so close to him, so fucking close; her hand is inside the helmet, inside his personal space, inside his Creed—fingers tangling with his overgrown locks, curls knotting around creeping digits dragging them in and holding them against his skull while blood cakes onto her skin.

Bacta spray expels from the flacon in her clutch and adheres to the wound, the properties immediately getting to work reconstructing the fractured cells. It’s sticky, burns against the sensitivity, the groaning is unavoidable but he centres on his breathing and slacking his muscles.

“That’s it,” she coos, patting his far-end pauldron, “relax.”

The consoling reminds him of the nights he’d spent staying up with the kid, murmuring reassuring words he’d plucked from the depths of his memories as a child and he hums at the bittersweet remembrances—they’re faded now with his age, as though he watched it through the eyes of a passerby in a dense crowd, too difficult to focus on the exact detailing but everything that mattered remained; the scratchiness of his father’s beard against his forehead each night, his mother’s subdued tone lulling him to sleep, both of their warmth encasing him on chilly nights surrounded by the village’s campfire.

Mando didn’t have the luxury of a rewarding life - the privilege - the right. There’s not much he remembers from his youth, much less than the average with the trauma he’s endured. He doesn’t want that for the kid, doesn’t want him to forget Mando; he means too much to him and it’d tear his heart beyond death if those memories were buried by the same trauma that keeps Mando awake—the same trauma that draws him right back to a battlefield as a coping mechanism.

Mando’s been living the way of Resol’nare for decades now—ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor - An vencuyan mhi, he recites the rhyme, obey the commands of Mandalore—his soul intact and a designated spot in Manda reserved just for him; it’s a great honour, one any dar’manda would be envious of, yet he’s uncertain - tentative of the afterlife. He’ll be alone again. Just like before the Child was placed into his care. Just like before he met the Girl. Nobody will be there to welcome him—no parents, no relatives, no friends, no-one.

Twitches coursing along his spine and the back of his neck does little to soothe his nerves regarding his mortality, his body tense and rigid as though he was already proceeding with rigour mortis. He mustn’t be concealing it well as the Girl draws him closer into her chest, his helmet resting against the side of her head as she continues administering the spray, a hand smoothing along the curve of his neck to rest there.

He’s positioned just like he had that night the Mandalorians rescued him, the same fear and panic pulling at his tendons and compressing his lungs, seeking comfort from his saviour—like a scared little boy.

It’s both humiliating and heartening; the Girl being so delicate with him despite being dipped in a coating of sharp, cold beskar head-to-toe. It’s committed to protecting him, to aid him when all else fails, and yet she’s the one he wants to surround himself with. She’s elastic-y and pliable—versatile for any situation he throws her way—made of exotic materials from the most desolate planets in the Outer Rim.

Mando wonders what her hands would feel like elsewhere; tending to the wounds he accumulates among his torso, rubbing at the aging lines of his face—always taking care of him. Mando forages underneath the stockiness that is his heart plate and cowl, leathers wrap around the small beskar pendant amidst his chest and rips the lace from around his neck. It’s shiny, rarely exposed to elements and harsh sunlight, but still worn with age and he runs a padded thumb along a steel tusk protruding from the skull.

The Girl pats him on the curvature of neck and shoulder one last time before retracting her hand from his helmet and returning him against the wall; he nearly mopes at the lack of her. “That’s that. I applied a thick coat so you should be okay, give it a moment to settle in.” She wipes her bloody hand against the thigh of her pants and clips the bottom of his helmet between a thumb and forefinger, twisting it to look at her. “How are you feeling?”

Mando considers. The majority of the pain had vanished, or numbed, and his senses are making a steady comeback but the whole ordeal has left him drained, too exhausted to even think about manipulating his muscles to utter a sentence in reply. He does, though, he doesn’t want her worrying more than she already is. “It’s an improvement. Thank you.”

“Let me take a look at this.” She lightly taps around the gash on his side to test his reactivity. It’s not a deep wound—no cauterising today—and he sighs with relief when she fingers through the medpac to recover a bacta patch. He’ll need proper care eventually but it’s all they possess way out here.

Mando flinches when she inches the flight suit out of the way, hissing.

She searches the satchel and retrieves an all-too-familiar pouch, his eyes hardening. “Why do you have that?”

“It can be used as medicine,” she mumbles, suddenly uncertain. “It helped me, it can numb the pain.”

Mando glares at the narcotics, shaking his head obstinately. “No -- no, it’s addictive. You shouldn’t have that. I don’t want you using it.” His muscles tense at his plea, hoping she doesn’t read into it and discover its underlying reasonings—how concerned he is. “It should - should be disposed of. It’ll only entice-”

“I’m not addicted to it, Mando. It was a one-time thing.”

“It’s-”

She cuts him off with a gentle sigh and shoves the pouch back into the satchel. “Was just trying to lessen the pain, ya know, guess you’ll have to endure it. Might teach you some manners.”

His eyes soften, his chest lax; he’s starting to make a habit of blowing things out of proportion—it’ll only drive the Girl away if he persists. His thumb assaults the surface of the pendant in his clutch, rubbing it raw, and folds his adjacent hand over hers poignantly. She understands his sentiment, offering him a small smile that puts his concerns at ease.

She’s too benevolent for her own good—too compliant to his immaturity.

She changes the subject. “This is all getting old real fast, you know. All this patching up we keep doing for each other. We oughta take a break somewhere. Could be good for the kid.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t take breaks, not when he’d been injured and definitely not when he’s a fugitive but hearing the Girl suggest one makes his thoughts run wild creating phony scenarios where the three of them could spend time somewhere secluded other than the Crest. Somewhere far away from all the fucking sand.

It could be good for the kid, could help him return to himself being out in free lands without the worry of a lurking Guild member aimed to either kill or capture him.

Mando parts his lips but he’s cut off before he’s even constructed a sentence in his mind; the rhythmic strums of speeder bikes nearing their quarters. He activates his sonic detectors and isolates the audio, concentrating on the alternating warbling while the Girl fists the hilt of her blaster instinctively in preparation. “There’s two,” he claims.

“Okay, wait here.”

“Wait, wait.” Mando catches her wrist as she stands to arrest her raring thoughts. He unclasps the strap across his chest and maneuvers the rifle around from his back and shoulders, gingerly pressing the wintry steel barrel into her palm. “There’s one cartridge loaded.” His hand snakes to his boot and retrieves the final cylinder, relinquishing his paramount foundation to survival.

She stares at him with wide eyes filled with wonder and questions he can’t pinpoint, hands examining the Amban-phase pulse rifle loosely clutched in her palms. A soft, genuine smile sketches into the curve of her lips and she gratefully accepts his offer, perching herself against a window to observe the vastness outside.

Mando can’t manage to see past her, the window too high from his angle, so he entitles himself to travel her frame; monitoring—recording—her posture, alternating foot and knee flat against the duracrete and her shoulders pulled taut where the stock rests in the crevice. The posture of a Sharpshooter.

She sucks in a shallow breath and slowly exhales, her lips curling into a smile as her eyes lock onto an unguarded Klatoonian through the lens.

Mando quietly chuckles underneath his beskar and subconsciously runs his thumb along the beskar pendant once more, his eyes never tearing away from the Girl—she’s like the Child when he’s given the knob of his control throttle; devilishly grinning with a mischievous glimmer in their eye.

He recounts how curious she had been regarding his rifle, how she used to pester him just to get a glimpse of the silver barrel. I’ll get my hands on it one day and I won’t be giving it back, she had said once and seeing that excitement in her eyes now only insisted on the claim.

A micro pellet shoots out the fork-tipped tubing, the sound reverberating inside the structure for a moment before it settles to silence. Assessing the expression on her face, she hits her mark. A surge of pride runs underneath Mando’s muscles—the Girl utilising his sniper as if it belongs in her arms, fashioned just for her hands and fingers—followed by an unrelenting tide of arousal through his veins and to his crotch; maybe she can keep the rifle.

The Mandalorian has only ever had material possessions, so seeing her exercise his tools of survival like her own—squeezing the trigger, hugging the stock, peering through the lens—pressing her body up against the exact rifle he’d press against - fuck, if it doesn’t stimulate dark, inappropriate, disturbing thoughts and a tingling sensation at the base of his stiffening cock.

Embarrassed from his condition—wounded and bloody and fucking horny—he droops his eyes to the opened bacta gel. It’s laughable. It seems each time he’s injured and she’s touching him, taking care of him, his arousal decides it’s time to awaken. She must think he gets off on it; that’s enough to make him cringe under his helm.

Another blast echoes the spacious room and this time he hears the pop of the second Klatoonian, followed by a soft exhale from the Girl at her accomplishments. “That’s taken care of,” she sighs. “Sorry, Mando, I don’t think you can have this back.”

Mando rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“How do you suppose you’ll use it without any more ammunition?”

She huffs and props the rifle against the wall beside him. “Oh, I’m sure you have plenty hidden away. I mean, why not gimme yours? I’m a better shot than you--”

“We don’t know that.”

“--and you did destroy mine, remember?”

Actually—he’d almost forgotten. It’s the entire circumstance that scripted their journey through the Outer Rim together, but with everything that’s happened within the past few days, he wasn’t exactly in the right mindset to be thinking about their agreed-upon reimbursement.

The Girl continues, “We should make a contest for it. Whoever's the better shot, gets to keep it. Sounds fair to me.”

Mando scoffs and reminds, “There’s no ammunition, mesh’la.”

“Come on, just admit you’re scared of losing.” She pauses to allow him to pipe up. He doesn’t. “Okay then. I’m getting you fixed up and then we’re going to the Crest to get ammunition and then I’m gonna kick your ass in this challenge.”

“I never agreed--”

“You’re not getting out of this that easily, Mando.”

He hums in feigned thought; she seems satisfied with herself and lowers to her knees beside him once more, hands uncorking a canister of water to flush the lesion of grit and administer a clump of soothing gel. She’s astonishingly fast and precise; she’s not joking about this competition—he’ll be in trouble if she proceeds. Nevertheless, having her hands so close to—fuck—he jolts abruptly and repositions himself so he’s concealing the bulge in his lap, extracting a concerned yet confused glare from her.

“It’s sensitive,” he lies through his teeth, but she nods her head with the allegation.

Her hands smooth over a bacta patch underneath his flight suit—another ripped garment alongside his cloak—and he moans as the patch pulses a soothing burst that numbs the slash and lessens the tenderness.

“Okay, you’re all set. How’s that head of yours feeling?”

Always taking care of him; always so concerned.

Beskar is weighted in his palm and he returns his attention to the pendant, shimmering in the sunlight cascading through the windows and reflecting onto the ceiling above them. Mando’s head angles to the side as he slips the torn threads through his fingers and pries them apart, the beskar dangling in the middle of the lace, to slide his knuckles along the sides of the Girl’s neck until he’s at the rear. She gazes down at the pendant stowed against her sternum as he secures a taut knot, mindful of the strands of hair as to not entangle them together.

Pulling away, he hooks a forefinger along the thread and collects the beskar at the bottom where he rubs a thumb along the face of the skull.

His vocoder whirrs a humming sound, “Better, mesh’la, much better. Thank you.”

“What’s this for?” she questions, examining the necklace incredulously.

“You.” It’s simple - sweet - truthful; it’s all hers. She doesn’t seem entirely content with his answer, her eyebrows stitching together as she mulls the symbolic gesture. He takes mercy on her rationalising, albeit awkwardly, “I can’t return a mutual connection. Can’t give you me - wholly. I received this necklace as part of my initiation to the Creed denoting my trust, my devotion, and it’s been with me since I was a boy.”

She lifts her eyes to the visor as he shares, her hands resting atop his still playing with the pendant.

“It’s a part of my Creed—a part of me. I want you to have it.”

“Mando,” she gasps. “You’re sure?”

He simply nods.

She leans into his personal space until her warmth invades the confines of his undershirt that puts Tatooine’s twin suns to shame. Mando’s throat bobs when a hand tunnels through his cowl to splay across the side of his neck and her face looms near the side of his helmet. He doesn’t twist to look at her—doesn’t want to unnerve her with the leering tint—but his shoulders sag at the vague tremor through the beskar; her lips weakly compressed against the curvature on his helmet.

He’s not one for words, but it seems he succeeded on that front.

It makes his heart flatten and swell in succession as though she was kneading the organ with her hands, the contact so placid and gradual - just taking her time tenderising the muscle.

Not to mention the boost of blood that flows through his abdomen and finalises below his waist, causing a twitch in his pants and she hadn’t even touched him except for a delicate hand on his cowl.

Mando really was like a boy—a pining, desperate, hormonal boy.

The Girl withdraws somewhat and trails the hand from his neck over the bump of his heart plate and seats it in the cushioning covering his stomach, her eyes bounce from his visor to his reviving arousal with her bottom lip clamped between rows of teeth. She softly snickers, “You don’t need to get shot at for me to touch you, Mando.”

He swallows, his helmet twisting on its axis to watch her expression—eyes darkening and tonguing crawling through her parted lips to apply a coating of saliva on them.

“Is that what you want?” she croons. “For me to touch you?”

He’s speechless—choking on his own spit—and she doesn’t help matters when she glides the hand lower, her fingers catching on the hem of his waistband and her palm enveloping the curve of his bulge.

Mando recollects all the instances he’d thought of the Girl like this—touching him so sweetly, pulling moans from his mouth—all the times he’s wanted more, needed more. Even with her hands down his pants he craved more, required her warmth—wanted to be buried in that warmth.

“Yes,” he musters up, his words coming out staticy through the modulator.

It’s all she needs to continue, r hand snaking beneath the hem and she wraps slender fingers around his length, sluggishly pumping twice that has his back arching off the wall and she smiles smugly in her endeavours.

His heart is in his throat, his stomach, his crotch—everywhere.

The Girl tightens her grip some, her fingers catching on his skin without any form of lubricant but it reminds him of being back on the Crest in the pilot's chair and he has no criticism of that. She drags her hand to the top and gradually slides back down, her thumb following a pulsating vein back to the base. It has his muscles tensing, constricting underneath his layers, but his fingers dig into the cloak underneath him.

He greedily whines, “Need more.”

She seems to understand his request and reaches for the hem with her other hand, scrambling to yank his trousers down and he assists by lifting his weight off the ground with his forearm until the hem rests at his mid-thigh; the beskar cuisse preventing the fabric from lowering any further but he couldn’t give a shit. It’s enough.

She hums at the sight of his cock—large, hard, and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. Digits contract at the base, eliciting a groan from deep within his throat, and the Girl tosses a flirty smile at him as she gradually dips her head down for her lips to meet the tip.

“Fu-ck,” he moans, his eyes widening as she flicks her tongue to collect the drop of white and it just melts into her tastebuds; brands them with his cum. She teases him, just barely making contact with a modest brush of her tongue against the head and he’s forced to restrain himself from bucking each time she spawns a coating of saliva that the hot air wipes dry in a matter of seconds.

Mando scrunches his fists against the duracrete and listens to the tinking his helmet produces each time he twitches his head against the sandstone, if it wasn’t made of beskar it'll surely be scraped to hell. He’s fortunate the bacta spray was so efficient—there’s no doubt in his mind he wouldn’t be able to enjoy this as much as he is without it working wonders on his wound. One of his hands occupies the back of her head and he unintentionally drives her downwards until her lips seal around the head of his cock and he’s gasping for air—the filters of his helmet breathing violently to supply the oxygen he’s lacking.

It’s exhilarating being inside of her mouth—albeit very little of him—and he lifts his hips to delve deeper, exploring the uncharted territory of her tongue and throat; so fucking soft, like her gums are fabricated out of clouds and her tongue a bed prepared just for him to rest on. “Gods,” he chokes. “Such a — pretty little mouth, mesh’la.”

She half-moans around his length, sending pulsations that makes his knees weak and toes curl. She bobs her head up and down rhythmically, her hand stroking what she can’t fit inside, and his gloved fingers twirl around a cluster of strands at the nape of her neck just to hold her - to feel the muscles stretch and loosen each movement she makes.

Mando is gluttonous for her—so fucking desperate to quicken the pace or attain new limits—and he experimentally sinks her head lower onto his shaft, slowly but with some level of authority that makes the Girl moan and comply with his proposal.

The curve of her nose brushes against the flock of unkempt bristles at the base—it’d been a while since he last tamed them, though he suspects the Girl doesn’t mind—and her sharp hot exhales through her nose can be felt dancing along the soft flesh of his groin, the head of his cock nudging against the back of her mouth before it slips past and eases down her throat an inch. Along with the newfound pressure around his length, the Girl flattens her tongue on his underside and sucks—generously hard, might he add.

There’s an ache in his abdomen, a crack in his knee as it jerks, and he’s forced to gnaw on his lips to refrain from spewing out shameful noises from deep within his throat. His sonic detectors pick up the faintest of audio; the squelching of his cock slipping in and out of her throat, her short puffs of exhales, and her cut-off gagging noises she makes each time he explores a little more than she can withstand. It’s unrighteous how turned on he’s getting from the noises alone, but she makes her presence well known when her lips glue around at the base just sits there taking in his entire length in her throat; tears brew in the corners of her eyes and she swallows a heap of saliva—consuming all of his rationality as her throat tightens around his width.

“Oh, f-fuck, shit. St-sto-op.”

He reflexively yanks her head up until only the head of his cock is situated in her mouth, twitching, leaving the remainder of his length sodden with stringy pools of her saliva that streak to the brown curls.

Mando observes the mess she’s made, mouth drowning with lust. As much as he could sit there and fuck her mouth like this, he aches for more contact—requires it like the oxygen he breathes.

“I want more, pretty girl, need you.”

His hand travels from the base of her neck along the curve of her spine and rests on the soft of her rear, indicating his proposition. She reluctantly pries her lips from his tip and glances up at him with filthy eyes to murmur, “Need me?” she swallows. “Need me to take care of you?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Need me to ride you -- to fuck you?”

“Yes, mesh’la.” His fingers bite into the flesh of her ass and dip in the waistband at her tailbone, lazily tugging at the material but it fails to budge against the defence of her belt.

“Fucking so needy,” she sings.

Mando is needy—dehydrated and starving for her—utterly insatiable.

She unclasps her belt and unbuttons the two little dimes at her groin, but he beats her to the belt loops and slips either thumb on the farsides and tugs. His eyes soak in the exposed flesh; how cushiony her thighs look, how they must feel squeezing the sides of his head. There’s a rumble in his chest and it finds its exit through his filters, shooting straight to the Girl’s core.

The Girl guides a leg out from beneath her and he continues undressing her from the waist down until she’s only left in her undergarments, the length of her legs being explored by crunchy leather. She doesn’t allow him the opportunity to take initiative and remove his gloves—he wouldn’t be able to control where his hands led if he had—and tosses a leg on either side of his thighs, the underside of his cock rubbing against her clothed pelvis to evoke a muffled moan from his throat.

One of her hands rests on his side atop of the bacta patch and she gazes into his helmet, silently inquiring her concerns.

“I’m okay.” She continues eyeing him, her pupils flickering to the bottom side of the helmet his lesion laid in slumber. “Mesh’la, I’m good.” He proves it with a minor thrust of his hips that has her scooting against his lap, distributing her weight among his thighs.

She seems pleased with his condition, tearing her hands from his wound to bunch up the overhanging fabric. Mando stops her, clinging to the hem of the shirt. “No, keep - keep it on. Looks good on you.”

An imposing heat rises to her cheeks and paints them hues of reds and pinks at the implication Mando gets off on her wearing his clothing. He’s watching her, she feels the leer of his visor, and she bows her head and strokes his length in an attempt to hide away, to distract him from the mortifying blush gracing her cheeks and nose. Mando’s insistent, stubborn, refuses to look away from her ‘pretty little face’—his words, not hers—and just scouts as her features contort shyly.

He won’t look away.

Especially not when she lifts her thighs and hovers over his readying cock, the head nudging against her clothed sex; warm and damp from her secreting through the fabric. She wants this, he acknowledges, just as much as himself.

She dips her hips enough, just barely, so he’s firmly pressed against her; his twitches travelling through to her, sparking her fingers to dig into the pads of his shoulders in shock. Mando groans, powerless underneath her, and bucks his hips plenty to maintain a pleasant caress against the tip of his cock.

“You’re taunting, pretty girl.”

She smirks. “Why not do something about it?”

Oh, he will—he’ll make her applaud the ground he walks on if he has to.

With one foul swoop, Mando plunges his hand between her legs and eases the garment aside, positioning himself between her folds and collecting the slick with his head. It makes something erupt inside of him, in his abdomen, and he freezes like that; his cock scarcely pressing against her entrance - she flutters against him.

The throbbing at the back of his head pulls him out of his relishing but he’s not willing to interrupt—not when he’s waited so fucking long to feel her like this. “Sit down,” he breathes, lightly pushing on her thighs. “S-slowly.”

She abides by his commands and gradually sinks on his length—so fucking slowly. He asked for it, but she’s just torturing him at this point. His eyes tear from what lays between them back to her face, her eyes squeezed closed and her teeth latching onto the flesh of her poor hand. His muscles lack, his hands caressing her legs. “Sweet girl,” he coos, “you can do it.”

“Gods, what else are you hiding under all that beskar?” she moans and continues, stretching herself around his impressive size; Mando’s not small in the slightest.

His helmet inclines with a soft chuckle, clashing against the wall behind them—the wall he was ready to die on and now he’s fucking her against it - he hadn’t even cleaned himself of the blood soaked into his cowl and caking his hair - it’s fucking dirty.

He hums her name in reassurance. “Should’ve - should’ve prepared you with m-y fingers first.”

“Yes,” she winces. “You should’ve.”

“Doing so well, so good. That’s it. Nice and slow-ly.”

There’s a silence that fills the air once he’s completely sheathed inside her, the both of them tardily comprehending the reality of the situation—they won’t be able to return to normal after this, won’t be able to look at each other without thinking of the other naked. This is their new normal, at least for today, and they carefully descend back to the scene with clarity.

Her - his shirt’s hem rubs against his garbed stomach, loose and large on her, and he slithers his hands up the back of it to clamp down on her shoulders; holding her firmly against his pelvis so she’s restricted and refuses her the opportunity to move—he wants to savour the feeling of her stretched around him, the feeling of her warmth welcoming him. She hisses at the cold steel of his vambrace along the muscles of her back and arches on him.

Mando basks in her warmth, shifting his hips side-to-side to rub against the inside of her canals, and resting the peak of his helmet against her sternum above the pendant’s residence to breathe in her scent. It’s faint with the helm’s filters stripping the air of her but there’s a hint of sweetness that he jostles around among his tongue and a speck of her musk, alongside a whiff of his personal scents from his shirt—gun oil, leather, his own musk fusing together with hers.

“Mando, I got-ta move.”

The grip on her shoulders loosens, enabling her to move slightly but doesn’t allow her to take initiative this time; his ass flexes against the ground as he thrusts up into her, pulling soft gasps from her tongue. It’s so hot, so enticing, a sound he’s dreamt of hearing but actually triggering the noises from her is intoxicating. He could bury his face between her legs and listen to her all night if she’d allow it; if his Creed allowed it.

“Pretty girl.” His hips slam into hers. “Always - always taking care of me.”

“Fu--fuck, Mand-o,” she chokes, her breathing staggering each time his groin rolls into her pelvis. A delicate hand runs along the front to the back of his cowl and sweeps underneath the steely brim, never breaching his comfort zone until he imparts his consent with a faint nod. She inches her digits up till they disappear inside his helmet—there was a time he wouldn’t let anybody get within arm’s length of his helm and now the Girl was freely raiding the unexplored depths of his skull for the second time that day.

There’s a slight pang around his lesion when she tugs on the curls and it only roams upwards when she shoves her palm up as far it’ll reach in the cramped space, her fingers working out the tight knot. He jerks at the sensations, all so foreign, so new and exciting he’s struggling to withhold himself from doing something stupid.

“Been thinking about this for so lo-ng,” he whispers, quickening his pace to drive up and nudge against her cervix that has her flinging her head back. “Thought about fucking——fucking you over the control panel ea-ch night.”

“Maker,” she purrs. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move. Nearly crawled in your fuck-ing bunk with you.”

Mando groans. “Yeah? I’ll fuck you in my bunk whenever you want, mesh’la. Name the time.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Mando.”

“Din,” he slips, freezes, muscles stretched and tight—he went and did something stupid. The Girl notices his wavering, his thrusts having abruptly stopped, and joins his absence of movement. A layer of nervous sweat breaks out across his forehead, his heart paced faster than a Kaadu. Everything is distanced, the Girl seemingly klicks away, thoughts clouded with analysing his psyche’s outburst; a foolish slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment.

He hasn’t heard that name since he was a boy—hadn’t uttered it aloud since he became a foundling—so it’s a huge fucking shock when he hears the syllable trip past his lips.

And it’s an even bigger shock when the Girl repeats it back to him, “Din?”

It does sound nice coming from her, though. He can’t deny that. Like his name is made of nectar, sweet and thick that dribbles from her tongue and down her chin—he could just lick it up from her, catch the remnants before it plummets the duracrete.

She grinds herself against him to pull him back to reality, twirling a curl around her finger curiously; cloyingly.

“Din,” he repeats, firmer, with authority, “Say it, mesh’la, say it for me. Please.”

She tugs on his locks, forcing his helmet to tilt up to look at her and his heart misses a beat when she parts her lips and moans into his visor, “Din.”

Dank Farrik—she always knows just what to do to get his blood pumping. She doesn’t even know the significance of the word, just acknowledges how his cock quivers inside her from speaking it and then she’s a mewling mess muttering along a never-ending string of Din, Din, Din’s.

“Hold still,” he warns, a sturdy vambrace wrapping around her coccyx and propelling himself upwards and unto his knees with her below him, a gloved hand at the back of her head to protect it from slamming against the hard duracrete.

She’s even more sublime from this angle; spread out underneath him, the backs of her thighs pressed against his hip joints—purely on display for him and only him.

Din can’t stand not being inside her, not feeling her slick walls hugging him so fucking tightly it drags pleasure through the core of his shaft, and he sheathes himself back into her quickly. Propping up his weight with a forearm beside her head, and pounding his hips into hers vigorously - the clap of their skin snapping through the air.

She grinds her hips upwards into his lap to massage the swollen nub of her clit against him, jerking at the sensitivity - though she’s so restricted between solid flooring and a just as solid beskar figure that she more-or-less humps into Din’s body - her fingers slither behind the beskar margins of his cuisse’s to stabilise herself.

The abandoned cantina air is hot, sweltering, thick with sweat and sex—versus the dry, dusty stench prior that left his lungs ticklish. They’re fucking each other so desperately they’re emitting a skyrocketing heat, it’s dumbfounding.

Her lips are pulled invertedly to force back the whiny incoherent moans. Beads of sweat along her forehead. Eyes glued close.

What a beautiful sight. All for him. It’s contrasting to the last time they were in a similar scenario—her hands on him, him sitting there licking every crumb off the plate of food she served him—but their positions had changed and now he’s the one working those noises out of her. A flurry of youthful pride rushes through him and he slips two fingers to touch where they connect, feeling the ridges and veins of his cock through the leather as he pulls out and slides back in - feeling what she’s feeling - memorising what she’ll memorise.

“I - I can’t…shit...Din,” she croons.

She’s close to her apex—her walls tighten around his cock even further. If she gets any tighter Din will come right here and now. He’s still not done - still needs more of her - thirsts for it.

“I know, mesh’la, I know. A - a little longer. Just a little longer.”

The digits between her thighs compile a coating of her slick seeping down the sides of her leg, applying it to her clit and drawing fast circles. She doesn’t complain about the scratchy leather on the sensitive bud, doesn’t gripe that he’s not allowing her the touch of his bare flesh—she thinks it’s fucking hot; he can’t take his hands off her for a fucking second to rid himself of the confines, can’t keep her waiting to inch his pants down past his thighs. He’s still completely clothed, permitting only his cock and thighs to spring free of his flight suit enough to fuck her into the ground—into the ground. It’s unadulterated filth through and through.

Din’s tattered and slashed cloak droops to the side of him and the Girl wads a horde of the scratchy fabric in her hand, tugging on it that brings him to meet with her hips like she’s coordinating his movements. “Oh, fu-ck. Right there, Mando, right there.”

“Din,” he growls a reminder all-while maintaining the pace and posture she’s arching into, her moaning of his name an addicting motivator, “my - my name is Din.”

If he wasn’t hitting something so unreachable—something so itchy she never knew existed—she might’ve wrapped her arm around his neck, pulled his helmet in for a kiss, and whisper sweet nothings in response to his confession. She can’t though - he doesn’t give her a second's worth of breaks. Unable to demonstrate her appreciation, she wrenches her head to the forearm beside her and administers a laden press of her lips to his leathered wrist; a small but incredibly sweet gesture that has his lungs tugging on his heartstrings.

She whispers his name as if testing it out on her tongue, this time with more sentiment. It’s a soft, short, and rounded-sounding name—everything he’s not—such a breathy syllable it doesn’t require much mouth manipulation and the Girl takes advantage of that; chorusing the word in sync with her pleasured writhing.

Din extracts his cock from her gradually and sharply slams back into her, shoving her spine across the ground that she jumps from her position an inch, the grip on his cloak tightening. “Fuck, Din!” Pearly whites sink into the leather surrounding his wrist and he grunts at the stimulation, his thrusts beginning to stagger as he reaches his climax. He won’t allow it - he’ll postpone his relief until she’s had hers if he has to; she deserves it.

“Come for me, pretty girl. You take care of me so-so well, let me feel you relax; come.”

She does relax, becomes nothing more than a boneless pool of flesh and blood beneath him that yelps at each smack of his hips, tingles at the squelching of his cock slipping through her lubricant and coating the base of his groin in a wet sheen of her.

Din’s fingers continue on her nub only periodically stopping to delve deeper and amass her juices. He hits a sweet spot and she writhes into his chest, ripping her teeth from the leather to sink them in the thick padding of his shoulder where she freely moans into the fabric—deliberately putting on a show for Din that makes the head of his cock twitch.

Din increases his pace, maintaining a speed that compensates for his lack of back with the explosion—delivering a steady tempo fit for a week's worth of workouts.

She’s so close to his ear, if the beskar wasn’t there she’d be pressed right up against the cartilage, her risque whining intruding the tunnels of his eardrums. It’s too much to consider, too fucking much.

She clamps down on his cock, tight and vice-like that he struggles to move inside of her. Her body rocks and jolts as she cums on his cock—he can feel the warmth dripping over the head and running along the sides like syrup sliding down his throat. “That’s it, pretty, do-ing so good.” She transmits a low drone from his words of praise, her bite deepening enough to leave a groove of her teeth in his muscle.

Din pinches her nub once, twice, savouring the impact of her chest against his with each jerk he pulls out of her. He aids her descent back to Tatooine, luring out the remainder of her orgasm with slow lazy circles until she politely relieves his hand from her clit—too sensitive and sore to continue.

The Girl shakes and trembles below him, feuding with the hot air that won’t stay in her lungs. She’s glazed in a gloss of sweat from her forehead all the way to her thighs; drained and overstimulated, but she extends a helping hand to the base of his cock and pumps the few inches not inside her.

“Can’t - can’t stay there all day, Din,” she teases.

It’s on the verge of abusive how she engages him, every inch of her knowing exactly what to touch and how to touch it as if he’s just constructed of mere text on a holorecord.

He disagrees; he could stay here for eternity.

Although, he takes her laboured breathing into consideration and rewards her with his sympathy; dragging out his own climax. Din experimentally rocks his pelvis, his cock pulling on the tightness of her channel—feeling all the grooves so distinctly, the gentle flow of warm cum trickling past his length—he’s managed his own undoing, his fingernails digging into the leather of his palm, cock rigid and violently palpitating.

She observes his shoulders tightening, his breathing shake, his thighs flexing as he anxiously pulls out of her sex—buries it somewhere safe in her memory for later—it’s a glorious experiencing watching a Mandalorian—The Mandalorian share something so vulnerable with her; like the after-effects of a meanspirited storm, all tranquil sounds and apprehensive touches. She seizes a hand and presses the leader against her cheek, mildly gnawing on the thumb that impishly slips past her lips, her remaining picking up the pace on his cock drawing out his high.

It’s so cordial watching her tear at his thumb, pull on his length, stare into the visor knowingly; too personal, too spellbinding. He takes the bait. “Fuck, fu-ck,” he moans, staggering on his knees and firing out a sticky white that pains the insides of her thighs—trademarking her.

She’s unrelenting, milking every drop out of him until he’s lagging and softening in her palm. When she’s finally conducted his orgasm, she presses a quick peck to his thumb and retreats her skull to the duracrete, officially out of stamina for anything more than a breathy: Shit, Din. That was-fuck.

Her thighs are wet with their combined juices—a shiny translucent mixing with the softening white. He gathers it up on the tips of his fingertips and lifts it to the Girl’s mouth, wiping the sex on her tongue she’s poked out in compliance. “So good to me. So pretty,” he strums. “How’s it taste? Did we do good?”

She nods, humming and rolling her tongue around inside her mouth to blend the liquids with her saliva.

“Sweet,” she exhales. “Salty.”

Din can only imagine the flavour they spawned together; a mouthwatering syrup that leaves a savoury aftertaste from the sweat laminating her thighs. He longs for a taste, salivating with need, but resolves.

The Girl’s slick coating his softening cock sticks to the insides of his pants as he fixes the hem back to his hips—rubbing the remnants on his thighs and gluing the short hairs to his flesh. Din reaches behind him to detach his cloak and uses the edge to wipe away the accumulated mess he’d created between her thighs, mindful of keeping the bloody end far away from her, taking his sweet time to cherish how the flesh judders in the direction of his digits and the muscles tense when he delves closer to her sex.

She props herself up with her elbows and observes him still firmly planted between her legs, a pink blush encroaching her cheekbones at the sight of her nakedness compared to the Mandalorian.

He notices her shyness and decides not to comment, simply places a hand on either of her knees and trails them up to her torso and across her arms where he interlocks his fingers with hers - bending down atop of her to tuck his helmet in the curve of her neck, shielding her from the prying eyes of the twin spheres peeking through the window.

She rests her cheek against the side of his helmet, murmuring soft praises. Fucked me so good, she whines, gonna leave me sore all night.

Din groans into the helm and settles his weight on her, too exhausted to move, but she welcomes his physique—invites the dense muscles to recuperate on her for as long as he requires—and she wraps an arm around the back of his helmet, cradling him into her sweat-slicked neck.

“So about that break…”

_____________

“ner” - my/mine “mesh’la” - beautiful “cin vhetin” - fresh start/clean slate “Resol’nare” - Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life “Ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor- An vencuyan mhi” - Education and armour, self-defense, our tribe, our language and our leader, All help us to survive” “dar’manda” - one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity

taglist: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

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thoughts-on-bangtan · 3 years

Note

Just read your post and agree with everything, esp about bad ship theories. One thing you said, kinda stuck out. The voting argument where Jimin went without JK, so therefore they seem to live in different areas. Then does this mean you think Vmin live in different areas? I mean, if they have been together for years, why would they not be living together? IDK, I just always kinda felt Vmin low key live together this whole time, but now your answer has me doubting that. You don't think Vmin do?

Admin 2: Hello anon,

In my reply I will try to convey to you my personal point of view in regard to Vmin and their relationship and in this case, how I see the question of them of living together.

The fact that four BTS members voted at the polling stations of their district shows that not all of them are registered in Hannam in their shared dorm.

We know, and it is no secret, that Taehyung bought an apartment in autumn 2019 in which, as you can see, he also seems to be registered. We know that Hobi and Jungkook bought their apartments at the end of 2018 in the same building and supposedly even on the same floor. Taehyung has posted photos from what looks like his apartment more than once and it is no secret that he owns and stays in this apartment. During some program on TV, one of his Wooga squad friends talked to Taehyung on FaceTime, who seemed to be at home in his apartment and wondered what he should eat.

Of course, there is more information from illegal sources, but we will not touch any of that.

It is known about Jimin and his living situation that his apartments (building) are under renovation.

Ok that's official facts of things we know. However, we do not know what the actual living situation of the individual members looks like.

Actually, all options are theoretically possible, but based on some logical considerations, some arrangements can be deduced. The fact that Taehyung is not registered in the dorm does not mean that he does not live there, or at least that he does not stay for a long time.

Jimin likely being officially registered as living at the dorm does not deny that he could also spend some time at Taehyung’s apartment. Do you understand what I'm going for? However, I exclude that officially Vmin or any couple could officially be live together. We have heard more than once about the obsessiveness of fans, about the stalking of the saessangs, about them occupying whatever buildings BTS are staying at, about the way they even go after the members families to get their hands on any kind of information’s.

Therefore, the best solution for Vmin is that they have access to Taehyung’s apartment. I think that in the dorm, and anywhere else (except for their bedrooms within the dorm), it would be impossible to lead any kind of relationship in peace.

There are all sorts of people at the dorm, their staff (like their managers) have success to the dorm and could just walk in at any time. The mere fact that Vmin (we assume they are a romantic couple) is in a fragile relationship and therefore any kind of leak, so to speak, would lead to a catastrophe. Antis and alike are just waiting for such "interesting" details from the private lives of the BTS members.

I believe that it is not possible to have any romantic relationship in a classic way within the group, and it is completely impossible for two members suspected of a romance to live together. (The same applies to J/k/ok etc.)

However, I am personally convinced that Vmin spends a lot of time together, even if only because they study together for their now master’s degree. I suspect they stay a lot together because Jimin wears Taehyung's clothes (especially his oversized boots) because even after work he was supposed to go to Tae (or Tae to Jimin) during the Billboard H100 # 1 night. We have screenshots of conversations with fans during games where Tae said he had to stop because Jimin had just made ramen, some other time he’d mentioned he was planning on doing something with Jimin the next day etc. Jimin said during Vlive in April 2020 that him and Tae like to go driving at night and many other things.

"Someday, when these cheers die down, stay hey

Stay with me by my side"

And that is also my opinion: A normal relationship will only be possible for Vmin when they are no longer the most famous musicians in the world living in a very conservative Korea, especially since they (and other members as well) still have to go to their military service in the VERY conservative Korean Army. Actual suspicions of a queer relationship within the group could and likely would only endanger the members during their service, just like I previously mentioned in my reply to an ask about Jin’s reaction to Taehyung’s “Jiminah I like you the most”.

I would also like to add some observations and thoughts to members speaking about their situation in life.

I have a strong impression that it doesn't matter so much to the fans whether Namjoon or Yoongi or even Jin live at the dorm or anywhere else.

What obsessive fans care about is where and with whom the maknaes live.

Therefore, I often get the impression that some dialogues, some scenes in RUN or interviews or other shows are shown in such a way that there is some confusion about who with who and confusion about where the maknaes live and whether they live together or not. I may be delulu, but I often get such an impression, especially when it comes to Jimin, that he deliberately says certain things in a way that can be interpreted in multiples ways, or like they mean something, even though likely it doesn’t mean anything at all.

We know Jimin is very private and doesn’t readily share private information’s, so it just seems like he “feeds” obsessive shippers, of whom I’m sure he’s well aware they are listening and just waiting for it, something that really is empty just so they have something to do, like JK saying he wants to make pizza at the end of some RUN episode to which Jimin asked “at home?” which was asked (or at least translated by weverse/vlive) in such a manner that shippers spent the next two weeks discussing what home he meant and if that means they do live together. Because of that, really, Jungkook can keep his privacy, as can vmin, since shippers will hold on to those empty phrases (fanservice) while the members can do whatever they want away from the cameras. Does that make sense? So, in the end, even if it seems like Jimin shared some insight into their living arrangements, we really still know nothing at all about where the maknaes live and with whom. It’s very smart PR and fits with the media training Idols in general seem to receive.

Edit: I read your comments and I want to clarify what I meant with the above part about Jimin, since I really didn’t mean to shift the blame for bad shipper behavior on him in any kind of way:

I’m sure we’ve all seen bad shippers make the argument that the members that are part of their ship supposedly purposefully say certain things to send them “secret/hidden messages” or “hints” that “only they will understand” which in turn are meant to prove their ships. That’s what I meant by “seems to “feed””, not that he’s purposefully “lying” in their favor or feeding into their weird fantasies, but rather that the vague things he sometimes says, or his occasionally cheeky/teasing comments made in good fun with the other members, are taken by shippers and interpreted in ways to fit their narratives, even if what Jimin says has nothing to do with ships at all, he’s obviously just joking/teasing, or it’s just a vague “empty”/deflective statement to keep private info private.

In all those cases the blame is on shippers and their bad behavioral habits of twisting the members words instead of listening properly and realizing that Jimin is joking or that what he said isn’t a hint or anything at all.

After all, Jimin said so much, supposedly, and yet we know nothing, not even about him and Taehyung studying together, which was quite literally never mentioned by them. Not even once in passing.

Of course, everything I've written is just my personal opinion and point of view. I could of course be totally wrong.

From anon: I agree that "Feeding the Schipers" isn't the happiest phrase, but I get what is going on. I think what J/m says and how he says it is like fodder for ships. I don't think he's doing it on purpose, however. Definitely not. J/m has this style of teasing, joking and shippers buying it as "secret confessions or notices" but a cool comment in general.

Admin 1: I’d like to quote myself from my asks post yesterday as reply to this ask, since it fits here as well:

Besides, at the end of the day, their living arrangements are not something we are privy to and that we shouldn’t try to figure out either. The members say they still live at the dorm, and if that’s the version they want us to believe, that’s the one I’ll stick to, unless they tell me otherwise.

#BTS #vmin #Jimin #Taehyung #answered ask

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winchesterwords · 4 years

Text

“Don’t Threaten Me With a Good Time” Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: When Sam and Dean need help on a case, they reach out to Rowena who sends you, a hunter, to help them with a ghost problem. Dean however, may have just met his match in more ways than one.

Word Count: 5265

Warning: None

Song I Wrote To: “Don’t Threaten Me With a Good Time” by Thomas Rhett

Note: Dean Winchester has my heart! Feel free to request! Also, I am not exactly sure where I set this, but it’s before the fall as Cas still has his wings.

---------

“Of all the people we know, Sam, you called Rowena.”

Dean looked over at his brother in the passenger seat of the Impala with narrowed eyes. Sam sighed, shaking the hair from his face. “You said we needed help and she has connections,” explained Sam. “Besides, she said she was sending someone to help, not that she was coming herself.”

“Great so we don’t get the Head Bitch Witch, just one of her friends,” Dean said.

“Rowena said she’s a hunter, not a witch,” Sam said as he tapped away on his phone. Dean didn’t bother to respond as he turned his eyes back to the road in front of him.

The Winchesters had gotten word of a case just outside of Omaha. There had been previous witch activity in the area years before so Sam had reached out to Rowena in hopes of getting some insight. However, the woman was currently busy trying to wrangle her son and since she didn’t believe the case had anything to do with witches, she passed along the message to you, a hunter she knew that was in the area. You had told her that you were going to meet the boys at a motel off the highway and Rowena had sent the message along to the Winchesters.

“I just don’t get it,” Dean said after a few more minutes, “why is she helping us all of a sudden?”

“When it comes to Rowena, she’s probably only doing us this favor so we have to do her one in return.”

“What? Does she think we’ll be at her beck and call?”

“Seems like it.”

“Well if this goes South,” Dean said, “I’m tracking down her broomstick and making her fix it.”

“Fair enough.”

-------

When the Winchesters arrived at the motel, the parking lot was nearly empty except for a dark truck in the corner.

You leaned against it, tapping away on a cell phone. When you heard the rumble of the Impala you looked up and lifted your hand in greeting. “I really don’t like new hunters,” Dean grumbled as he pulled into a spot across from you.

“I bet they think the same thing about us, Dean,” Sam countered.

“No, no they don’t,” Dean said with a sly smile at his brother, “because we’re awesome.” Sam rolled his eyes as he shoved open the door and stepped out. Dean followed quickly after. Both men kept their weapons close as they approached you.

You were calm and casual as they walked over. If this was any other night, Dean would have thought you were just a normal girl waiting on a friend, not a hunter with a specialty in ghost possession.

“Sam and Dean?” you asked. “Though, I don’t know who else would be driving a car like that.” Sam smiled first, moving forward to reach for her hand. “I’m (Y/N),” you said as Sam grasped your hand in his.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said pleasantly as you turned to Dean. He gripped your hand tight as well.

“So, you’re the ghost girl?” Dean asked, trying to get a feel for you.

“That’s one way to put it,” you said with a small laugh. “I’ve been called worse. Come on, I already got a room.” You nodded your head towards the motel room not too far where you had parked your respective vehicles. The boys followed after you and out of the corner of your eye, you could see that both were keeping their hands near their weapons. You rolled your eyes at the movement. “You know,” you said as you dug the key out of your pocket, “if I was going to kill you, I wouldn’t do it at a motel frequently visited by hunters. That would be a bit too cliche.” Looking over your shoulder you sent them both a wink.

Dean blinked at you as Sam awkwardly coughed next to him. With another quick laugh, you pushed into the room and tossed the key on the small table by the door. “So,” Sam said as Dean closed the door behind you, “how exactly do you know Rowena?”

“She and I worked on a problem last year,” you explained, leaning against the wall, observing the two flannel-clad hunters before you. “Rowena was helping out another witch. Some kind of dark versus light turf war, I guess.” You shrugged. “Bystanders were getting caught in the middle and it got pretty messy.”

“I bet it did,” Dean said, crossing his arms as he stood by the garish partition. He was looking at you as if he was trying to see the tumblers of an unbreakable safe. Every move you made, he clocked. You had heard the stories of the Winchesters.

Sam and Dean, they were legendary within the hunting world. You were surprised to see that they were traveling with just each other as you had heard of a winged companion that tended to tag along at times as well. Regardless of the Angel, these two were some of the best and you were hoping to make a good first impression. As Rowena had said, “it never hurts to have a Winchester owe you one”.

“She warned me about you,” you said to Dean as you took a seat at the table and kicked your feet up.

“Is that so?” he asked. “And what did the witch say?”

“That you’re impulsive and have major trust issues while Sam here, is the smart one with a knack for magic and the books,” you said, recalling the last conversation you had had with the Scottish witch. “Though, I am still not sure if she was saying those things out of kindness or annoyance.”

“Knowing Rowena, it was probably the latter,” Sam said as he took a seat across from you. You nodded in agreement.

“So, show me what you got,” you said.

“Over the past couple of weeks there has been an increase in drownings in the area,” Sam began, digging his laptop out of his bag and placing it on the table.

“Accidental?” you asked.

“That’s what the cops think,” Dean said, sitting down on the bed next to you and Sam. “But four people drowning in the same place like this doesn’t seem like an accident to me.”

“Where did it happen?”

“A local spot,” Sam said, turning the screen toward you. It showed the front page of the local newspaper. A local fishing hole that apparently had a history of its own.

“What’s with the creepy statue?” you asked, pointing in the background of the main photo.

“That was the first thing I noticed too,” Dean said, leaning back on his arms. Sam enlarged the photo and zoomed in. Just behind the main swimming area was an old stone statue of what looked to be an old man reaching towards the murky water. It was a bit too ominous for your liking.

“We’re not sure,” Sam said. “Apparently it’s just always been there. Some people think it was put there by the first person to own the land, but now it’s all owned by the city.”

“And this is where everyone had been drowning?” you asked and Sam nodded. “Sounds to me like spirit doesn’t want the Living hanging out their spot. What are the details behind the deaths?”

“All strong swimmers and they just calmly walked into the lake and then didn’t come back to the surface until their bodies were discovered.”

“Does this sound like your kind of thing, Ghost Girl?” Dean asked. You slowly looked over at him and then grinned. Digging into your pocket, you produced your fake FBI Forensic badge and showed it to him.

“Why do you think I brought this?”

---------

You elected to ride with the Winchesters over to the crime scene.

Leaning towards the front seat, you rested your head on your forearms. “Yeah... I could never do the suit,” you commented. Dean looked at you in his mirror with a brow raised.

“You do realize you’re posing as FBI too, right?” he asked.

“But I’m a tech,” you clarified. “All I need is my trusty windbreaker,” you said, shaking the collar of the jacket that was wrapped around your shoulders. “I have found that people tend to overlook an extra tech at the scene rather than another agent.”

“That… is actually very smart,” Sam said, looking back at you. You winked at him and settled back into your seat. You listened to the boys talk about the case and as Dean drove, as you mulled over theories of your own.

The statue was the biggest clue, but you weren’t sure how it all fit. However, Rowena had been right when she realized this wasn’t witchcraft. If a witch wanted to kill someone, drowning wouldn’t be the way to do it. The combination of water and witches never really worked out in history so they tended to avoid it.

You had perhaps thought it was demon possession, but then it didn’t really fit with the usual motivation behind demonic activities. Also, there weren’t any omens in the area so you were back to your comfort zone, ghosts. Ghost possession was something you had focused on after you, yourself, had become possessed at age sixteen, and then both of your parents years later. You had inked up shortly after discovering the world of hunting and now were impervious to their body jumping, but not everyone was a hunter and so you had to help clean up the messes whenever you could.

As you went over a strategy in your head, you didn’t even realize Dean was talking to you. “Sorry, what was that?” you asked, leaning forward again.

“I asked if you needed any weapons,” Dean repeated as he turned down the final street and pulled over by the entrance to the trail that lead to the water.

“Oh, no, I’m good,” you said, lifting your shotgun that was placed in your bag along with salt rounds and then the iron brass knuckles you kept on an iron chain around your neck. Dean whistled low at the sight of your accessory.

“I gotta get me some of those,” he said with a charming smile and then pulled the key from the ignition and stepped out of the car. You followed after the boys, scanning the area. It was crawling with squad cars and you knew it wouldn’t be long before the press showed up.

While Sam and Dean headed to speak to whoever was in charge, you hiked your bag up on your shoulder and ducked through the branches to get to the water’s edge. Nobody gave you a second glance as you walked the shore of the swimming hole. Divers were still in the water collecting evidence as you made your way towards the statue. That is where Sam and Dean met up with you.

“Sheriff is clueless,” Dean said as he approached you.

“As always,” you agreed, walking around the statue, eyeing it closely.

“A deputy thinks these are all suicides,” Sam revealed.

“He might not be that far off…” you said as you took out your pen and dragged it along the side of the statue. When you pulled it away, black slime coated it. You held it up for the boys to see. “Ectoplasm.”

“Great,” Dean sighed. “So spooks are doing this?”

“Yep,” you said, shaking off the ecto. “For some reason, this ghost is possessing people and drowning them. It explains why they just walked into the water. Somebody really doesn’t want people here.”

“What was this place before it became party central?” Dean asked, kicking an empty beer bottle.

“Just old land,” Sam said, “there isn’t much in the county records and when I asked the cops, everyone shut up like it was taboo or something.”

“Oh, I love a good town scandal,” you said with a smile at the boys. As you went to grab your bag, your eye caught something glinting in the sun. Kneeling down, you dug it out of the mud. Holding up to the light, you turned it in your hand.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

“I’m not sure,” you said as you held a small locket in your hand. It looked as if someone had dropped it recently, breaking the mechanism on the side. It was tarnished and caked in dirt as if it had been underground. Popping the seal, you nearly gagged. “And I’m not sure I want to know,” you said turning to show the boys. Nestled in between the two metal sides was a tooth, the root still attached. Dean did gag at the sight.

“Okay, that’s just wrong,” Dean said. “Oh, what are you doing?”

“It could be evidence,” you said as you slipped into a small bag you kept in your fake forensic kit.

“Or it could just be someone’s necklace where they keep grandpa’s final tooth,” Dean said. You stowed it away anyways.

“Look all I know is that a ghost is drowning people and this locket may have something to do with it. Can we continue debating this or can we go get a drink?” That last sentence had Dean grinning.

“See, Sammy, this is how you solve a case,” he said, clapping his hands and gesturing everyone back to the car.

---------

The three of you sat in a local dive bar, swapping war stories.

“You really took out a fully grown skin walker on one of your first hunts?” Sam asked you as he sipped his beer. You laughed.

“Okay, don’t make me sound like some big badass,” you said, swirling the whiskey in your glass. “The guy was drunk off his ass. I just got lucky with him.”

“Still, that’s pretty damn impressive,” Dean said with a smile. You gave him one of your own. At first, you weren’t sure about Dean Winchester, but now? He was definitely one to keep an eye on. “Alright,” he said, trying to steer the conversation back to the task at hand. “Sam, what did you find?” Sam took out his computer and fired it up.

“I looked into the tooth locket that (Y/N) found and I think I got something,” Sam said, turning the computer so you and Dean could see. On the screen was a photo of a young woman, dressed in white, and around her neck was the same locket you had found by the statue.

“Who was she?” you asked.

“Melinda Manns,” Sam explained. “She was the wife of Thomas Manns, the man who owned the land the swimming hole is on. And get this, her grave was recently robbed.” Sam flicked to the news article that reported on a series of grave robbings nearby. “That necklace was one of the things missing.”

“So then who is our spook? Melinda or Thomas?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam said.

“How did Melinda die?” you asked. Sam grabbed the computer and began typing away.

“Oh,” Sam said, “she drowned under mysterious circumstances.”

“Which in my book means murder,” you said downing the rest of your drink. “My bet? Old Man Manns killed his wife and buried her with that locket of hers. Maybe he felt remorse, maybe he didn’t, but one thing’s for sure, he didn’t want people digging her up.”

“So, he’s drowning people out of revenge?” Dean asked.

“Ghosts have had stranger motivation. He’s tied to the swimming hole. Doesn’t know who disturbed the grave so he’s just taking who he can get. Sometimes spirits get confused and a lot of the times they can’t help but possess people to try to get answers.”

“Well, I scanned for EMF and didn’t get much of a steady reading at the lake,” Sam said with a sigh.

“Don’t frett, Sammy, we’ll figure it out,” Dean said with a wink and his brother rolled his eyes.

“Ya’ll want another round?” you asked as you stood up from your seat.

“You guys go ahead, I’m gonna head back to the room for a bit,” Sam said as he gathered his stuff.

“Ah, come on, man,” Dean said, but Sam shook his head.

“I’ll see you two later,” Sam said with a slap on his brother’s shoulder. You waved to him as he slipped out of the bar.

“What about you, Winchester? You want another beer?” you asked Dean, leaning towards him.

“Make it a double tequila and you got yourself a deal,” he said with a wink. Shaking your head, you got up to get the next round.

Dean watched after you and he couldn’t help but think of the way you had walked around the crime scene earlier. There was something so...natural about the way you searched for the clues and how you were able to put the pieces together quickly. You were born for this life, but there was also something underneath the surface, something dark that prompted you to become a hunter in the first place. While he was curious, he knew he didn’t want to push. He knew about inner demons and he wasn’t about to force you to reveal yours.

When you came back to the table, you had a grin on your face. “Flash a smile and a badge and look what you get, free booze!” You handed Dean his tequila and took your seat again, sipping on the smooth whiskey. You smiled as you leaned back in your chair. Dean watched you for a second before placing his drink down and leaning forward.

“You are an odd one,” he said, narrowing his eyes a bit.

“Is that bad?” you asked, trying to read the man before you.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said with another grin. The night went on with many more shots and a whole lot more laughter. You and Dean exchanged more stories and soon, the two of you were leaning against one another in a booth, watching the patrons of the bar stumble around and play pool. Taking off your jacket, you relaxed further into your seat.

Stretching your arms over your head, Dean noticed something on the side of your neck. “What happened there?” he asked gently. Your hand went to the scars on your neck and covered them with your hair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you...uh, sorry,” he stuttered.

“It’s fine,” you said. “Just a hazard of the job. I was, uh, possessed by a ghost when I was sixteen,” you explained. “I managed to get control for a few seconds and we had this old iron tool at our farm and I don’t know how I knew to use it, but I just grabbed it and,” you mimed raking something across your neck.

“Damn,” Dean said. “What happened to the ghost?”

“Local hunter took care of it, I guess,” you said. “Some guy showed up on my doorstep a day later with an obvious fake badge and I never had a problem with it again. Until two more possessed my parents later on. I guess I don’t have the best luck when it comes to spirits.”

“That’s why you’re the ghost specialist,” Dean figured.

“We all have our things,” you said. “I know yours is Angels and Demons.”

“Well, that was not really my choice. When an Angel saves you from Hell, you sort of owe them,” he said with a shrug.

“You’re not the only one who owes them,” you said with a small smile. Dean’s brows shot up as he caught onto your meaning. “Sorry was that way too forward?”

“Not at all,” Dean assured you, draping his arm across the seat behind you. “Although, and this may just be the tequila talking, I wasn’t exactly sure about but you when we rolled up.”

“Because I know Rowena?” you asked, leaning slightly into his arm.

“She hasn’t always been the most...helpful of people,” he said. “I mean she’s a witch with the King of Hell as a son.”

“Fair point,” you said with a small laugh, “but Rowena has helped me in the past. Not just the witch turf war, but she has looked out for me for a while. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know, but she’s never let me down. So, when she calls, I answer.”

“There seems a lot to unpack there,” Dean said.

“It’s a story for another time, Winchester,” you said with a smile as you shuffled out of his arm and threw some bills on the table as a tip. “Walk me home?” Dean rolled his eyes, but grabbed his coat and followed you out of the booth.

You and Dean stumbled from the bar, still quite tipsy from your night of drinking. Sam had taken the Impala back, so you two began the short walk back. Dean slung his arm around your shoulders as you leaned into him. The two of you walked the dark street back towards the neon sign in the distance. He kept you tight to his side as cars rushed past on the street and you didn’t mind the feeling at all of his strong arm wrapped tight around your waist.

When you finally got back to the room, you leaned against the side of the motel, trying to gain your bearings. Dean stood in front of you, resting his hands on either side of you. As he leaned in, you didn’t object. You smiled as Dean pressed his lips against yours. You leaned into the kiss, enjoying the feeling of his chest against yours, but eventually, you pushed him back.

“Easy, Winchester,” you sighed, “we’re working and I am not sober and neither are you.” Dean smiled, but stepped back, raising his hands in surrender.

“Breakin’ my heart, Darlin’,” he said but kept his hands to himself.

“I know, I enjoy it,” you said with a small smile. Dean laughed, running a hand through his hair.

“Now I see it, the reason Rowena likes you so much,” he said and you pursed your lips.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” you said. He winked at you and elicited another laugh from you that brought another smile to his own face.

“Okay, since we are working, any more theories?”

“I think it was the maid,” you said with a serious expression.

“(Y/N), there is no maid,” he said.

“There isn’t?” you asked, feigning confusion. It was only a few seconds before both of you began laughing. Suddenly, the door to the motel burst open and Sam came out. He stared at the two of you for a second before shaking his head.

“We have another body,” he announced and you and Dean sobered up quickly.

“And I was just starting to have fun,” you whined as you pushed off the wall. You approached Dean and patted him on his chest. “Rain check, Winchester,” you said.

“(Y/N)” Sam said, “Dean and I are going to go to the Coroner’s Office. Can you check the swimming hole? We’ll meet you there in a bit.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” you said as you headed to the Impala, sliding into the back as you waited for the boys to change into their suits and grab their badges. As soon as Sam slipped into the driver’s seat seeing as he was the only one equipped to drive at the moment, you headed out.

-------

Sam and Dean dropped you at the entrance to the swimming hole and you crept through the trees.

Forensics were packing everything up and soon, you were alone with the neon yellow crime scene tape and the light from the moon above. Pulling out an EMF reader you had snagged from the trunk, you turned it on. It lit up immediately as you scanned it back and forth. “I know you’re here somewhere…” you said, slipping on your iron knuckles. Realizing you left your salt gun back at the motel, you hoped that there was actually only a single ghost and not two.

It was another half hour before you finally spotted something. It was flicker at first, but then you made out the full figure of one Thomas Manns. The spirit stood by the statue of himself, watching out over the water. Pulling out your phone, you silently dialed Dean’s number.

“What’s up? We’re on our way already,” Dean said as he answered.

“Thomas is the ghost,” you whispered into the phone.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Because I am looking right at him, genius,” you said, but then the ghost disappeared. “Dammit, I lost him.”

“Okay, listen to me, (Y/N),” Dean said. “We finally have a connection for the victims. They’re all suspects in multiple grave robbings. Most likely Melinda’s too. That’s why he’s killing them.” Suddenly, your pocket felt very heavy. You slipped your hand into the pocket of your jeans and felt the cool metal of the locket.

“I think I screwed up, Dean,” you said and as you spoke, your breath was very visible.

“What’s wrong?”

“I still have the necklace. The one from Melinda’s grave.”

“Get rid of it!” Dean yelled, but it was too late. A coldness swept through you and as you turned over your shoulder, the very angry face of Thomas Manns appeared. He lashed out at you, tossing you through the air. You hit the ground with a grunt, your phone leaving your hand as Dean yelled your name on the other end.

You scrambled for your knuckles, but they were too far from you as you struggled to get to your feet. However, Manns was faster. He took hold of you and fear entered your gut. You knew your warding protected you from being possessed, but nothing could stop him from killing you.

You fought as Mann threw you into the water. The coldness shocked you immediately as you struggled for breath. Swimming to the surface, phantom hands pulled you back under. You kicked out at nothing as you tried your hardest to break the surface. When you finally got a breath of air, Manns was there. In his hands was a knife that you were positive he used to injure his wife before drowning her in the very lake.

Your brain struggled to remember a banishing spell Rowena had taught you, but it was too cold and the fear was overwhelming. As Manns went for you again, his hands freezing your blood, you finally heard the shouts of Sam and Dean. Manns tried to pull you down again, but Dean arrived at the shore.

“Hey, Old McDonald!” he shouted. “Hands off!” Dean raised his shotgun and fired. The salt hit Manns and then entered your shoulder. You shouted as the ghost disappeared and then Dean was running through the murky water to get to you. You weakly met him halfway, tossing your arm around him. “I got you,” he said in your ear.

“Ouch,” you whined as your shoulder bled. Dean hauled you back onto the shore and checked you over, pulling your jacket aside to see the wound. It wasn’t deep and the salt wouldn’t do any permanent damage.

“Sorry,” he said, “hard to aim from that distance.”

“Thanks for the save,” you said as Sam wrapped his blazer around your shoulders, “but next time? Let’s make sure that the salt is accompanied by tequila.” Dean smiled down at you and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

--------

The last thing to do was salt and burn the body of Thomas Manns.

You leaned against a nearby tombstone as Sam and Dean dug up the grave of Manns. “Who knew grave robbing was going to bite us in the ass one day?” Dean asked, tossing his shovel down.

“It’s technically not grave robbing when we salt and burn bones,” Sam said from inside the grave. “We’re not taking anything.”

“Oh, well that makes me feel a whole lot better,” Dean said with a roll of his eyes.

“Sam,” you said, gaining his attention. The younger Winchester looked at you and you tossed him Melinda’s locket. “Better safe than sorry,” you said and he tossed it into the coffin.

Sam had wrapped up your shoulder before heading to the cemetery in your respective vehicles. You watched as they soaked the bones with lighter fluid and then Dean lit the matches and dropped them into the pit. The grave was set ablaze and you finally relaxed.

Sam and Dean stood over the burning bones, watching it with the same calmness as they did with everything. Rowena had said that they were becoming numb to the idea of monsters, but you didn’t think she was right. Sam and Dean weren’t numb, they were just used to the ugliness of the world and knew how to process the emotions that came with it.

Even in the short amount of time you had known them, you realized there was a reason Angels watched over them. The Winchesters were what the world needed and you had only wished that you had known them when your parents had died. Dean’s eyes flickered to yours over the flames and he nodded to you. You sighed, offering him a nod of your own. Whether you saw him again after this, he was going to be leaving your mind any time soon.

-------

You said goodbye to the boys at the entrance to the graveyard. Giving Sam a big hug, you said, “Don’t hesitate to call, big guy.”

“I won’t,” he said, stepping out of your hug. “Tell Rowena thank you for me.”

“I will,” you promised with a smile. He squeezed your shoulder once more before heading to the Impala to wait for his brother. Dean approached you, his hands in his pockets.

“So, this is goodbye?”

“For now,” you said. Dean smiled, awkwardly staring down at his boots. You rolled your eyes and grabbed him by his jacket. He fell into you and didn’t waste any time in connecting his lips to yours. His hands went into your hair as you gripped him tight. You sighed into the kiss, trying to memorize every touch and caress from Dean Winchester.

He pulled back for a second before kissing you again and then once more. You smiled up at him. “Are you gonna call me?” he asked, his thumb stroking your cheek.

“Maybe,” you said, “only if you need my help.”

“Well, I’ll need something,” he said with a smile. You rolled your eyes but mimicked the smile.

“Don’t worry, I’m not done with you yet, Winchester,” you said. “I’ll see you around.” You reached up and kissed him one more time, letting your lips linger on his for just a bit longer before pulling away. You waved to him as you got in your car and drove away.

Dean watched after you, feeling like you would keep your word and he would be seeing you very soon. He waited until your taillights were out of sight before joining his brother in the car. “Sammy, I think I just found my future wife.”

Sam snorted, “Great, maybe Cas can officiate,” he joked.

“Officiate what?” Sam and Dean jumped at the sudden voice. Turning around, Castiel was sitting in the back seat of the Impala, looking between the brothers.

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean yelled, trying to get his heart rate down.

“Sorry,” Cas said and then looked at Sam who just burst out laughing. “Am I missing something?”

“I’ll fill you in on the way,” Sam said.

“On the way where?” Castiel asked, confused. Dean revved the engine and hit the gas.

“We’re going after a girl, I got a date.”

#dean winchester #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x you #Dean x you #Dean Winchester x reader #Sam winchester #castiel #hunter!reader #rowena #spn imagines #supernatural #Supernatural fanfic #supernatural imagine

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youngbugandtonystank · 3 years

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how would you rewrite spideychelle in ffh and/or hoco?

I’ll answer this one with this ask:

I was reading your answers and... why is zendaya not mary jane w?? when you said it i never really thought about this because i was more excited about infinity war and the avengers but now... its the last spiderman movie and we know nothing about her character? i thought she was supposed to be something new and big like z said? whats going on???

Well, first of all, I would give Zendaya the original title of Mary-Jane Watson, I still believe it was racist not to give her this position. From what I understand, there was a rumor going around (2016) that the reason they didn’t give her the MJ title is because Stan Lee had it contracted that they couldn't race swap Mary Jane or Peter Parker, so they changed her name to Michelle Jones and made a different character while treating her as their version of what is supposed to be a homage to the comic character. The thing is, Marvel fought Sony really hard to get Peter into the MCU (in their own terms), so why not offer the lead lady the same treatment? I’m pretty sure they would do it for Gwyneth or Elizabeth Olsen. Also, the rumor doesn’t make sense because Stan Lee himself said this about the situation: ‘If she is as good an actress as I hear she is, I think it’ll be absolutely wonderful’

Gwyneth Paltrow is Pepper Potts and her character is called Pepper Potts. Scarlett Johansson is Natasha Romanoff and she’s called Natasha or Black Widow. Natalie Portman is Jane Foster and the character is called Jane Foster. Why change Zendaya’s character?

‘She's not Mary Jane Watson. She never was Mary Jane Watson. She was always this new high school character, Michelle, who we know there's an 'M' in Michelle and an 'M' in Mary.’ - Kevin Feige.

‘She’s not Mary Jane, she’s this weird girl.’ - Tom Holland.

In every interview, I feel second-hand embarrassment for her when the interviewers ask about character development for Michelle and she has to make mental gymnastics to answer and every time the convo comes back to romance and Peter; how Peter makes her feel, how she behaves around Peter, how Peter’s life is, how her character revolves around him. Even if Zendaya wanted to play the ‘I’m not like the other girls’ quirky loner girl, she could’ve been Mary Jane with that personality too. And what I’m going to share next is just my opinion and nothing is confirmed (just making sure because some people lack common sense lmao) I believe they fooled Zendaya and told her she created this original revolutionary character for girls, where Zendaya in almost all interviews states that ‘it’s ok to be weird, to not be like the other people and it’s fine to be’ etc, etc. But the thing is, that individualism and character traits she’s putting into the character don’t really matter because her character was treated as a love interest only. She couldn’t explore that individual part of her character because she’s written as ‘Peter’s observant’ friend and that is not a trait. Look at what they actually made her believe:

"My character is not romantic," Zendaya replied when asked if she would romance Peter on-screen. "My character is, like, very dry. Awkward. Intellectual. And because she's so smart, she just feels like she doesn't need to talk to people."

"I was lucky because they already kind of wanted to re-create the character and turn her into a new version of what I think maybe the original Mary Jane character represented, and just do it in our own way in this Marvel Cinematic Universe." - Zendaya. (Well, the MCU also has their own version of Peter Parker and they don’t call him Perkin Park; a homage to Peter Parker lmaoooo)

She went there thinking she would have a badass intellectual female character only to end up being the love interest without background, development or storyline. Let’s for a moment compare her to one of the extra characters, like Betty (no offence lmao) or some other decathlon kid; what’s the real difference between her and them? An intellectual is a person who engages in critical thinking; Betty and the other kids are like that too given the kind of school they attend. Awkward? All kids are like that. Smart? lmaooo same as before, they’re in a school full of smart people. She knew Peter was Spider-Man and that makes her special? She said she wasn’t even 100% sure about it and was surprised when Peter confirmed LMAO Betty was suspecting this in FFH, some of his classmates knew something was going on with him to the point one of them thought he was a male escort. There’s no real difference except that she’s playing Peter’s girlfriend.

And I happen to think all of this is because fans don’t care about that development or the fact that a black character could be a lead lady with an interesting plot (just like they did with Tessa Thompson in Thor, Natalie Portman, Gwyneth Paltrow, Scarlett Johansson, Elizabeth Olsen, etc). She’s been playing this character for 4 years and Michelle has 0 character development, no storyline, no background. How is that something they could use as a way to bring depth into the character? They can’t, because they didn’t actually care about the things Zendaya mentioned, they wanted her stardom and popularity to boost the movie. The fact that people started shipping her with Tom Holland helped to that reputation and promotion.

how would you rewrite spideychelle in ffh and/or hoco?

I would do exactly this: MCU’s what if’s + Michelle Jones is Nick Fury’s niece. Now, THIS is an interesting storyline, where a teenage girl is Fury’s niece, not exactly an agent but someone with a vast knowledge of espionage. This would explain why she was stalking Peter without taking away the fact that she might have a little crush on him and this line;

MJ: I don’t really have much luck when it comes to getting close to people. Um… so I lied. I wasn’t just watching you ‘cause I thought you were Spider-Man.

would’ve been more interesting with that plot in mind. This with the fact that Fury is probably training her to be an agent or to be the next director of SHIELD in the future, not only this allows her to form a much deeper connection with Peter (who is Spider-Man and struggles with a double life and responsibilities) but it would give her character depth, and a particular insight that the other spider-man girls didn’t have (this would attribute to the ‘not like the other girls’). This could’ve been done without removing the personality traits Zendaya wanted in Michelle.

Fury was involved in the second movie and this would allow their weird contract to keep someone from the avengers or related to them in the movies without having to make Happy or any others participate in them. If they wanted an original character they would’ve given her a better position in it but they didn’t, the real reason they changed her name is because dudebros and extreme comic fans couldn’t stand the thought of having a black girl as a female lead in a Spider-Man movie. They wouldn’t dare to ruin their perfect comic book MJ image, which, btw, Zendaya could’ve pulled off as well.

As Kevin said;

‘And then I think it leaked that she would be playing MJ and then it became a whole headache for Zendaya to have to navigate. It was never a big, 'Oh my God, it's a big reveal!' There are big reveals in the movie. That's not one of them’ - Kevin.

Why should it be a headache for her? Why didn’t they fight for her character instead of avoiding the real problem? lmaoo this is clearly Marvel having fear of a big backlash that shouldn’t exist in the first place. Her skin color shouldn't be a big thing that she has to deal with or navigate through.

This could even allow her character to have a disney+ series to explore more about her and Fury’s family. I hope that No Way Home gives her character more screen time in terms of her independent development but as I’ve said before, I highly doubt this is possible if NWH is the last standalone spiderman movie in the MCU.

You have Zendaya wishing to see a black Mary Jane;

Zendaya would love to see a black Mary Jane, even if she doesn't play her. "People are going to react over anything, but of course there's going to be outrage over that because for some reason some people just aren't ready."

You see this, along with Laura Harrier thinking that she was afraid Disney wouldn’t allow her to be in the same movie as Zendaya because she believed Disney would never handle two black girls in the same movie and still think there’s nothing wrong with the way they handled things? Only because of the typical opinion: ‘these are high school sweethearts, she’s only there to be a cute character and they already have too much diversity in the cast, it’s not that deep’ lmao

Btw, read this, it’s worth reading: Michelle Jones: A Disrespect to Zendaya And The Mary Jane Character?

#michelle jones #mary jane watson #zendaya #tom holland #peter parker #mcu #marvel #spideychelle

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kuroosweakness · 3 years

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Hi Lia! Hope you are doing well. I don't know if you are taking requests at the moment, but before I blabber out anything let me just tell you that your blog is one of my comfort blogs, like whenever I feel dejected (which is often), I just come to your Kuroo writings and get a fresh dose of serotonin, endorphins, oxytocin, dopamine, no matter how many times I re-read them.

Okay so here's the thing! It's kind of comfort/self-indulgent of sorts. So, like the scenario is that the reader is insecure that maybe they are too smart, studious/nerdy and independent for Kuroo. Like normally they are indifferent and doesn't even bother what is happening around, but at times they feel slightly sad when all the girls flock around Kuroo, to help them with studies or any other tasks. They know very well that some of them purposely come to him to see him and to spend time with him (Like he is so charismatic!!). But Kuroo being a sweet and helpful senior can never deny them. So reader has thoughts like "I wish I were dumb and stupid", which of course somehow Kuroo gets to know and consoles them. Like you know saying stuff like "I love your beautiful mind", "only you can find the stupid faults in my pickup lines", "genuinely laugh at my chemistry jokes", "you are my partner-in-crime" etc etc.

Feel free to shorten this request and add more characters if you feel like, as per your convenience but I am not over with my rant yet. I hope you won't mind, I just needed to vent out.

So basically the thing is I am a NERD and there are many reasons on why I love Kuroo but most importantly I feel like I could have mentally stimulating conversations with him since he is an officially recognized chem dork by the fandom. And um since I am passionate about chemistry along with every other subject under the sky (Nerd things, yeah!), so you know. But usually in most of the fics it is shown that the reader is not good at studies, and asks him for help and him being cheeky, and helping the reader out by tutoring them, like nothing wrong in that but at times I feel left out because I honestly don't need any help with my homework or any tutoring in study dates. I am at top of my work even though I procrastinate a lot. How about discussing cool stuff about the subjects that we study over such sessions? Another pathetic thing that I have observed is this disastrous pick up line used in Kuroo fics (I am sorry if you have ever mentioned it or liked it. I don't mean to hurt you) is that - "Are you a compound made up of Beryllium and Barium because you are a total BaBe"..... Like ughhhh give me a break! Beryllium and Barium have the same oxidation state of +2 , so they can't really combine to form a compound duhhh!!! Or maybe I don't know, probably Kuroo won't like a smart or studious s/o?

Anyways, I am sorry if I wasted your time and thank you if you read all of it. Sending you loads of love and take no stress. You have the complete liberty to not write this request and if you choose to write this then thank you so much <3 <3

omg hi there! i get where you're coming from!! and to answer your question, he'd most definitely love having a nerdy s/o who'll geek out over things that stimulates his brain! to be able to have complex talks and arguments with you is one of his favorite past times :) he'll talk about the things that he wonders about to you and whenever he comes across a trick question/puzzle, he'll go to you like "can you figure this out? i've been stuck on it for ages!"

and if you figure it out easily, he'll be dumbfounded ahahha

i'm very very glad that this is a comfort blog for you :' in all honesty, it's a comfort blog for me too. it feels wonderful to be able to have a platform where i can share my thoughts and interact with others who have the same ideas

about the scenario, i'd be happy to write it! but firstly, do not ever wish you're dumb and dependent >:( whaaa the things i'd trade for your brain???

- your independence and intelligence are traits that kuroo looks up to. although you're already his s/o, your independence gives him chances to seek your attention and love, all while having the reassurance that you love him already. he can have fun teasing you and chasing after you for affection, all while knowing he'll get the love back!

i don't know if this is making sense lol but kuroo wouldn't fall behind or cling onto you, instead find his own ways to turn your independence into something he finds a lot of joy in. and also because he's quite independent and busy himself, he totally understands you!

and yes, there will most likely be a flock of girls (and guys 👀) lined up outside his door to spend time with him (kuroo and his charismatic charms that are too good for their own sake) he makes it quite clear that's he's already taken and has zero interest in them besides helping out! but also, getting other peoples' attention does feel good, so his schedule involves a lot of tutoring and helping others.

except it's not a pretty sight when you walk into the library where you're supposed to meet him, and see the close proximity between him and the girl he's "tutoring"

who said that he doesn't need your help?? help goes both ways!! kuroo would go to you and seek your help and attention :) and also because he likes to have an excuse to spend time with you, all while understanding the concepts he's been struggling with!

if you ever have those "i wish i was dumb and stupid" thoughts, (which 1. you should literally NEVER BE HAVING) then kuroo would likely notice *somehow*

idk it's like his 6th sense...to connect actions and facial expressions with thoughts. he'll teasingly tell you "if you didn't have that brain and personality of yours, who'll i go to for help? you're supposed to be my plan A here"

no but seriously, what'll he ever do without you? you're making him feel *negative feelings* when you have those thoughts!

and so the conversation will turn into him covering your face in small kisses. he'll hold the sides of your face and stare at the top of your head, saying something ridiculous like "i'd kiss your brain too if i could"

and of course, you'll nudge him and he'll laugh.

you're genuinely the only one he loves giving those pick-up lines and complex jokes, mostly because 1. he loves your laugh 2. you're the only one who understands! you two will have many, many inside jokes that no one else knows about, and he thinks that's special

also, less and less girls will start going to him for help after he keeps dropping those "yeah no problem...review on monday? sorry 'bout that, i'm hanging out with my s/o that day"

or "oh, it's okay to not understand this. i didn't know what was going on until my s/o taught it to me"

~~~

YES having mentally stimulating conversations with him!!!! deep talks!! not only would you be able to have deep and complex convos with him, but also light hearted ones about movie characters, songs...he's a very open-minded person and that's what i love about him :'

how. are. you. so. smart. and. on. top. of. things. gimme ur skills and motivations D:

although you don't need tutoring on study dates, kuroo would search up difficult problems that requires a lot of critical thinking and *poof* hopefully, you'll be stuck and he'll feel all proud for knowing something you don't (bonk him on the head for me)

but if you do figure it out, he'll be like o_o the whole rest of the study date

RIGHT !! BaBe does not work together lollll (omg i've never thought about their oxidation states :0) but it's still a cute joke in a way :)

but yeah, i don't like those scientific jokes very much either. they get old after a while D:

if kuroo ever drops that joke on you, tell him to do better and he'll laugh and walk away, later trying to think of a better and accurate one

wdym kuroo won't like a studious s/o ?!!!! OF COURSE HE WOULD

~~~

no time wasted here! :) i hope my insights and thoughts were good enough because i didn't really do much writing :'D again, kuroo would be head over heels for you. *sends a handful of love and me and my neighborhood stray cat that reminds me of kuroo* <33

#lia convos

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frstbiitten · 3 years

Text

cw: violence, gore, blood, death

The bathroom was a little further away than expected, she doubted anyone would notice the bloody wound on her back, too bad her black shirt would have a slit in it, she didn't want to get rid of it, at least not now. Feeling the bodies sticking against hers only made her sick to her stomach, it was an overwhelming and invasive feeling at the same time.

She reached the bathroom almost stumbling on her way, the light was white at least, no outlandish colors for now. It was also almost inundated in silence, beyond the music coming from the dance floor, it was a relief to get out of that shapeless mass of humans. There was no one at least insight, all the toilets clean and free of any interference - that is, anyone else-. She opened one of the empty cubicles, almost all of them were empty except for just one, she pulled out enough paper to wet the pieces slightly and clean the wound, it was a very deep one, just noticing its presence caused her even more physical pain, although it was clear that it was healing normally as expected of her. After a few days, only a somewhat lumpy mark would remain.

A girl, no taller than Frost, came out of one of the cubicles, it was to be expected that there might be someone else without her knowing, she was wearing a short tight black dress with loose dark hair, perhaps the whole outfit plus heavy makeup was more expensive than Frost could imagine. Though she didn't leave after washing her hands, she observed Frost for a moment, looking at the papers wet in water and blood at the same time, she was heading for the door until she took a closer look at the wound on her back.

"Do you need help, do you want me to call an ambulance?" Her voice was somewhat soft, from the way she looked Frost could tell easily that she drank a little, but still had a low level of alcohol in her blood.

"No thanks, I'll be fine in a few hours." Frost turned around to get a better look at her, at least a stranger cared about her wellbeing, maybe this little world wasn't full of selfish people.

"Are you sure? Maybe that could get worse."

She heard only a hiss and one of the heels hit the ground very close to her, her movement had been quick but Frost had reacted sooner. She had the girl's right wrist gripped firmly by his icy hand, the knife she carried being just a few inches away from reaching her stomach. A reaction the girl never expected, she would have preferred to catch her more off guard, but Frost's senses had been on alert since Kit had assaulted her.

"I can't let you go alive." The stranger was mumbling, attacking her with her fist from her other hand, it wasn't very efficient as Frost caught her instantly.

"I have to say the same thing, but I'm more stubborn."

The girl's hand holding the knife began to rapidly cool to the point where her fingers were being stuck against each other from the cold, before she began to scream, Frost used the girl's frozen hand and inserted the tip of the knife straight into the jugular. Frost shoved the body into the cubicle behind the girl, some of the blood had run down her face as she threw the body onto the toilet. It wasn't a pleasant sight, as much as she was used to exposed bones and split open heads at this point, a corpse was always unpleasant to look at. "How fucking disgusting, eww!" And she closed the cubicle, sure someone else would find it.

Frost didn't leave the bathroom until she could wash her face from the blood of the last attack, would this night keep this level of violence? She needed to leave. Kit had mentioned that this could happen, if that girl knew about her, then more people there would be looking for her with non-peaceful goals in mind. She had to find Violet before leaving, or maybe get the hell out of here with her. Still had to get through the mass of dancing people, it was a claustrophobic experience when panic mixes with the music and the lack of air. Was anyone else looking for her? From the shadows someone was watching her, watching her face being illuminated for a few seconds thanks to the spotlights.

Found Violet and Kit, both having a drink at the bar as if nothing else had happened before, it seemed that Violet forgave her very quickly. Kit first noticed Frost's presence approaching, she didn't appear too pleased to see her again.

"Hey Frost, don't you want me to call an ambulance?" Kit took a sip of her drink, striking a relaxed pose, elbows, and back leaning against the bar, it gave her a better view of the dance floor.

"What?"

"She deserves an apology from you, too." Violet returned Violet's comment, though she was turning her back to Frost from her seat, turning around almost immediately, something didn't add up in the young woman's expression, especially in her eyes. "Hey Frost... Do you need anything?"

"I have to go."

"So soon? Didn't you want to enjoy the evening first?" Kit seemed to know more than she appeared to, as if she had already foreseen the recent attack in the bathroom. "Or are you afraid of being in the eye of the storm?"

"... What?"

Could barely hear the rest of the world accurately after Kit said that, it was as if everything had quietened down for a few moments. But she could feel herself being watched, uncomfortably watched by more than a single person. Felt the weight of a hand on the back of her neck, it was a grip that sought nothing more than control over her, and suddenly it was her hair being forcibly pulled back. Frost didn't have much time to react and couldn't avoid the blow on the back of her knees, someone was forcing her to slow down and obey under every strike on her body until she ended up on all four of her limbs. Someone was belittling her power.

Frost took advantage of her enemy's position and used her left leg to create a circular motion and throw him to the ground. She had lost sight of Violet and Kit, this guy was her priority and it was an almost minuscule moment that it took her to kill the big guy, plunging the knife she had taken from Kit earlier to insert it into her attacker's chest.

The screams and chaos after the first attack were to be expected. It was all very sudden, had a gun in front of her face and her first instinct was to freeze it before the attacker could pull the trigger, that trick seemed to always work. She ascended from the ground with a blow from her fist directly towards the lower part of the man's jaw -he wasn't as big as the previous one but he did pass her in height-, she couldn't land a second blow, as another man had grabbed her waist from behind and pushed her to the bar, almost crashing into the chairs.

She was confused, but it was obvious that trusting Kit was no longer viable. Felt a hand trying to help her to get up, it was Violet, she hadn't left there like the rest of the other people were doing, like the ones that were left only wanted to watch the fight, or they were the ones coming for Frost.

"Get up... Get up Frost, you have to go, there's like 15 guys here wanting to kill you." Violet let Frost's arm rest on her shoulders, where was Kit? Well right next to them, she didn't know what look to give her back at Frost, but she didn't seem to have any intentions of helping her.

"No... I can't leave.... They're going to follow me anywhere, or they could hurt you if they wanted to." She had mentioned 15 men in total? 17 if you counted the girl in the bathroom and the dead guy on the floor. The DJ wasn't about to leave his place either, as he had changed the music to a much louder one, it helped set the mood, beyond how surreal it was, also some artificial smoke flooded the dance floor, was it to hurt her or benefit her?

She still had the knife in her hand, needed to be smart when using it, maybe they would come one at a time, she doubted they would want to kill her between them all. Took a few steps forward once she was able to compose herself, was already in plain sight amidst a fog and dancing lights.

"Did you guys come for me? Because you're only wasting my time."

Frost didn't have to wait too long to get a reaction from these men, clearly, they were determined to die for a sum of money, she was ignorant of what it would be and who might have put a bounty on her head. It wasn't easy, as some were armed or more experienced, they managed to hit her with their fists or some short weapon, although she also knew how to defend herself. It was also clear that the most desperate ones went for her first, it was easy to unbalance them with kicks, punches, and cuts. She felt the adrenaline rise and fill her skull, as well as her skin became colder and colder, the feeling of vertigo and of letting herself be carried away by anger.

But she didn't make it in time, instead, one of the men took it upon himself to lift her off the ground with her body over his shoulder, as much as she could stab his back - there was something underneath that could be a kevlar vest, which prevented her from reaching his muscles-. The man dropped Frost onto the drink bar, there were glasses and bottles, these became shattered glasses and alcohol scattered all the way to the floor, again the young woman's back was suffering the consequences. Being short was a disadvantage, as the man surpassed her in height by many inches, had leather gloves so he could withstand the cold, and grabbed Frost by her clothes to lift her and turn her around. Like a magic trick, he used the alcohol from the drinks as fuel and with a lighter turned the bar into a new method of torture, finally, he grabbed Frost's hair to slam her face into the surface of the bar, now on fire and with shattering glass.

It was her fury that stopped the man's strength, her hands rested on the edge of the surface in time to push her torso upward, between grunts and struggles, her eyes took on a whitish hue and the glow in them appeared. The fire didn't last long, a layer of ice began to spread from her fingers, extinguishing the fire instantly, she used her foot to deliver a kick in the direction of his knee and knock him off balance, knocking him to the ground but she didn't pay attention to him again, 8 more guys were waiting for their turn.

She grabbed the knife from the ground and wrapped it in ice, turning it into an even more lethal weapon than before. Frost slashed one of them in the stomach fatally enough to leave his guts all over the floor and start screaming, another was pierced through the eye and getting finished with a chunk of ice in the eyesocket as it cooled his skull, and so they kept falling one by one.

"This is... ew..." Violet was both shocked and disgusted, shocked by the scene in front of her eyes and disgusted by the blood spilled and the guts, too many for just one night.

"You should leave, it could get worse." Kit lightly pushed Violet in the direction of the door they had previously entered through, the last thing she wanted was to be involved in the situation, let alone afterward, she was planning on finishing her task however she could. "Besides, look at her, this only proves my point: Frost isn't like you, me or anyone else, sooner or later she could hurt someone innocent, she's not human either, have you ever seen a human do that?" Kit pointed at Frost who seemed to be winning the fight, her eyes perfectly reflected the anger that was driving her to keep fighting, using the ice that gushed from her hands to incapacitate and kill, the scene was getting harder to watch with every blow. "And if she doesn't at least kill us, those around her could die, you saw what happened to Jasper... it's not safe to be around her."

Violet preferred not to connect one event to another, Jasper's death was a mistake at the end of the day, and could do nothing to stop such, Jasper never saw Frost as someone who would hurt those who tried to help her. Jasper would say that Frost seemed more like someone who had lost her way than someone who could be violent for no apparent reason. To this day, Violet didn't know if it was beneficial to help her, nor how to help her. They didn't hear the man who had fought Frost against the bar getting back on his feet, overheard the previous conversation and had no intention of sharing the money, Kit included. With a surprisingly skillful move, he grabbed Kit from behind, wrapping his arm around her neck, making a headlock to leave her immobilized.

"Shit shit shit!" Violet tried to help Kit free herself from the man, only to be pushed away by Kit herself, not wanting to put her in danger, somehow managing to articulate the word 'go away' as she struggled to stop the man from choking her.

From a distance, Frost had noticed that the big guy hadn't fainted as she had assumed, before killing the last man, she performed a quick maneuver, never done it before from such a distance. From her fingertips, ice crystals detached like razor blades, threw them intending to kill the man who was trying to choke Kit. Frost heard the ice shards embedding into the skin and reaching up to the skull and neck, and with a final blow, she shattered the eye of the last opponent, letting him fall to the ground along with the others.

The adrenaline rush had worn off once she managed to relax, the knife slipped from her hand and fell to the ground, again staining the blade with blood as the ice melted. She was exhausted after such a fight, never fought so many people at the same time on the same day. Gasped as she tried to relax her muscles, trying to get back to her normal self.

She started to hear a cry from behind her, Frost turned around to get a better look at what had happened. Violet was on the floor, sitting on her knees and legs, in her lap she had half of Kit's body on her, it looked like she was trying to take something from her. As she got closer she could see in detail what had happened. It was a fatal aiming error on her part, yes she had managed to kill the man who had assaulted them both, but Kit was also affected. 3 of the 5 crystals she had thrown had impacted her body too, one of her eyes was gone and there was nothing but a piece of ice emerging from the eye socket, another embedded in her forehead, and the third -or first- in her throat. The blood wasn't gushing evenly, it was clotting and freezing right away, the face alone was becoming misshapen and taking on a bluish hue.

"I... I'm so sorry Violet..." Her hands were stained with blood, she wished she could reach out to touch her shoulder or take her away, she didn't know which way to act.

"Go away."

"What?"

"Please leave." It was the first time she had ever heard Violet speak that sternly, her eyes full of tears, her voice cracking and even sounding like she was going to attack her at any moment. "...they're coming for you.... you have to go..."

"I'm sorry..."

"PLEASE GO AWAY!"

Didn't have to think about it much, Violet no longer saw her as before, for Frost, she wouldn't know how to solve it in the future, she had to follow her advice to get out of there before the police arrived on the scene. Decided to take the way she had entered, then do her best to get lost in alleys and areas where she could hide for a few hours. Heard the sirens like a clap of thunder, a sound that chased her as she hid, how long was that fight? This was never in her plans, for she doubted she would ever make it home this time.

Finally hidden in the bushes of a building, there was a bridge several yards away, she could hide there too until the time she deemed safe. She heard a rustling behind her, as she turned in the direction of the sound, there was only a shadow standing, someone, but it was a familiar and unfamiliar feeling at the same time.

"Please... leave me alone." She would be cordial for now, but she wouldn't hesitate to use her force again.

Frost heard an almost imperceptible sound, like a tv being unplugged, a power failure, but it wasn't caused by an electric current or any artifact. It was out of nowhere, she felt a prick in her neck, her hand instinctively wanted to remove whatever was pricking her skin. Managed to remove a dart from her neck or so she thought, as she had never seen one, as it looked more like a yellow stain on her hand. Everything became a big dark blob as her body tried to find a way to react, her eyes paled just like her skin as she tried to stand up. The dart fell to the warm grass, looked for a way to support herself using her hands, looked at where the shadow was supposed to be, nothing but a patch darker than the night. Finally, her body decided to give up and Frost fell to the ground.

#novel #((ohh this is a long one))#blood tw #violence tw #gore tw #death tw

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ameliyaahn3 · 3 years

Note

Sorry for the formatting, I’m on mobile.

🖇 Hi, can I please request male matchups for One Punch Man and My Hero Academia? Thank you!

I’m a grey/demisexual, panromantic girl. I’m over 18, I’ m an ENFP though I feel like I’m 50/50 extroverted and introverted. I’m 5’5, full of snark and sass. I like to wear clothes ai can move in, though my usual wear is sneakers, jeans, a tank top and a jacket if it’s cold. I’m assertive and until people get to know me, I can come off as aggressive and angry/grumpy. I’m extremely opinionated and get outspoken about my beliefs. I’m very smart but I will need a while to process new information and see how that new information interacts and intersects with what I already know. I have a strong sense of right and wrong, and not afraid of conflict. Am ready to throw down at the drop of a hat and even though I’m on the smaller side I *will* kick someone’s ass. I have very few friends, but the ones I do have are especially close to me.

My major fear in life is that I won’t live up to my full potential. A word that I like, if it doesn’t have to be in English, is the Japanese word/name ‘mamoru’ which means to defend/to protect.

My favorite color is red, and I like silver and cool colors secondly. I love action and super hero movies, and I hate most romance movies/love triangles in shows. I love sci-fi too. I can be pretty insightful and observant despite what most people think, as I do come off as a loner or oblivious on occasion. I hate corruption, double standards and fake people. The most important quality I value in myself, and others is loyalty.

I’m an Aries sun with an Aquarius moon. I like savory foods and my favorite is steak. My favorite time of day is evening, and my love languages are physical touch and quality time. Fun facts are I’m very good at playing the Imposter in Among us, I’ve played piano, clarinet, and baritone and I’d like to learn a string instrument at some point. If there’s a I’ve been told by two separate people that my aura color is creamsicle/bright orange. My favorite bands are the emo-trinity, and one of my favorite songs is Trouble by Neon Jungle. My favorite anime of all time is Kill la Kill. Hope this enough info ❤️

A/n : Don't worry for formating i'm on mobile too ! AND I'M SORRY TO ANSWER YOUR ASK SO LATE LIKE YOU HAD TO WAIT A MONTH ?!

One punch man >>>

I match you with...

Speed o Sound Sonic

Less than five min to match you two lol.

Like I think you're pretty much his type in a matter of style or personality.

The first time you met it was chaos, like you two probably argued about something as you are very opiniated. But at least you didn't scared each other by being agressive like it would usually with more sensitive people.

Sonic is pretty impulsive when it comes to takes decision but that doesn't mean he's not smart, I think he's pretty decent in his reflexion when he's not attending to kill Saitame at all it cost... When comes new information he process to treat them faster, what makes him pretty resourceful and so your two methods complete each others and gives you a little bit of intellectual challenge when they're confronted.

Likes that you aren't a people pleaser that goes to befriend everyone and capable to kick his ass when he's being an idiot.

You're not even that small beside him, like the height difference is 9cm. Sonic feel tall but not enough to mess with you about it.

"Mamoru" is a word that he would like too and don't worry about live your life to your fullest with him cause he would never let that happen ! If you want something he would push you for it !

Actions movies are is favorite so far since he integrated a "normal" japanese society, doesn't like romance ones too but sci-fi doesn't takes that much his interest, I likely see him sleep during them.

The tsundere he is founded recomfort in your oblivious facade but once he knew about your hiden obsvervative nature it became his worst nightmare : When he would believe that he can let his guard down and that you won't see if he let somes evidence about if he's doing something subtly romantic or that he admit again slightly have feelings for you, you would caught him out off guard and point out with a lot of sass how he is such a tsundere.

Sonic is very loyal, but you will have to proove him first that you are to him.

He doesn't have an official birthday but I'm pretty sure his chart is strongly influenced by either Aries or Sagittarius. He got strong vibes in my opinion.

Your touch makes him flustered but I do think he's into physical touch as a love language and act of services even if he whines and act as a tsundere before doing something for you.

Sonic probably sucks at playing Among Us so he takes it even worse than he would notmally do that you're a good impo' and just rage whenever you are one.

Is in love with your aura brighter than his.

Also is secretely admirative of your musicals skills, likes when you play clarinet or piano except that he's not a fan or baritone.

Kill la Kill is definitely an anime that I could see him enjoy so you can rewatch with him without any problem.

Nothing is forced in your relationship so you two goes at the rythm that you want. No pressure.

A lot of laugh and fun, even if Sonic lives as a bandit, I can see two as partner in crime or you as the one that bring him kn the right path, your choice !

Try to doesn't involve you in his problem and makes some times for both of you.

Sonic never let you in his home as he changes often and literaly live in an abandonned area, a dirty place really that you don't deserve to live in and him neither but he don't care about himself.

So always it's at your place if you want to being at home with him.

He's researched so you two can't date often but you does watch the town together on the rooftop of higher buildings.

Others potential matchs :

Tatsumaki.

My hero Academia >>>

I match you with...

Dabi

Oh God. Here we have a pretty explosive combination.

Honestly, he won't like you and likes you at the same time the first time you will met.

He likes your style and doesn't mind the way you can come as agressive at first but does dislike how opiniated you can be, like it's a bit too much for him. It's a pros and your cons at the same time but the worst I think is if you impose your opinion to him, like girl... he would literaly eject you.

But as you're opiniated you're aren't afraid to speak for yourself and you're able to debate at least to defend your opinion. I definitely can't see him with someone that doesn't bother to think about the our society at least a little bit.

Dabi probably makes fun of how slow it can be for you taking decision and analyzing situatuon but does respect it as sometimes things can't always be resolved in the second and that usually your reflexions are pretty accurate and goes more further than his. He's not dumb but definitely a man of action.

I know you're against corruption im sorry but I likely see Dabi try to corrupt your beliefs of right and wrong in a playful way, he doesn't force you to anything but jokes about how you're idealistic and so innocent. This isn't the same type of corruption but yeah...

Besides that he's admirative of your strong sense of justice, unlike others heroes you're sincere about it.

And don't hesit to kick some ass, even his. You're not afraid to makes enemies or disagree and that does makes you an honest person in Dabi eyes.

Doesn't understand how you can be afraid to live your life to your fullest and would likely tell you to do what you want to do and don't care about others.

He's very protective of you so he doesn't like to meet you outside and like Sonic is loyal whenever you are. You need to gain his trust.

You're so much brighter than him it hurts, you're his dose of light in his darker world.

He would notice your secret obsvervative nature quicker than anybody else and wouldn't even be surprised if you notice a lot of things about him that he didn't know himself. Actually I even think that in your relationship you would think of him as the careless one when he is for real but a lot less with you.

I'm pretty sure that the fact that you're not someone into romance is something is glad about like... this isn't is thing at all and so it's isn't yours too you don't except him to be very romantic what he's totally not.

This man would understand his feelings toward you after a while like you two can wait more than 8 months like this if nothing confront him to realize his strong attachement to you.

So you know know how he is please let him breathe and do not takes initiative of physical affection in public if it's not a very slight one or that he's not in a playful mood.

Can always dream of a proper date.

Others potential matchs :

Himiko Toga, Kyoka Jirou.

#one punch man #my hero academia #mha #dabi #sonic opm #matchup #matchups

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aelaer · 4 years

Note

☕ WHY DO YOU THINK TONY DOESN'T LIKE BEING HANDED THINGS (OR IF YOU KNOW THE CANON REASON THAT WOULD BE AWESOME) 👀👀👀

From what I could find, there is no canon reason. And I didn’t have any headcanon for this. So I outsourced and went to the internet to see what they thought. They had interesting answers. Here are all of them. I put my favorite answer at the end. (Copy/pasted rather than screenshotted so I don’t have to worry about screen-readers):

Via Rob Taylor on Quora:

Agent Carter fleshed this out in the final episode. Basically both Howard and Tony have OCD tendencies, most geniuses do. But Tony has a LOT of psychological issues at play.In Howard’s case it was displayed with humor, that his gadgets were not stored right. Tony’s is more to do with avoiding any personal involvement where he can. Being handed things is just one part of it, he beds women and has Pepper eject them, he can’t stand the pendulum and is ALWAYS flippant and inappropriate around authority, in particular Fury. Tony always avoided bonding with people, literally has Rhodey as a friend and Stane as his father figure at the start of the film and Pepper and Happy as his staff, albiet close staff. Since Yinsen’s death he tries to avoid drawing others into his world as they get killed, which is exacerbated by the dangers faced by Pepper, Coulson’s death and Hogan’s near killing in IM3. He is even off with kids in IM3 where he isn’t previously, so he is also quite paranoid.

Via Andrew Hart on Quora:

If you think back to (or go back and watch) Iron Man (the first one), you’ll notice Tony is handed things in the movie and it’s implied he’s handed many other things.

There are two situations that are most notable.

At the party when Christine Everhart comes up to Tony after he got back from Afghanistan, she hands him pictures of terrorists using Stark technology to attack Gulmira (however you spell it), which if you recall, is the place Yinsen says he is from. This hits Tony hard, because it’s HIS weapons being used to terrorise the place of origin of the man who died to save him.

In this same conversation, Christine accuses Tony of signing off to allow for Stark weapons to be given to those terrorists, which Tony is immediately upset by. It’s one of the few times when Tony doesn’t have a ‘smart comeback’, but is shown to be upset and disturbed by this information. This makes Tony wonder “What has he been signing? Could he have signed off for these weapons to be used without even knowing it?”

As CEO, he signs a lot of stuff, and he is responsible for everything Stark Industries does. Tony assumes the worst, that he signed off for the weapons to be used and didn’t notice it. He assumes it was just one of the random things people kept handing to him to sign.

So in this one conversation, we have Tony being handed images that deeply trouble him, and then being accused of signing paperwork that was handed to him to allow for these images to exist.

Basically this one conversation leads to Tony having a peeve about being handed things. Understandably.

Via KCreep on Reddit:

It hasn’t been outright explained. However my interpretation is this.

Ultra, rich, weathy, men have a tendency to have weird eccentric quirks. Think of Howard Hughes and him collecting his own urine in jars. You don’t get super weathly without being a bit gifted and more importantly being right more often than not. So over time, they’d settle into the concept that everything they do is right.

My line of thinking is that Tony Stark is so cocky and sure of himself, that the entire concept of being handed anything means that he’s not in control of the current situation.

As in if someone hands him a file to look at. He might think that he’s the genius in this room, no one needs to tell him when he needs to get to work. And the act of handing a file to him would be offensive. So while he may be too polite to just call it out for the way he thinks about it. He defaults to not liking being handed things.

Of course it’s just my insight, I could be overthinking it.

**edit then I just ran your question by my girlfriend and her immediate response was… He’s a germaphobe. She brought up Jarvis handling things in his workshop, how his cars were all kept prestine, and how Pepper would be the one to hand things to him, someone he’d trust to be clean. So you got two theories there.

Via Sarah Stodola on Quora:

I don’t think we have an official, worded answer from Marvel; they haven’t spelled it out. The following is my own observation and theorizing, after multiple viewings of most of the MCU films.

I think the core reason has to do with trauma and trust.

It’s not something he’s had or done all along. The trait didn’t actually seem to exist at the beginning of IM1 - he interacted with women and a pressing crowd at the casino, without issue. We also got the picture that he was a partier (crowds, booze, noise, sex) on a regular basis. We first see the hints of it later in IM1 (he’s uncomfortable with Obadiah, an old friend but also a very dominating personality, putting an arm around him - well before he knew of the betrayal), and then we have it pointed out very obviously in IM2. What changed?

Tony was held captive and tortured. Both people in his world and a lot of fans seem to forget that. Not just slapped around, but beaten, half-drowned, and electrocuted by people who seemed to take some pleasure in their “art” - all while having just undergone major wounding and open-chest surgery. He’s lucky he’s alive. He’s certainly not unaffected.

It doesn’t just show in not liking to be handed things; the issue is broader than that. That’s the piece he vocalizes, and he seems to play off it purposefully, obnoxiously even, as being difficult or quirky - better to be seen as annoying than vulnerable. But from IM2 on we also see that he doesn’t like crowds anymore - he will push through them if need be, but he goes visibly physically tense and does it quickly. He also startles quite noticeably when touched without warning on several occasions through the subsequent films - he downright jumps and half-turns if it’s from behind. It’s not just that he doesn’t like it. It actually spooks him; his eyes widen. His more dramatic anxiety/PTSD after “Avengers” seems to make most people he interacts with not look any deeper, but the older issues are still there.

He’s continually on some level of physical awareness; he holds himself very precisely. Even when dealing with the other Avengers he tends to circle - subtly - just out of reach, usually chattering steadily or joking to make it less obvious, and making conscious decisions to occasionally move in to do something like give or allow a brief shoulder grip. But it is obvious once you know to look for it. His body language downright shouts. The only times he seems to forget about it are when he’s angry (then he’ll get aggressive and up in people’s faces) or in an emergency (adrenaline, total focus on what needs to be done).

The only times he completely goes loose-muscled and unguarded are when locked in his basement hideaway (safe place), or under Pepper’s touch. The only times he moves comfortably in strangers’ close proximity are in the armor.

I suspect “don’t hand me things” is simply an excuse he can get away with to not to get within arm’s reach of most people - one fewer reason to end up in close quarters with another human being. The only regular exceptions to the rule are also the only people he’s shown to be actually comfortable being in physical contact with - Pepper of course, Rhodey, Happy, and oddly enough, apparently Bruce Banner. (And yes, Peter later on, I was reminded. Tony shows some stiffness for awhile with him too, but seems to relax gradually.)

Really, when you look at all the little things unspoken but added up to a clear picture, it’s hard not to realize just what an amazing actor RDJ really can be. To express so much about a character’s state of mind without using words at all - except the occasional snarky “I don’t like to be handed things.”

The above of course is all about Tony Stark in the MCU. I saw from another answer that this trait has also been carried into the comics. I can only surmise that either 1.) it would come from a similar history and mental state in the comic character, or that 2.) the writers carried over the trait from the films without looking into why it existed there, in which case it could end up a lot shallower of a reasoning.

I think Sarah hit the nail on the head and that’s the reason I like the most. Feel free to choose as you like. That’s the beauty of headcanons.

#mdcbd #tony stark #mcu #meta #ask #answered #long post #headcanon

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princessselene126 · 4 years

Text

TLC Second Generation (Cresswell)

Before getting engaged and married, Cress went off and explored the world herself for a year. She was the one to propose to him. Thorne may or may not have bawled like a baby. Anyway, Cress falls pregnant a month after they get married and completely by accident… and with twins nonetheless. She goes into labor three weeks early on Throne’s birthday while they’re orbiting Earth. Thorne doesn’t want to land because he worried it would hurt her or the babies... so he calls Jacin and asks him how the hell to deliver them. Jacin walks him through it. Despite Cress’s pregnancy being a little rough, delivery was actually a breeze. She’s one of those women that everyone hates because she barely felt a thing.

Artemis “Arti” Selene Thorne Is born on 23 May 134TE

Named after the ancient goddess whose twin brother was Apollo. Also because Artemis was the goddess of the moon. They came up with their name first, then Apollo’s. And their middle name is after Cinder because “she’s my best friend and we’re doing it.” But guess what that also means…. Their name is literally Moon Moon.

They have their mom’s blond hair (but it’s in a pixie cut) and blue eyes. Petite and slender. Looks exactly like her Cress when they’re older which weirds Thorne out sometimes. They’re just a little bit taller than Cress at 5’2”

Nonbi and Pan™

Starts going by they/them around 14-15 years old

They may only be 6 minutes older than Apollo, but they never lets him forget it. Every birthday the twins have they say that Apollo should blow out his candles six minutes after them, but Thorne and Cress tell them that it really doesn’t matter since it’s the same day. Cress thinks they never should have told them that Arti is 6 minutes older, but Thorne thinks it’s hilarious.

Personality wise… they take after their father way too much. Basically a personality carbon copy of him

They’re snarky. Always making snide comments to Apollo, but he comes back with really good ones so it’s fun. Thorne often high fives them (secretly because cress disapproves of encouraging them) for remarks they make.

They’re flirty. This person… they might be worse than their father when he was her age. Any time they dock Arti finds the first person near their age and hits on them until they’re drooling all over them. Arti has many scandalous rendezvous, but as long as they’re safe Cress and Thorne are fine with it.

They’re egotistical. You know how thorne was obsessed with his hair? Yeah, so is Arti. Thorne and Arti use the same expensive shampoos and conditioners and often get excited when they find a new one that’s better than the last. They preen like a peacock when someone compliments them, usually answering with an “I know”

They’re protective. They consider themself older than Apollo therefore he’s their baby bro and they’re protective as HELL over him. If someone fucks with Arti’s brother, their life is over. Arti will steal all their money, they’ll add random and terrible things to their criminal record, they’ll do everything in her power to make the rest of their life absolutely miserable.

Like their mother, Arti’s a hacker, and they’ve been known to get in trouble for it. Online gambling--which they always wins at and then sends the money to people who need it. They get into bank accounts to do the same. They consider themself a robin hood type person--stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.

Because of all that, Cress tried to start monitoring Arti’s portscreen when they were 12, but the kid put up a firewall that was impossible for even Cress to hack.

Thorne tried teaching them how to pilot a few times but it always ended with a new dent or scratch on the Rampion. They’ll stick to hacking like their mother, thank you very much.

Apollo Dmitri Thorne is born 6 minutes after his sister on 23 May 134TE

Named after the ancient god whose sister was Artemis. Cress immediately knew what to name him after they picked out Artemis’s name.

Also has mother’s blond hair, but his eyes are shockingly green (Cress and Thorne speculate that they come from Cress’s mother). Similar build to Thorne, but a bit more on the lanky side. This boy inherited his mother’s height, he’s only 5’6”

More Bi Than The God He Was Named After™

He takes after Cress more than Thorne, except when it comes to sass. You can’t live on the rampion and not be a smart ass. It’s just not possible.

Apollo is unbelievably shy. He let’s Arti or Thorne do all the talking for him whenever they’re out and about. He’d rather die than start a conversation with a stranger. It might be a bit dramatic, but that’s how he feels. Cress understands and tells him that it’s okay to be shy.

Apollo is melodramatic like his father though. He used to scream bloody murder when he was a child if he so much as got a paper cut. That’s mellowed with age thankfully, but sometimes he still over exaggerates--usually to annoy his sibling

Through he’s dramatic, he’s very level headed. Makes much better choices than Arti and is more of a rule follower than them. His “rebellious phase” was sneaking into the galley in the middle of the night to eat an extra brownie or two.

He’s extremely insightful. People are shocked by the wise words and observations that come out of his mouth. He doesn’t understand why everyone is so surprised, he’s just… always seen the galaxy differently.

He’s a bit of a mama’s boy.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy spending time with his dad though. They like to play card games together. He has a very good poker face, but is terrible at reading others

Frowns on Arti’s behaviour--aka a bit judgemental--but he never goes out of his way to tell their parents when they sneak out to explore the city they’re at so long as they messages him once in a while to let him know they’re okay.

He’s protective too, just as much as Arti is. Someone fucks with them (or any of the rampion fam kids) they better run to the edge of the galaxy because he’ll find them and make them regret ever being born.

He’s a painter. He gets his artistic ability from thorne, but he’s much better than thorne ever was. His parents get him new art supplies for every birthday and holiday that requires presents. And he absolutely loves it. They converted one of the rampion’s rooms into a small studio for him. There’s paint everywhere.

With the exception of his studio, he’s very organized, but not to the extent that Lovell is.

He can hack too, but not as well as Cress and Arti. He’d rather spend his time painting or writing than sitting at a computer screen all day.

However he is a much better pilot than Arti is. There’s something about flying a ship that makes him feel… like he can do anything. He loves the feeling of taking off and landing.

This boy… he’s also the biggest cuddler in the world. When he was little he used to run into his parent's bedroom at night just so he could be squished between them. He didn’t even have that many nightmares, he just wanted to be held. He’s always hugging his mother or any of the other rampion kids. He just loves hugs.

Second Generation Masterlist

#tlc second generation #next generation tlc #tlc next generation #cresswell #cress darnel #cress #thorne #carswell thorne #captain carswell thorne #my headcanon #mine #my post

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kendrixtermina · 5 years

Text

Observations on Braincell Distribution

In each of the factions there’s like one or two characters that are distinctly the sharper tools in the box.

The Blue Lions are perhaps the closest to having one collective brain cell, hence why Byleth quickly becomes the brains of the operation, but there is at least one second brain cell in the possession of Sylvain, which he occasionally loans to Felix or Anette when he goes off to chase em ladies.

For the Church, it’s distinctly Shamir, with Manuela and Hanneman having their occasional moments but not very often.

Then there’s the black eagles none of whom are particularly stupid but not all are standouts either - sure overall they are closer to the goth/nerd end of things and as such will always be my faves, Edelgard likes surrounding herself with clever people and Hubert’s been her very best friend since preschool because he’s astute as fuck, he even sees right through Byleth at times, definitely the second or third smartest person in all of Fodlan, as is Linhardt but in more of an accidental way. It’s fun to watch Linny’s supports after having played the Alliance route he’s so close to calling everything.

But then you look at the golden deer and every single one is strikingly observant, insightful and cunning in their own way?!

With the exception of Rafael the token himbo, but it’s okay ‘cause he’s the heart of the group and everybody loves him because how can you not.

And they come in all different unique rainbow flavors of smarts, too. Some are more people-oriented others more task-oriented, some more abstract others more street smart, but they all call significant stuff all the time. With all their might combined almost nothing gets past them.

It’s basically “Riegan and friends Detective Bureau” and Claude knows how to utilize them, too. In part II he basically makes Hilda and Lysithea his left and right hands cause they notice everything in complimentary ways. You know how theirs is the route that finds out almost all the lore secrets? Yea that’s no accident.

#golden deer #blue lions #black eagles #fire emblem: three houses #fire emblem three houses #fe3h

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joaquinwhorres · 6 years

Text

Public Knowledge (Sweet Pea x Reader)

Summary: There’s only one rule to your tutoring sessions with Sweet Pea: no one can ever know. Which isn’t a problem. Until suddenly it kind of is?

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 10,438

Author’s Note: This really grew into a project of it’s own. I’m not even sure what it fully is any more, but I do know that I love the reader character and Sweet Pea and am glad that I got this out into the world.

Warnings: Language. Mentions of emotionally abusive parents. High school bullshit.

"No one can know."

You tore your eyes away from where they had been tracing the Southside Serpents tattoo on his neck, making yourself meet his gaze instead.

"Yeah, of course," you nodded, biting your lip before remembering what your mother said about doing that, and quickly letting go. You settled on a smile. Or rather, the attempt at a smile. You could tell the effort didn't reach your eyes. In your defense, though, he was the one making it hard to seem offhandedly friendly what with his intensely dark stare and the fact that you were certain he was carrying a knife. You stopped smiling, and shifted your weight to the other leg.

"Good," he gave a single nod from where he leaned against the wall, staring at you with arms crossed. "So, Thursday? After school?"

"Yeah. Yeah, ok, that works," you agreed, adjusting your grip on your books. "Where?"

"It's your school," he shot back.

You worried your lip between your teeth, racking your brain for different options."Maybe the student lounge? Or the library?" He raised his eyebrows with a look that was equal parts skeptical and scathing, as if he couldn't believe Mr. Adams had suggested he ask you to help him with his English papers. You couldn't blame him. It took everything in you to avoid looking up at the ceiling and sighing at your own idiocy.

"Right, no one can know and people go to those places," you mumbled, bobbing your head. "Here then? I always see Mr. Adams skipping out of school early, so it should be open."

"Cool," he affirmed. In the awkward silence that followed, your eyes once more slid towards his tattoo, the double headed snake with fangs bared. The same as the one on the back of his leather jacket. "I'm not dumb. And this isn't because I'm in the Serpents," he snapped, and you felt your face grow warm as you refocused back on his face instead of his tattoo. "Southside was a hell hole and my last English teacher was the Sugar Man, not exactly the most conducive environment to getting an education."

"I--I can imagine," you stuttered, once more feeling the weight of your idiocy and wishing it would crush you.

"You really can't," he shook his head, looking out into the hall. "We can figure out the details Thursday." he decided, without even looking back at you. Instead, he just left you behind, wondering why on earth you had just agreed to tutor Sweet Pea, The Southside Serpent, in English.

You were surprised to find Sweet Pea waiting for you in Mr. Adams' room, computer already open in front of him. And apparently that surprise was written all over your face.

"Don't look so shocked," Sweet Pea narrowed his eyes, his hand curling into a fist on the desk.

You shook your head, just continuing to stare at him as he sat, fuming, in the middle of the empty English classroom. "Just–how did you get here so fast?" you breathed out, remaining standing in the doorway and attempting to ignore the twisting feeling in your gut that was reminding you how terrible of an idea this whole arrangement was. Sweet Pea jerked back as if you'd just broken out into song , his mouth hanging open for the briefest of seconds before he snapped it shut and furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't say anything. "You were just with me in Skinner's class, and that's like," you waved an arm in the vague direction of the classroom halfway across the school on the second floor. "And I saw you leave talking to your friends. Didn't you have to finish the conversation you were having or at least answer questions about why you're staying late?"

"Why? You think Serpents are just deadbeats who don't do extracurricular activities after school? We have other interests besides our bikes and Serpent business. Topaz is on the Vixens and Fogarty is with Keller trying to get another show up and going."

You held up your hands. "I just—wish I could make it through these halls as fast as you. That's all I was saying."

Yep. This was quite possibly the worst idea you'd ever had. Being stuck alone in an empty classroom with the human equivalent of a land mine and only the watchful eyes of Shakespeare, Poe, and Hilary Swank from Freedom Writers to chaperone. Not that you needed a chaperone. More like a translator.

He shrugged, letting out an annoyed exhale. "Are you going to continue to interrogate me or can we work on this essay?"

"Oh, yeah, right, ok," you mumbled, walking further in and sinking into the seat next to his. "Did you start already?"

"Of course I started," Sweet Pea said through gritted teeth. "I told you I'm not stupid. I need help not my hand held."

You flushed, staring back at him, keeping your lips pressed shut. His eyes bore into yours, the snarl still on his face as he tried to stare you down. You opened your mouth and then shut it again, rethinking what you were about to say. "What?" he snapped.

"I'm just thinking this is going to be a hell of a long hour if you're going to get angry every time I'm awkward or say the wrong thing because I don't know if you noticed, being the smart person you are, but I'm constantly sticking my foot in my mouth," you retorted.

And then what you just said–or rather how you said it and who you said it to–sunk in and your eyes grew wide.

"I–I–mean–"

He narrowed his eyes staring at you. It would be nice to die right now. You know, before he had the chance to murder you.

"I just mean I'm not nearly smart enough to come up with these clever little slights to insult you just because I'm bored. I'm no Cheryl Blossom. I only–"

You were cut off by Sweet Pea snorting. "You do realize you sort of did one right now."

You opened and shut your mouth. Several times. And then came the stuttering. "I didn't mean to imply that she's always like that. I mean she kind of is, so honestly it was more of an observation than anything clever. And I don't want to insult her. I don't want to insult anyone. I told you I was good at sticking my foot down my mouth. Honestly it's more like I shove my whole leg down there. Ugh that's weird to say. I–Um–I just–"

He let out an amused exhale, his eyes darting to the side as if looking to see if someone else in the empty classroom was getting a load of the train wreck he was witnessing. "Don't worry," he said, rolling his eyes. "I won't tell her you said anything."

"Thank you," you sighed, hiding your head in your arms.

You could feel him looking at you, but it did nothing to draw you out of your self-imposed exile. You were reminded of when you were little and you truly believed–despite your parents' arguments about faulty logic–that if you couldn't see someone, they couldn't see you. You hoped Sweet Pea was staring at the suddenly empty chair where you had been sitting wondering where you went and how you developed super powers.

"Hey."

You should have known you were never that lucky. You felt a nudge against your arm, and you looked up.

"I'm Sweet Pea."

You stared at the hand he had extended, your eyes trailing up his arm to his carefully blank face. Your face wrinkled in confusion as you slowly slid your hand into his. His fingers curled around your hand and shook it a few times, as you fought the blush rising in your cheeks and tried to ignore how his hand was warm and just a little bit rough except for the cool metal from his rings.

"And you are…" he prompted. You stared at him for a second more and he sighed, as if disappointed you were confused about why someone you already knew was introducing himself to you. "If we're gonna restart as…acquaintances, it'd be nice to know your name."

"Y/N," you said, a small smile forming on your face.

"Wanna read this paper and help me with the analysis, Y/N?" Sweet Pea asked, letting go of your hand and gesturing to his open computer with his head.

"Yeah, definitely," you nodded, pulling it in between the two of you to look over. Maybe this arrangement wouldn't be so bad.

Tutoring Sweet Pea got much easier after the first week. Of course there were still outbursts, but the longer you spent together, the more predictable they became. You could expect a rant and/or flipped furniture every time he had to:

Transition between ideas

Write a conclusion

Add a works cited page

Deal with getting a low grade

The rant would begin with how ridiculous English class was and how he'd never need to write an in depth character analysis in real life and then transition into him analyzing whoever was pissing him off the most at the moment: Reggie Mantle, Mr. Weatherbee, Archie Andrews, even you.

But most of the time, most of the time, Sweet Pea was the ideal student. He wanted your feedback and discussed his ideas and setbacks with a surprising amount of eloquence and insight considering how little he spoke in class.

"I like this," you said, finishing the essay and turning the computer back towards him. "Or, I like the idea of it, you know, that Laertes isn't just this raw nerve of a character but instead he's a rational, guardian of honor. I just feel like you could go more into depth."

Sweet Pea nodded, looking down at what he'd written. "Like how?"

"Well," you bit your lip, reading the first body paragraph again and trying to formulate your thoughts. "Like here," you said, pointing to a sentence. "You talk about how if he was truly led by his emotions he would have killed anyone he thought was associated with Polonius' death rather than just the person responsible. But wasn't he manipulated into killing Hamlet? How can you prove that it was a conscious decision or that killing for revenge can ever be reasonable?"

Sweet Pea looked at you as if you had suggested he break down the etymology of the word murder and crossed his arms. "Why? Isn't that obvious?"

"Um no. Because if I was saying what a reasonable character would have done, I'd say that he should not go all vigilante but instead have a public trial which defames Hamlet, embarrasses the crown, punishes the murderer for the crime, and makes you sympathetic and beloved in the eyes of the people."

He scoffed, "Of course you would, Northsider."

"Right, see!" you said, excitedly. "You see him different from me, so you need to explain that argument here. Using the text."

Sweet Pea made a quick note on his paper before stopping. "You don't think I should change it, do you. To argue that he should have let the king and queen handle it?"

You furrowed your brow. "No, why would you?"

"Because it's the right answer? I don't know." He shrugged, looking back down at the paper.

"You mean the Northside answer?" you asked, raising your eyebrows. "Nah, you write better if you actually believe what you're saying."

He looked at you for a brief second, squinting slightly as if trying to make sense of you before he turned back to what he was writing.

"When you're finished with that, I think we're good for the day. Other than that and the little things I mentioned before, there's not much else that I'd change or add. We can give it a final look on Thursday."

He nodded putting his pencil down and starting to pack up his stuff. You stood. The endings of your sessions were always awkward. It was weird that the minute you two walked out the door you didn't know each other. Towards the beginning you had staggered your leaving, but recently the two of you had left around the same time only to walk in the same direction and have to pretend like you hadn't just spent the past forty-five minutes alone in a classroom together. It was weird to have him hold the door for you as you left, unless someone was too close and then he let it close in your face. You kind of wanted to go back to the staggering. You kind of didn't.

"I've been thinking," Sweet Pea said, standing from his seat as the two of you made your way towards the door. "How much do I owe you?"

"Owe me?" you asked, pausing by the doorway, just out of sight from anyone who may be passing by.

"For the help," he clarified.

"Oh," you said, starting to worry your lip, only to catch yourself and stop. "I don't need anything."

"I'm not in the business of owing favors," Sweet Pea said, surprisingly stony. You furrowed your brow at him.

"I don't want any favors. It's fine, really. It helps me work on my own paper."

"That's it?" he asked, skeptically.

"I don't know, maybe you could get me a milkshake or something at Pop's. Not like a date or anything. I mean not that you're not…attractive or datable or whatever. I just like milkshakes, and I don't really want anything else and–"

"And Pop's is basically Riverdale High's after school care, so not really an option," Sweet Pea cut in, and you nodded.

"Right," your arms prickled with embarrassment. "No one can know. Right."

Sweet Pea was silent as he stood there in front of you. "I can do like five dollars a week? That's the price of a milkshake, right?"

"It's fine. Going alone to Pop's is just…sad. I don't need anything."

"You can't just go with your friends?"

"Sarah's a vegan and very anti-Pop's."

"And your other friends?"

"That's pretty much it," you shifted your weight to your other leg. "I know it’s kind of shocking because I’m so calm and socially adept, but people just aren’t really lining up to go out to Pop's with me. Chat in class sure but hang out outside of school...” you shrugged. "It’s fine though. I don’t really have tons of time anyway, with all the studying and homework and everything I have to do. And wow that makes my life sound pathetic and boring. It's not though. In case you were wondering…" you trailed off.

Sweet Pea just stood there, looking at you. Or, if you were honest, it felt like he was looking in to you. Trying to figure out what was going on in your head probably, and hell if you knew. It felt like whenever you opened your mouth and you weren't talking about school things just spilled out and you had no control over what those things were.

"I'll figure something out," he said, nodding at you before ducking out of the classroom and leaving you to wait there until you couldn't hear his footsteps anymore and it was safe to go home.

"This is fucking bullshit," Sweet Pea swore, pushing himself out from the desk so forcefully that his chair toppled over. He didn't even look down at it as he began to pace around the classroom. You stayed seated, having learned that following him around the classroom only seemed to give him more energy and amp him up. One of you needed to stay grounded. "We both know that essay was better than a fucking D." He kicked another chair which skidded into the desk. The resulting crash made you wince.

"He probably didn't even read it. Just saw my name at the top of the page and figured a Serpent like me couldn't do any better than a D." He slammed his fist down on the teacher's desk. And then, in the next second he brought his hand back and swung forward, pushing all of the worksheets off the desk in a flurry of paper

"Hey!" you exclaimed, darting out of your seat and grabbing at his arm as he raised it again. He looked down at you with a glare so menacing you seriously questioned whether or not someone actually could literally stare daggers into someone. "Stop," you said quietly, releasing your grip. He stared for a second longer, maybe trying to melt you this time, but before you could turn into a puddle he dropped his arm.

"Why should I? If all I am is an ignorant thug, I might as well embrace it," he argued through gritted teeth.

"And prove him right? And all of the other assholes?" you challenged. "Besides, I don't think he gave you a D just because you're a Serpent."

"So you think all that work we put into that was just worth worth a D?" Sweet Pea heaved, staring down at you.

"No," you shook your head quickly. "I'm with you, a D is bullshit, but we could at least look at the comments. Ok?"

"What's the point. So I can see all the ways I failed?"

You closed your eyes shaking your head. "You read comments to see where you need to go to improve." You took in a deep breath and then let it go, opening your eyes. Sweet Pea was staring at you, his chest still rising and falling more quickly than normal. "Ok, how about this: I'll read the comments and summarize them while you pick up the papers."

"I–"

"If you're not going to clean it up the custodians are, and I am not getting a zero on my classwork today because you had a temper-tantrum," you said, sharply. Sweet Pea raised his eyebrows at you, and you took a step back but crossed your arms. You could see him set his jaw, but he leaned down and began to stack the papers back up. You let out the breath you had been holding and walked back over to the desk, picking up his chair and the crumpled essay that had fallen beneath the desk. You smoothed the paper out, starting at the beginning, your eyes scanning the comments which were all surprisingly positive for a D paper. Good insight. You could pick a stronger quote. I agree! Your brow furrowed, and you bit you lip, making your way through the second page. Word choice. Need stronger transition. Solid point. ???? Your eyes darted from the question marks to the end of the line.

"funeral, Claudius disrespected him. Laertes also takes on the necessary task of avenging his"

You flipped the page over.

And then returned back to the question marks.

And then you started to laugh.

Sweet Pea looked up from where he was neatly placing the papers on Mr. Adams' desk over to you.

"What's so funny?" he growled, crossing his arms.

You laughed louder.

"What?" You could feel his anger radiating off him, and a small voice in the back of your head that valued your life pushed you to hold out the paper to him.

"How many pages did you write?" you asked, attempting to calm yourself down.

"I don't know like three?" He snatched the essay out of your hand.

"So you're saying your essay doesn't end mid-sentence on page two?"

"What?" It was as if you could see the jolt of panic hit his body. As he flipped the paper to the second page, and then flipped again surprised to see page one in front of him. "Where's the third page?"

"Still in the printer maybe?" you suggested failing miserably to repress the grin on your face.

He looked dumbly at the paper and then back at you. "Never tell anyone about this. Ever."

"I think your already protected under the 'no one can know about this arrangement' rule," you nodded. "But at least you know why you got a D. That's his policy: all incomplete or off prompt papers get a D. You know, just like how all ignorant Serpent thugs automatically get D's."

"Shut up," Sweet Pea grumbled, dropping in the seat next to you. And for the sake of your life, you did.

Sweet Pea was late. Twenty minutes late. And if it wasn't for the fact that you seriously doubted Sweet Pea had ever forgotten anything in his life, you would have left already, sure he wasn't coming.

Sure, you'd moved todays meeting to a Wednesday instead of the usual Tuesday/Thursday pattern. That was weird. It was last minute. The switch up could easily slip someone's mind.

But not Sweet Pea's. He wouldn't have forgotten.

And that thought ate at you. It ate at you more than the thought of what waited for you at home. Because you knew what was waiting for you at home. You didn't know what happened to Sweet Pea. What if one of the Bulldogs had jumped him between your last class and him getting here? Wait, was he even in your last class? Your mind spun as you quick racked your brain trying to remember if you'd seen him in his regular spot today. Usually you were careful to ignore Sweet Pea because you were certain if you looked at him, it'd be obvious to everyone that you knew him. That you two talked. That you were slowly but surely becoming cool with each other. It would be all over your face.

But still, something could have happened.

What if Weatherbee had targeted him for a random search or some other bullshit infraction? What if he was in jail and no one knew because Sheriff Minetta didn't seem the type to give out phone calls.

You grabbed your bag and started towards the door at a sprint, almost smashing into Sweet Pea. "Hey!" he exclaimed, twisting his body away as you skidded to a halt, putting your hands out to catch onto the door frame and stop yourself.

"Sweet Pea!" you gasped. "You're late!"

"Yeah, sorry, there was a wait," he said, turning back to face you, two milkshakes and a to-go bag from Pop's dangling in his hand. He brushed past you into the classroom, heading for your usual spots and ignoring the fact that you still stood at the door, facing where he'd been. You felt like your mind had raced out ahead of you and now you had to wait for it to come back to the classroom so you could process exactly what was happening.

"You got–I thought–You didn't have to—" you started, spinning to face him.

"I meant to bring it last time but then I got caught up with the…you know," he said, pulling out two wrapped burgers and setting one on each desk. "But, I thought if the only thing you wanted for saving my ass was a milkshake, the least I could do was figure out how to get you one."

"I–I can't believe—Is this why—Did you—" You made a helpless sound at the end of the stuttering, and Sweet Pea shot you an amused look.

"Thank you," he supplied.

"Thank you," you echoed.

There was a pause.

"So, are you going to come eat or are you going to stay over there?" Sweet Pea asked, picking up a fry and dropping it into his mouth. "Because I'm not going to save you any fries."

…...........

"Thanks for the Pop's, by the way," you said as the two of you walked down the deserted hallway. "It's probably going to be the best thing that happens to me all day."

"Sounds like there's more to that statement," Sweet Pea said, holding the door open for you.

"Not really," you shook your head. "I just…I don't want to go home," you admitted, looking away from him and out into the almost empty Riverdale High parking lot.

"Having such a blast with me?" he drawled, and you could tell by the way he said it that his eyebrows were raised and he had that small smirk kind of thing going on, the same way he always did whenever he was making fun of you.

"No," you snorted rolling your eyes, or at least you almost rolled your eyes. You stopped midway through, your eyes growing wide, and you turned quickly to face him. "I mean you're fine. Great. I like our arrangement. Ugh that sounds pervy. I don't mean it like a creep, just–"

"Relax," he gave the hint of a genuine smile but whisked it away before anything more could come of it. "What's up with home?"

You glanced up at him before looking back down at your shoes. "It's nothing. I mean, it'll sound stupid when I say it out loud, and I kind of already feel like shit about it so I don't really want to get laughed at."

"I won't laugh." Sweet Pea raised his eyes in a challenging way.

"I think you will."

"Tell me," he said, nudging you with an elbow.

"I got a C on my stat test," you mumbled, looking away from him so you didn't have to see the failed attempts at repressing his amusement and disbelief.

"So that's what makes Northsiders afraid to go home? A bad grade on a test. Shit I wish that was why I didn't want to go home."

You gritted your teeth. "You promised you wouldn't laugh."

"I'm not laughing," he shook his head. "It's just…sad that you think that is a problem."

"I told you it was stupid. I didn't want to even say anything," you said, pushing past him and beginning to walk down the road.

"Hey," Sweet Pea called out, grabbing your arm. You flinched and he let go immediately. "There's more to it, isn't there?"

"You don't want to know about my Northsider problems. It's fine."

"I'm not going to beg you to tell me. If you don't want to you don't have to." He said, standing there still close to you.

"They just…my parents…they just get on me when I come home with any thing lower than an A. And I don't want to deal with it…with the arguments and the things they say."

"What do they say?" His voice was noticeably softer, and your eyes darted from where you'd been staring at the sidewalk to him.

"I don't know, my parents are pretty strict about doing well in school. They just um, they ask if I did my best, and I say yes, and then they'll say something along the lines of if that's my best then it means they failed with me. You know, like how I don't measure up to my sister and they made a mistake with me by giving me some more freedom to come home late from school or not do homework and studying on the weekends and stuff. Then there's the whole part about how can I achieve my plans or amount to anything with grades like that? You know, that if I don't want to end up worthless I need to put more effort in and take school more seriously. With a C it'll probably be a little worse. Just in terms of volume and tone. " You tried to make the last part sound like a joke, but you couldn't bring yourself to keep the smile on your face. Not when you saw Sweet Pea set his jaw.

"They don't hit you, do they?" he asked, tightly.

"What? No. No of course not. They're not abusive. Just…disappointed." You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My sister's at Harvard Law, excelling, and I'm pretty sure they want me there too for pre-med…" you trailed off, looking out at the parking lot again. "I don't know. Like you said, it's just a Northsider problem. I'm sure you've dealt with worse," you mumbled.

Sweet Pea looked you up and down, his brow wrinkling as he seemed to be considering something. "It's not just a Northsider problem," he said finally. "Sounds like shit."

"Thanks," you mumbled, crossing your arms against the breeze. The two of you stood there in silence, alone. Sweet Pea looking down at you, and you standing there holding yourself together, trying to keep the panic and embarrassment down. Deep down.

"You know, if you don't want to go home, we could go back inside and hang out here for a bit or go over to my place."

Your heart began to race. You could almost hear it in your ears as you opened your mouth, but Sweet Pea cut you off, shaking his head with that almost smile. "Don't worry, not like that."

You flushed and shook your head. "I—I have to get home. If I'm later than four it'll just be worse, and I'm already cutting it close."

"Need a ride then?"

You shook your head. "That's ok. Someone would probably see us. I can just walk."

He stood quietly, his eyes once again running up and down your body as if appraising you.

"Yeah ok," he nodded.

"I'll see you tomorrow though? On time?" you asked, your voice lifting a little bit in spite of yourself.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Sweet Pea smiled.

To Be or Not To Be?

You stared at the question at the top of Sweet Pea's screen before looking up at him.

"What?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowing a little bit in the way they always did when he was testing you.

"I thought you would have gone with one of the revenge prompts," you admitted, hesitantly, bracing yourself for the rant coming your way.

"I had more to talk about with this one," he said simply, his eyes darting from the screen and then back at you.

"Oh," you said quietly, turning back to the computer and scanning over the first line. Coming from the Southside and being part of the Serpents everybody here thinks that I'm a deadbeat or a criminal. You stopped yourself, looking up at Sweet Pea.

"If you don't want me to read this one, I don't have to. I can walk you through some self-edit strategies because you've really been getting better. You don't need me to–"

"You can read it," he cut you off, his voice even and measured for once. Your own brow furrowed as you looked at him for a second longer, as if trying to determine whether or not he really meant it. He didn't flinch or move or look away. He met your gaze and held it. Steady.

You broke first, shifting your attention to the essay, your face feeling warm.

I can hear it in their little comments and in the way they whisper when I walk past them in the hall. I can see it in their expressions when I make a good point in class or the way they won't make eye contact. So, yeah, I get angry. I'm angry all of the time because I'm tired. I'm tired of being treated like I'm like a second class citizen because I was born on the wrong side of town. I'm tired of being treated like I'm a criminal because I chose a family who will always look out for me since mine split. I'm tired of being dumped on and blamed for everything when all I do is what it takes to survive. So yeah, sometimes I question whether it's worth coming to school or not just to put up with this. Like Hamlet I have to wonder if it's worth "suffering the slings and arrows" of my classmates and fight to prove that I am smart and belong here or do I give up and become the ignorant thug everyone already sees me as?

It was hard to focus on the parts of the essay that needed work. Clearly his wording could be better and there was room to make this more powerful, but the very fact that he was writing this and sharing it with you gave you pause.

"Do you really feel this way?" you whispered. You didn't mean to whisper. It wasn't like anyone was around to hear you. It just came out that way. As if the question was meant to be asked softly.

He shrugged, looking away from you and towards the wall, crossing his arms.

You nodded shoving anything you would have said back down. Instead, you chose to sit in silence, staring at Sweet Pea. You noticed for the first time, the way he always seemed to be crossing his arms, and if he wasn't doing that he was clenching his fist. Your eyes ran up his arm to his face, which looked distant and closed. And in that moment, Sweet Pea suddenly made a lot more sense. Because you knew that look.

"You thought of me like that when I asked you to help, didn't you?" he mumbled, finally, still refusing to look at you.

You wished you were a good liar. Or that the two of you were friends now. Or that you were braver than you were. But you weren't. You were you, and all you could do was look down and mumble "Yeah, but I was wrong."

His head snapped to you, and he furrowed his brow, his eyes bore into you with that assessing look they sometimes got. You looked up and met his gaze wondering if he was going to charge you with lying or push you on it or say anything else. He didn't. He just continued to stare at you intensely as if calculating something in his head.

"I mean, you're still terrifying. Just um not so randomly? Does that make sense?"

He gave the smallest shake of his head.

"Like," you bit your lip, trying to form the words in your head into sentences. Sentences that made sense and wouldn't cause him to bolt from the room or knock over furniture or scream at you. "You get frustrated when you don't know something so you act all angry and storm away because you'd rather die than have people think you're stupid. That's why we have our arrangement isn't it? Because you don't want people to know you need help?"

He shrugged again.

"And now you're saying you're angry people only see you in one way, which makes sense of why you're always ready to snap on the Bulldogs. Because they are most of the reason people see you like that. I guess I'm just saying your anger makes sense. You're not some raw nerve or ball of senseless rage. You're a real person."

He snorted. "Thanks."

"I don't know, I guess I'm just saying that it's harder to think of you as some thug and weigh all of that Southside and Serpent stuff against you when I like you."

You flushed as Sweet Pea raised his eyebrows. "Not like you like you. Not like that. I mean there's a bunch of girls who do. Even Northsiders. Because you're objectively good looking. Like really good looking, and tall, dark, and mysterious and stuff, but I'm not–I just mean as a friend. Even though we're not friends. Uh, well we could be, but—"

"Breathe, Y/N," Sweet Pea chuckled, his arms falling down to his sides. "I know what you mean."

You flushed and looked back down at the desk.

"And for the record, I like you too."

You nodded, failing to keep the smile from sliding onto your face. "Great. Umm, let's get this paper sorted out then."

"No one can tell me the answer." Ms. Richardson asked, pacing up and down the rows of the history class. "We've been studying Reconstruction for how long and no one can tell me how this affected political parties? This is ridiculous."

Your stomach twisted as you flipped through your notes searching for any kind of hint to the answer.

"Mr. Chisholm? An answer?" your teacher rounded on one of the Bulldogs closest to her who looked up from where he'd been doodling something in his notebook.

"No ma'am," he shook his head, looking back down to avoid her gaze. She shook her head, turning on the next student.

"Mr. Fogarty?"

Fangs Fogarty looked up at the teacher blankly, looking far more like a deer in the headlights than a dangerous Southside Serpent. He shook his head.

"Should have known," Ms. Richardson snapped. Next to him, you watched as Sweet Pea's hands ball into fists and his jaw set.

"We just need a second to think," you blurted.

"Excuse me?" The teacher's attention whipped around on you, and it was if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on your head. You opened and shut your mouth. You were sure your body was shaking. It felt like it was shaking. Like the 24 pairs of eyes that had turned to look at you were crushing you under the weight of their stare. "Oh, no, Ms. Y/L/N, I'd like you to repeat it please."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Richardson, I—I—I just—"

"Repeat. It."

"I said we need time to think. And look in our notes."

"If you need time to look in your notes in order to answer basic questions about material we've been studying for the past few weeks, then you can spend your lunch with me today." Ms. Richardson stated firmly. Your cheeks burned, and you looked away from her as she made her way back to the front of the classroom. You caught Sweet Pea's stare as the corner of his mouth quirked up before he shook his head and turned his attention to Fangs who was whispering something.

…...........

The rest of class went by comparatively smoothly. At least there were no more incidents where you publicly stuck your foot in your mouth. Instead you sat in silent dread, letting the reality of what you'd done sink in.

You were in such deep shit if your parents ever found out.

It was this thought that kept your mind occupied even after the bell rang. It wasn't until Sarah poked you in the back that you shook yourself off and realized everyone was packing up. You started shoving your stuff into your bag as quickly as possible, in the process knocking your textbook down to the ground.

"Shit," you swore, leaning down to pick up the book. Before you could get there a hand already had it and was offering it to you.

You looked up at Sweet Pea who had that small smile on his face.

"Uh, thanks," you said, taking it from him.

"No problem," he said before turning around to walk out the door with his friends. You followed him with your eyes, accidentally catching Toni Topaz's gaze. Your head snapped back around as you finished pulling your books from your locker.

"Ummm, what just happened?" Sarah asked.

You looked up at her, almost forgetting she was there. You shook your head. "I have no idea."

"Did Sweet Pea–Riverdale High's own Wolverine— just pick up your book for you?"

"I…" you shrugged struggling to push down the strange feeling that felt too close to "offended" from bubbling up.

"This is a sign of the end times," Sarah joked.

It was harder to force yourself to laugh than it should have been. And you definitely shouldn't have let your gaze drift back to the retreating Southside Serpent's jacket.

…...........

"Who was that?" Fogarty asked, looking over his shoulder and back at you before following Sweet Pea into the hallway.

"Y/N Y/L/N," Sweet Pea said, staring ahead, ignoring the look that Toni shot him.

"What's her deal?" Fangs continued.

"I don't know what that was in there, but she once got a bad grade in Simpkins' class and cried about it. In class. Poor little neurotic grade grubber couldn't handle it," Cheryl chimed in with her trademark lighthearted bitch tone.

"Shut it Cheryl," Sweet Pea growled.

"What is this?" Cheryl asked, perking up. "Our serpentine prince channeling his anger issues into defending a Northside nerd? Don't tell me you're interested in first movie Hermione Granger."

Sweet Pea curled his fingers up into a fist before flexing them out, focusing on keeping them straight so they wouldn't curl up again and do anything Toni would make him regret.

"Easy Cheryl," Toni stepped in, casting a confused glance at Sweet Pea. "He hasn't had his coffee today, so he's even more of a short fuse than normal."

Cheryl laughed. "Whatever."

The rest of her snark was cut off as Sweet Pea looked over his shoulder and towards you where you laughed with a friend coming out of the classroom door. He pushed the odd feeling that crept up in his chest down and turned back, following the rest of the Serpents.

"You are never going to believe what just happened," you announced, walking into the classroom.

Sweet Pea looked up at you, eyebrows raise. "You just walked in the door six minutes late to tutoring? Yeah, I thought you might have died."

"Very funny," you shot back. "But more unbelievable than me being late."

"You got a second detention today for defending a Southside Serpent," Sweet Pea asked, giving you the tell-tale 'I'm making fun of you' smirk.

You opened your mouth to argue back about how you weren't defending Fangs Fogarty, before realizing that you did not want to start that argument. It was a debate you were destined to lose because the only thing that would convince him that you weren't looking out for Fangs would be the truth.

And you weren't about to tell him that.

Instead, you let out a laugh and shook your head. "No, and I'm going to have to say more unbelievable."

"So we're just going to skip over the whole thing that happened with Richardson."

"Yes, but also no."

"Alright, tell me," he said, opening his hands wide, as if welcoming in the information.

"Adam Chisholm just asked me on a date," you announced, falling into the chair next to Sweet Pea. "And I said yes." To your pleasure, he looked just as surprised as you probably did.

He started to form the beginning of a sentence before he got there. His fingers twitched by his side before finally relaxing. "You're right, that is more unbelievable."

"Hey!"

"I am agreeing with you," he argued back.

"Well, uh, yeah, maybe technically…" you shook your head, feeling your face grow warm. "He found me in the hall on the way here and said he was really impressed with the way I stood up to Richardson and wanted to thank me by taking me out to Pop's. And then I asked him if this was like a date, and he said yes."

"So you asked him on a date," Sweet Pea said slowly.

"No, he invited me out," you scrunched up your face with confusion. It was as if Sweet Pea had just checked out for the past thirty seconds.

"To something that you turned into a date," Sweet Pea continued.

Your face fell. "Oh. Oh no. Did I just ask him out on a date? Is that going to be weird? Does that make me seem desperate? This was supposed to be a friends thing wasn't it? Oh my–I'm so stupid. I can't be trusted with anything. Ugh," you slumped forward, covering your head with your arms. "This is the second stupidest thing I've done today."

You could hear him snort and shift closer to you, nudging your arm with his. "You're fine."

You peeked up from your arms to look over at him. "Really? You're sure I shouldn't cancel? I can cancel still. It's tomorrow, not today–"

"You're fine," Sweet Pea repeated, nudging you again.

"I'm fine?" you asked, bumping your arm back into his.

He grinned. "Just make sure you're safe and pick up some protection before you go."

You gasped, your face in flames, as you stared like him, too stunned to bury your head in your arms again.

"Seriously, Y/N. K9 Advantix or Frontline plus only, last thing you want to do is pick up fleas because you went with some generic bland."

"I…I can't tell if that's a euphemism."

Sweet Pea didn't answer.

Unless you counted bursting out laughing.

In that case, he gave a very long and very loud answer.

"Guess who got an A-," Sweet Pea yelled in triumph kicking in the classroom door.

You whipped your head around to look at him, attempting to plaster on a smile even as your chest constricted and you tried to convince yourself to push down everything you were feeling and just. be. happy. After all, this was far from the meanest thing anyone'd done to you.

His face fell. Obviously your attempt at a cheery smile had failed. Probably miserably.

"What's up?" he asked, moving slower and with significantly less pep.

"Nothing," you rolled your eyes, looking away from him.

"You didn't get a C again did you?" he asked, sitting down backward on the chair in front of yours. You snorted shaking your head.

"Seriously, Sweet Pea, it's nothing. It's dumb." You might have gotten him to let it go if your voice hadn't cracked.

"It was your date, wasn't it?" he asked, his voice tight.

"What date?" you chuckled humorlessly. Sweet Pea furrowed his brow, and you shook your head trying to get control over yourself. "He…he never showed."

"What an asshole–"

You held up a hand stopping him. "I thought maybe–" your voice got away from you, and it took a second for you to bring it back. "Maybe he forgot the time. Or maybe something came up and he couldn't text because it was serious."

Sweet Pea scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"I waited for forty-five minutes, and then I left, and I figured I'd see him in school today and we could sort it out. But then I was scrolling on Instagram, and…"

You held your phone out showing him the picture you had found on Ginger Lopez' Instagram.

It took him a second for the picture of the holding hands and tangled legs and the caption to sink in.

"That son-of-a-bitch," Sweet Pea stood up so quickly, his chair wobbled. "I'll kick his ass," he started for the door.

"Sweet Pea, stop, school's over, he's probably at practice with the rest of the Bulldogs."

"Great, there'll be an audience."

"Hey! Wait!" you called out, grabbing his arm. "Please, don't. It'll make me seem pathetic, and they'll just suspend you for starting it, and then people will know we talk, and I know you don't want that." You stopped, a new jolt of pain running through you. "It's not worth it." A tear escaped and you reached up to wipe it away with the sleeve.

"He's an idiot," Sweet Pea spat, turning back around to face you.

"I'm the idiot," you sniffed, and then more tears were coming. "I really thought he was interested." You took a step forward, moving as if to hug him before you let your hands fall to your sides realizing that just because Sweet Pea was happy to use you as an excuse to fight the Bulldogs didn't mean you were friends. Sure he said he liked you. But that didn't mean anything. You liked plenty of people, but you didn't want to hug all of them. You were pretty sure a good number of kids in this school liked you.

And yet here you were.

Before you could follow this train of thought any further, two arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. You shook, completely letting go of all reserve as you tucked yourself under his chin, your ear resting against his chest and listening to the steady beats of his heart. It was a fast rhythm but easy to follow and comforting in its predictability. You felt yourself melt further into him, breathing a little easier, even as the tears continued. "I didn't even like him that much," you whispered into his shirt. "It was just nice to be liked. To be able to go out to Pop's with someone who didn't mind being seen with me."

Sweet Pea didn't say anything. Instead, he held you a little tighter and rested his head on yours as you continued to cry.

"So," Toni started, dropping into the seat across the table from Sweet Pea. "Are you going to tell me what's going on with you and Y/N Y/L/N or am I going to have to get Betty and Jughead to sleuth it out?"

Sweet Pea looked up at her, finishing chewing on his burger before he placed his food back on his tray to answer. "What are you talking about?"

Toni sighed, rolling her eyes. "I was running late to practice yesterday when I passed by this classroom and I could have sworn I saw you in there hugging her. Maybe it was some other giant in a Serpents jacket though." Toni leaned on her hand, smirking at Sweet Pea. "So, again, what's going on between you and Y/N Y/L/N?"

"Nothing," Sweet Pea answered, tightly, punctuating the lie with a very jerky shrug.

"Ok, so when you picked up her book for her the other day it was just a random act of kindness?"

"Yep," he let the p pop before taking another bite.

"And when you went crazy on Cheryl for making fun of her?"

"I got tired of Cheryl being a bitch." The hamburger muffled his words, but Toni's face still went dark.

"Watch it," she warned lowly. "And don't try to make me mad to change the subject. You like Y/N. How did you two even get to know each other anyway? Is she why you stay after school?"

"We don't know each other." Sweet Pea glared, pushing up from the table. "And even if we did it's none of your damn business." Sweet Pea grabbed his tray, chucking the rest of his lunch in the trash can as he stormed away.

You were thankful that no one knew you were supposed to go out on a date with Adam Chisholm. Well, at least, no one who would whisper about it or bring it up to you and force you to face your embarrassing rejection. There had been a horrible moment of pure terror when you realized Adam may have brought it up and laughed about it with his friends or maybe someone saw you alone at Pop's, but you were so anonymous that it seemed like they didn't even deem you worth gossiping about. And thank goodness really.

You were just glad that the only person who knew what went down and how you reacted couldn't publicly acknowledge that he even knew you.

Because that's what this feeling was. This soft sort of numbness that reminded you of the feeling of snow, blanketing any and all thoughts of Sweet Pea and Adam and school. This was gladness.

You felt relieved when the texts came in.

It was good. It meant you could just let the whole storm pass. You didn't have to address the fact that you drank a milkshake alone. You didn't have to address how comfortable Sweet Pea was or how you liked the feeling of the worn leather jacket. You didn't have to address the fact your chest felt strangely hollow every time Sweet Pea sent you a text cancelling tutoring. You didn't have to address anything.

But, as you lay on your bed staring up at the ceiling, having finished the edits on his paper, you couldn't help but read over his texts for the tenth time and keep repeating one thought over and over again: you shouldn't be this upset.

He was your tutoree. Tutee? Some kid. A serpent. Serpents skipped help.

But then your thumbs were flying across the keyboard.

"You have to tell her." Toni said softly, looking up at Sweet Pea from across the bar.

"And you have to stop reading my texts," Sweet Pea clicked the screen off.

"She's clearly into you and you like her, what's the problem?" Toni snapped, moving backwards to grab a bottle from the bar to refill a glass

"You don't get it."

"Oh yes, I forgot, you are the only one who's ever experienced pining."

"Whatever," Sweet Pea growled, pushing away from the bar and starting towards the pool table where he could be left the hell alone.

"Get back here," Toni barked, and Sweet Pea stopped, turning to her with a glare. "No one cares, Pea. No one cares if you're into a Northsider. No one cares which Northsider you're into. No one cares about Northside vs. Southside anymore except for you. So if you like her, get over yourself and tell her."

"It's not a Northside/Southside thing," Sweet Pea grumbled, taking a hesitant step back to the bar.

"Then what is it?" Toni sighed, deflating a little herself.

Sweet Pea looked over his shoulder before sliding back onto the seat in front of Toni. "She's my English tutor."

"Oh my God."

"So I need help–"

"No, that was because you are so dumb. You're worried that people will find out that you needed help in English? And you're making this poor girl think she's the problem because of your stupid big ego?" Toni was practically screaming at him now, but Sweet Pea sat there, jaw set and body tense waiting for her to finish.

"It's not just that," he finally cut in, running a hand through his hair. "She never…she was supposed to go on a date with this Bulldog…she's not interested."

"Or maybe she thinks you're not interested because you refuse to admit to anyone you even know her." Sweet Pea opened and shut his mouth. "Just sayin' Pea. Stop avoiding her and talk to her. You found a girl willing to hug you of all people," Toni joked. "There's not too many of them out there in the world."

Sweet Pea lifted a finger as Toni let out a laugh and moved to help another customer.

He didn't respond to your text.

Or your email with the comments.

He didn't even look at you in school the next day.

As expected you had made it worse.

It seemed like an uphill battle to hide your disappointment from everyone, but you'd been giving it a particularly valiant effort and had felt rather good about getting away with your mopiness unnoticed until Sarah cornered you at your locker.

"You're coming out with me tonight," Sarah announced as you closed your locker door.

"To where?" you asked.

"Reggie's having a party, and you look like you need some fun and socialization. So, be at my house by 8:30, and I'll figure out which clothes I'm going to dress you up in."

"Sarah," you sighed. "Nobody wants me at their parties."

"Oh come on, like the whole school is invited to this one. It's a blowout for his birthday, and if there's one thing people like Reggie love it's celebrating themselves," Sarah argued, following you as you took off towards the door. She continued to nag you all the way out the door and onto the bus until finally you broke down and agreed that you'd go to this party.

But even though Sarah had said everyone was invited, you hadn't really expected that "everyone" would include the Serpents. You said as much to Sarah when you walked in.

"I'm guessing Cheryl bullied Reggie into it so she could bring Toni," Sarah rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, we don't have to talk to them." She pulled you along, and your eyes fell on Sweet Pea. He met your gaze and you quickly turned away, following her further into the house and straight for the bright red concoction on Reggie's counter.

It only took an hour to lose Sarah to an attractive junior on the track team, which was really just your luck. Being alone. At a party in which you didn't belong. Too straight laced to get drunk enough to deal with this situation. This was the worst.

"Hey! Having a good time?" A voice shouted over the music and you whirled, stumbling on over your feet. Two hands shot out, grabbing a hold of your shoulder and elbow to steady you.

"Thank you," you mumbled, staring up at Adam Chisholm. He had the audacity to smile at you.

"You look great."

"Thanks," you murmured, looking away from him and out to the crowd, desperately wishing you could will Sarah to appear.

"Look, I wanted to talk to you about Pop's. I was on my way when Ginger texted, and I tried telling her I couldn't come over, but you know Ginger; I don't think she's even heard the word no before."

It was hard to keep track of what he was saying. All you could hear was. Pop's. Ginger. No.

"It's fine," you shook your head.

"You're way too nice—"

"She really is," another voice agreed, coming up behind you. You could feel his presence at your back, closer than he normally was. He was here. He was behind you. He was next to you. He was defending you. No one could know.

"I'm sorry, I don't think anyone was talking to you," Adam bit back, his eyes on Sweet Pea. "So why don't you just slither away."

"Sure, as soon as you go back to your kennel and leave Y/N the hell alone," Sweet Pea said, leaning forward so that he pressed against your back.

You bit your lip, trying to keep from looking at him. You couldn't look at him. Couldn't acknowledge him. Couldn't give him away.

"Jealous, Serpent?" Adam asked.

"Look you already screwed with her once. Why don’t you go pee on Mantle's furniture if you want to assert your dominance or whatever fucked up shit the Bulldogs do to initiate the pitiful wannabes like you?"

"What are you talking about?" Ginger asked, sliding up next to Adam, wrapping one arm around his waist and placing the other on his chest.

"The night this asshole 'officially became bae,' he was supposed to be on a date with Y/N." Sweet Pea said, narrowing his eyes at Adam, as if he'd just ripped the carpet out from under him.

Ginger scoffed. "She told you that?"

Sweet Pea didn't say anything.

"Because I don't think she's really ever had a conversation with Adam, and why would she? Adam's a Bulldog who has recruiters coming to his games and she's well…"

"She's what?" Sweet Pea ground out, his hands in fists.

"Nobody?" Ginger said, too lightly. "I'm not surprised she picked a Bulldog to be in a fake relationship with, it's just sort of sad you believed her."

You turned, brushing past Sweet Pea and heading towards the door, trying to keep the mixture of feelings at bay. You pushed past all of the people, ignoring the swearing and the dirty looks until you finally burst outside where you were thankfully alone.

You stood there for a second, just outside the door, taking in the cold and just breathing. It was the first moment of peace you'd felt the entire night.

"Hey, you ok?" You felt his hand on your arm, spinning you to face him. You were positive your eyes were shining.

You shook your head, shrugging. "I expected it coming here. Feeling like the outcast, you know?" you sighed. "I mean it's probably just another Northsider problem, but it sucks. It sucks when people just don't want you and will do whatever it takes to keep you on the outside and cut you out."

He sucked in a breath, looking down at the ground.

"I didn't mean you. I mean, that did suck, but I know why you did it. I get it. I'm unbearably awkward and I shouldn't have broken down on you like that and—"

"You didn't make things awkward, Y/N." Sweet Pea finally stepped in to save you.

"Oh," you flushed. A silence settled between you. "I guess I just read into the texts and thought you were avoiding me. I'm sorr–"

"I was avoiding you."

"Oh." Your voice was the quietest you'd ever heard it.

"It's not because of anything you did. You're…great. Really great. Awesome actually. You don't deserve the shit those people in there give you. I—"

"You stood up for me." The thought hit you like a freight train. Sweet Pea had just stood up for you. In front of Adam. And Ginger. And practically everyone else in the room. "Oh my—you stood up for me!"

"Yeah," Sweet Pea's eyes darted around as if looking for hidden cameras.

"That's gonna mean questions. And people will ask why you did it or how we know each other, and I swear I'll cover for you but I'm a terrible liar, and they'll probably find out. Not that I'm not grateful, I mean it's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me in my high school career. Just how—"

Sweet Pea darted forward and for half a second his lips were on yours and your heart stopped and you couldn’t breathe. He pulled back, enough to look at your face. Enough to bring his hand up to cup your cheek.

"You kissed me." Leave it to you to state the obvious during the most romantic moment of your life.

Sweet Pea's lips quirked up into their almost smile. "Yeah. Is that ok?"

"What if someone sees?" you whispered.

Sweet Pea snorted, leaning down to rest his forehead on yours. Your heart thundered in your chest. Sweet Pea kissed you. He kissed you. At a party. Where he stood up for you.

"Come on," he said, suddenly, stepping back and tugging you by the hand back in door.

You stumbled along after him like an idiot, letting him lead you into the living room where you had just been. Where people still were. Where Toni Topaz' eyes immediately fell on the two of you and she cocked her head, pulling the attention of Cheryl towards you.

And this was your nightmare.

Sweet Pea stopped suddenly, turning to you and grabbing your face in his hands, and pulling you in once more. His lips were warm and soft and they felt like the way he hugged. Which was a weird way of describing a kiss, but you didn't care. Because Sweet Pea was kissing you in front of everyone, pulling you in as close as possible as you grabbed his shirt in your fists and kissed him back, pressing yourself into him. And neither of you cared that everybody saw so everybody knew.

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