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On the qui vive

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader WC: ~1k Warnings: Fluff | Established relationship | Absolutely-in-love Bucky | Protective Bucky | Bucky painting your toenails | Bucky taking care of some business (mob elements) | Bucky being hot and incorrigible | Allusions to spicy times | Some language | Very much unbeta'd | Let me know if I missed anything! A/N: Sorry, I haven't been on much here. Found a thought in my drafts and put together something haphazardly for Hot Bucky Summer 2025 | Week 02 Prompt: "Did I give you permission?" | @buckybarnesevents Thank you for hosting. 😊✨🥹💞 Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Damn it!

You scrambled around the hotel suite.

You were supposed to be on time. You always told yourself you'd have everything sorted and ease into important days with a calm, relaxed start. But nope. That version of you clearly didn't exist. A miserable case of chaos was what you were.

Gawd!

Bucky was to be blamed anyway. He'd flown in late last night, and he didn't let you out of the bed ever since he stepped foot into the hotel room. And he thwarted every attempt of you sneaking out of the bed this morning, dragging you right back into his arms. You couldn't believe sometimes that he could be so insatiable despite being married for more than a decade now.

Your husband was a ridiculously sinful man, indeed! Not that you usually complained about your husband's incorrigible loving ways. But today was an important day, and you should be there on time.

You had a luncheon with the whole team today before your book launch tomorrow, and Jeremy would absolutely have your head if you were late to your own event. You'd already been two minutes late to the dinner meeting last night. To be fair, that wasn't really your fault either. You got held up by a couple of women who somehow recognized you. You hadn't expected anyone to know you, especially not in Venice, so far from home. It was endearing. You'd been so flustered when they asked for your autograph that you walked into the meeting grinning like an idiot, only to get an earful from Jeremy for being late.

Yesterday was a simple team dinner, but today was important, and you couldn't be late by a second.

You heard the loud yawn, followed by a grunt.

Fucking Finally!

"Bucky, hurry up, will ya?" you called out to him.

"I'm almost ready, pretty girl," came his gravelly rasp.

You'd both gotten maybe a couple of hours of sleep between stuff. You turned just in time to see him walking out of the bedroom, phone against his ear, as he said, "Good," before placing the phone down on the kitchen counter.

He wandered over, buttoning up his white shirt at such a seductively slow pace, you grunted annoyedly at him for various reasons.

Jesus Christ! He looked divine.

You sat cross-legged on the ottoman, rushing to paint your toenails because, of course, you didn't get to do them earlier. No thanks to your husband. You figured you could get it done while Bucky got dressed lazily, leisurely.

Whatever was up with him today.

He strolled over, popping a piece of fruit into his mouth that you cut hurriedly for you both a few minutes earlier.

And then he met your eyes.

Shit.

The second he looked at you, you knew. Bucky knew. You didn't know who snitched, but after nearly fifteen years with Bucky Barnes, you shouldn't be so surprised. Your husband always knew when someone so much as breathed your way wrong.

You'd actually been relieved he wasn't at the dinner last night. Because if he had been, things would've gone very differently. Henry, your executive publisher, had cornered you. He was drunk and touchy, and you managed to wiggle out of the situation without making a scene. Mostly because you didn't want to see bloodshed. But the second it happened, you knew it would've been a disaster if Bucky had seen it. So yeah, you were glad he'd been delayed. Even if part of you wished he'd been there to stop it from happening at all.

He sank onto the couch in front of you, dragging your foot into his lap.

You tried to wiggle away, but his grip tightened around your calf.

"Stay still," he warned in a dangerously low voice. Nevertheless, you squirmed.

"We don't have much time," you argued, worry gnawing at you.

"Don't worry, pretty girl. I got you," he said calmly, and he took the little bottle of nail polish from your hand.

"You'll ruin your trousers," you muttered.

"Gotta be still then, Sweetheart," He hummed softly, too jaunty, for your liking. Bucky painted the first toe carefully. It was utterly unbelievable how quickly he unraveled you.

You watched him, waiting for him to ask you, but he didn't, making you groan internally. And the longer he kept painting, the more nervous you got.

"Should I just tell you?" you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky didn't look up. "Tell me what, beautiful?"

"You know what."

"Do I?" He raised his eyes, and that dark gleam in them made your stomach twist. It was dangerous, that look, especially for your poor heart, always ready to topple you more and more into him.

Your phone rang. Jeremy. You answered quickly.

"Hey! Promise I won't be late. Ten minutes tops…" Jeremy, however, cut you off your babbling, "You didn't hear?" he said urgently.

"Hear what?" you asked confused.

"Henry. He was in some kind of accident this morning. It's serious. We gotta cancel the lunch."

You froze. "Is he…?"

"No idea. It's all over the place. Ronald called and said something about him losing an arm. It's bizarre. I put him in a cab last night, and he was fine." Jeremy sighed before he continued, "I don't know what happened, but I'll update you when I can. The launch is still on for tomorrow though. I'll send over the new schedule soon."

You set your phone aside, mind still trying to process. You went to pull your foot back, but Bucky didn't let go.

"Did I give you permission to move, Mrs. Barnes? You'll mess up all my hard work." he chuckled, casually blowing on your toes.

"Bucky," you hissed, "What the hell did you do?"

He took his time. Capped the polish. Set it down. Then lifted your leg over his shoulder and tugged you onto the couch beneath him.

"Bucky."

He kissed the curve of your neck, then licked a slow path to your ear. You let out a lewd moan, an entirely inappropriate reaction to the feeling of dread settling in your tummy. Bucky pressed himself against you, one hand cupped your face and the other wandered toward your chest, palming your tits.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping him to find your losing sanity, "What. Did. You. Do?"

He finally met your gaze.

"He shouldn't have touched you, doll," he said softly, his breath warm against your lips, his stubble brushing against your skin, and dousing you in his sweet, sinful smell.

“Be grateful he's still breathing."

"Bucky…" His name caught in your gasping breath, and he smiled at you reverently, and gawd, you knew you had to put some sense into your man, but fuck, did you love him so goddamn much.

Well?

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I just can’t believe some of u are soooo young u didn’t experience the early 2000s at all like even briefly . U were born and ur mother door dashed you home from the hospital

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Time for a new Jelly, new good vibes! Good luck everyone, it’s gunna be good soon

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𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐘? 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐘. Yandere Satosugu x Reader

⟡ This wound up being a lot shorter then I anticipated, but I was on a time crunch and wanted to get this out by mothers day. I apologize if it's not my best work. enjoy mommy geto. ⟡ TW: NON/CON, infantilization, sex toys, humiliation, mommy kink, satoru is put in the cuck chair, DDDNE

“Come on, I promise you’ll like it.”

Suguru groggily stumbles behind his husband as he drags him through the hallways of their shared estate. He was woken up at six in the morning on his day off by a far too enthusiastic Satoru who, despite his request to wait until the sun was shining, insisted that he had a surprise for him that was urgent. What Satoru could have created that was worth disturbing his sleep is beyond him, but the white haired man has never been particularly good at taking ‘no’ for an answer, so he reluctantly ceded. Though, not happily.

“The best surprise you could give me would be taking me back to bed.” he grumbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Our anniversary just passed and my birthday isn’t for another five months. There’s no reason to surprise me.” 

“Of course there is!” Satoru sings, pulling him along “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.

Suguru quirks a brow as Satoru stops in front of a random, barely used guest bedroom, practically vibrating. He considers using his momentary freedom from the white haired mans grasp to go back to bed, already turning on his heels. At least, until he notices the dull buzzing noise coming from behind the door, as well as familiar accompanying whimpers.

“Well?” the white haired man says, waggling his brows, “Go ahead. Open it.”

Apprehensive, but now somewhat more intrigued, Suguru twists the doorknob.

Behind the door, he’s met with pink.

Pink walls, frilly pink drapes, a childish quilt with pink and magenta flowers littered across each square. The plain wooden dresser and bed frame have been replaced by white, ornately detailed counterparts, the lighting fixtures taken down and fairy lights put up in their stead. In the corner, a doll house has been erected and a small mountain of stuffed animals piled neatly beside the bed. A little girl's dream bedroom.

And then, the piece de resistance, you. Tied up in light pink ribbon, laid spread eagle over the pastel sheets. Drool dripping from the corner of a ball gag as you writhe against the soft pink hitachi humming away at your clit through flimsy lace panties. In your arms, a black, stuffed bear holds a pink heart pillow, embroidered with the message ‘I love you Mommy!’

“You know how we were talking about kids earlier? well I was thinking.” Satoru noses into his neck, pushing aside a lock of hair so he can nuzzle into his collar, “You already take such good care of us two. the only thing that was missing was the aesthetics, right?” Lust clouded eyes flick back up to meet his own and his voice deepens. “Daddy had to get Mommy something nice for mothers day.” 

He could say something about the odd parental dynamic his husband had apparently decided was going on between them, or the fact that he had been dubbed the woman in the relationship, but all of that falls to the wayside. You’ve stolen his attention entirely. The way your hips buck pathetically against the hitachi, the helpless whimpers that tumble past your lips, all dressed up in a darling babydoll set that he’d had his eyes on for a while (how thoughtful). A puddle the size of his palm has formed on the sheets beneath you, and yet you're still chasing the friction of the hitachi. Satoru must not have let you cum, poor thing. He swallows thickly, suddenly feeling far more awake. Despite the general abruptness of the whole situation, and the fact that, knowing his husband, this gift was more likely meant to fulfill one of Satoru’s hidden fetishes than it was a legitimate thoughtful gesture, Suguru has always been weak when it comes to taking care of you.

Plus, you look darling in pink.

Satoru’s smile widens as his husband steps into the room.

Suguru circles the bed with arms crossed, dark eyes flicking up and down your exposed frame seemingly unamused, but the bulge steadily tenting in his sweatpants paints a far more believable picture, one that doesn’t bode well for you, knowing your captor. “You know you aren’t supposed to touch her without my permission, Satoru.” he muses, just a hint of sharpness in his voice. Assuming his character. “I’m disappointed in you.”

Something deep and guttural in you recoils as Satoru groans.

“I’m sorry, mommy.” he whimpers, only making it worse by dropping to his knees and crawling to his husbands side. Placing an apologetic kiss on Sugurus thigh as he looks down in disappointment. 

Suguru cups his pouty, but equally lust-clouded face, running a gentle thumb over his cheek. “Are you going to be a good boy and make up for it?”

Satoru nods. “Yes, mommy.”

A small smile creeps onto Suguru’s face. “Good boy. Now, I want you to take out your phone and record this. Under no circumstances are you to touch yourself. Am I understood?”

The way your face falls at the command is adorable, but it’s nothing compared to how Satorus drops. “But I set all of this up!” he whines in a tone not unlike a bratty toddler.

Suguru shoots him a look. “Are you arguing with me?” 

Satoru looks like he’s going to snap back, but he pauses before the words can leave his mouth. After a moment of hesitation, he grumpily marches toward the pink armchair in the corner of the room, stripping to his boxers before taking out his cell phone.

The slight divergence from his orders is noted, but there are more pressing matters to be dealt with. Suguru finally turns his attention entirely to you. 

Shivering, sniffling, absolutely drenched in sweat. You’re an angel. So delicate and defenseless without someone taking care of you. Suguru’s no stranger to having you in compromising positions. It’s most effective, he thinks, not to let you have any illusions of autonomy. For your own safety, but also to reinforce where you lie on the totem pole. At the beginning, Satoru had questioned whether it was necessary for them to hand feed you, and supervise your showers. The sexual part if it was understandable, he also liked indulging in his more depraved fantasies, but he thought the austerity of his control was a bit much. Obviously, Suguru had spanked the sentiment out of him, but he also came to appreciate the structure of his routine, the reliability of humiliation as a regulatory device. Clearly, a little more than he initially thought. 

He supposes he can be a bit motherly at times, what with his insistence on his husbands and your lives being micromanaged. Though, Satoru’s always liked to take things to the extreme. 

But if his extreme includes you in a helpless, flushed mess, he’s willing to entertain it for a while.

You feel the bed dip behind you as Suguru joins, pulling you into his lap with a smile you could almost mistake as apologetic if you didn’t know the man has never apologized for anything. “Poor baby,” he sighs, tenderly pushing a lock of drool and sweat soaked hair out of your face, wrapping his arms snugly around your midriff. “Was Satoru being mean to you?”

You don’t respond, but even if you weren’t gagged, Suguru wouldn't expect one. You’re seething inside. He’s certain you always are. He’s only seen it come up a few times, once, when you attempted to bite Satoru’s penis (only for him to grow it back and stick it in your ass) and once after an escape attempt when you managed to hit him hard enough to leave a mark. Those accidents were dealt with. He knows that’s what you're thinking about now. It’s why you’re so pliant for him as he cups your breast in his hand, rolling a pebbled nipple between rough fingers. His good girl.

“You're a mess.” he purrs, trailing two long fingers down your stomach, stopping at the apex to skim the ocean of juices between your thighs. To your utter humiliation, he holds them in front of you to see the way they drip. Wet and slimy, glinting in the light.  “Messy girl.” he chastises, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

He feels you tremble as he flicks the hitachi off, a strained gasp muffled by the ballgag. With little effort, he maneuvers you onto your stomach, gripping your hips and raising them so he has a full view of your dripping slit. You whine, but he chuckles, fingers working to unbuckle the gag. Once the straps are removed he holds his palm out in front of your mouth, and you reluctantly spit the ball out into his waiting hand, getting a mouthful of drool all over yourself in the process. 

Suguru tilts your chin up towards him, delighting in how flushed you’ve become, how pitiful you look. Just to rub salt in the wound, he asks you “Would you like me to make you cum, baby?”

You both know there's only one correct answer.

Your lip trembles adorably as you mumble “Yes please.”

“Louder.”

“Yes please, Suguru!”

You’ve barely finished the statement before Suguru’s mouth is on you. Hot and wet, ravenous. His tongue laves along your folds, tracing the slit before plunging in abruptly. You gasp as it wriggles around, digging like it's looking for something at the end, grazing each delicious spot that he knows from experience makes you weak. 

His hands come up to your hips, holding them steady so he can work. He could do this for hours he thinks, he has done this for hours, driven on by only your tears and groans. Quiet mewls leave your mouth as his hand comes up to your clit, rubbing lazy circles over the little pearl while you buck. But he doesn’t relent, not for a second. 

When he feels your cunt clench around his tongue, he smiles. If he were feeling more sadistic, he might pull away again but today, he feels like indulging you. He separates his mouth from your cunt with a lewd squelch, quickly replacing it with his fingers and reassuming the pace behind you.

“Satoru,” he calls, glancing over at the white haired man who’s resulted to sitting on his hands to keep himself from touching his dick, “Come over here, I want you to get a close up of her face.”

He’s all too eager, practically jumping up to join the two of you. You stare into his camera as the knot inside you comes undone and the floodgates finally open. You scream, crying as your orgas comes crashing down in long, drawn out waves that suguru prolongs until you’re twitching in overstimulation. 

Suguru removes his fingers gently, smoothing back your hair with a loving smile and placing a kiss on your head.  

“Look at the camera baby,” Satoru coos, tilting your head up and forcing you to look into the lens. 

“Tell mommy you love him,”

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Chat gpt you will never be her

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need to sit in his lap while he yaps about his nerdy little interests and his hands wonder all over my body

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yeah i fucking hate damien. mom can get it too

Title: O U T S I D E [2 of 10]

Pairing: Ex-Con!Curtis x Southern!Reader

Summary: Your older brother is out of jail and back home, but old habits die hard, and you find yourself caught between what you need, and who can give it to you when Curtis Everett starts hanging around again. 

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Mild Stalking, Recreational Drug Use, Intimidation, Crime, Gang Activity, References to Past Physical and Emotional Abuse, Murder, more tags to be added

The words on the page in front of you shift and blur together before your eyes, and you rub at them tiredly. You’ve been at it since early afternoon, the impressive pile of your textbooks and binders serving as a testament to your attempts at dedication. But you’ve taken woefully few notes, and your attention remains split between what you should be doing and what is going on downstairs. With Damien in the house it feels like concentration is impossible, your mind returning to speculation like a dog with an old bone. 

You’ve seen precious little of him since your mother’s party, settling into a tentative schedule of purposeful avoidance. He doesn’t seem to rise from the dead until late afternoon, sometimes not until after you’ve left for class if you’re lucky, which means you don’t see him at all. His firmly locked door, though, is a constant reminder of his presence every time you pass by on your way to the bathroom, regardless of whether you see him or not. Sometimes you can hear him, speaking in hushed tones on the phone you know your mother is paying for. 

As you attempt to get back to studying, the doorbell rings. It irritates and jars you, sounding three more times before you realize that you’re going to have to answer it yourself despite both your mother and brother being home. Downstairs, she’s wrapped up in her favorite blanket, the T.V. blaring and the air conditioner blasting behind her. I bet she can’t even fucking hear it. It’s barely past one, but there’s an empty bottle of grocery store wine on the table, and the glass in her hand is dangerously full as she lifts it to her lips. 

Jealously you bask in the cool air for a minute or two before the insistent knock makes you turn away from the scene before you and reach for the doorknob. 

On your porch is a man you don’t recognize, dark hair pulled back away from his face. He’s broad, like Curtis, but not quite as tall, the expression on his face less than inviting. There’s a disappointed set to his features, maybe in the press of his lips or the narrowing of his eyes, and he doesn’t try to hide it. 

“D here?” He asks, cocking his head. The New York accent is so strong it practically bowls you over. “He told me t’ stop by.” You clench your teeth. Of course he did. 

“I’ll go get him. Who should I say’s here?” 

“Tell him Bucky’s here.” You make to close the door, but Bucky’s foot finds its way between it and the frame. “Oh, and Doll?” He grins. “He told me I could wait inside.” You leave him in the entryway, fists clenched as you storm back into the house. Damien’s door is closed, like it always seems to fucking be, so you rap your fist against the painted wood hard, and then two more times for good measure. In the split second before the door flies open, there’s a muffled curse that reaches you from inside. 

“What?” He glares down at you irritatedly, blocking the crack in the door with his own body. 

“Bucky’s here.” Damien nods, his expression unreadable. 

“Tell him I’ll be right there.” 

“You tell him yourself, I’m not your fucking errand-boy,” you snap. “He’s in the hallway.” He shifts, crossing his arms. As he does so, you peek into the room around his shoulder. For the briefest of moments you’re allowed a glance inside, clothes everywhere, but the table is clean, with a scale on it. You feel his hand before it touches you, and you move accordingly, taking a step back so his push is a light tap. 

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You shove past him, angry tears burning behind your eyes. The fuck’s he need a scale for? Your mind is racing. He’s dealing again, he has to be—that’s why these people keep coming by the house. It’s worse than fucking dealing—it’s distributing. You swallow hard. The house had been watched for months after Damien had gone in, you remember the unmarked police cars doing rounds on the block, the plainclothes cops following you from home to school to work and back again.

You don’t want that again. 

Mind your business.

You finger the scar beneath your shirt as you close your bedroom door as far as it’ll go before turning on the old A.C. in your room. It sputters a little before the air coming out turns cool. If they can run them downstairs you’re certainly not going to be the only one in the house suffering for the sake of the power bill. You bypass your desk—studying feels more impossible than ever, now—and go straight to your bed, flopping down on it like a ragdoll. 

You know better than to meddle, now. That lesson had been hard learnt but it had been learnt, first on the bathroom floor in agony as the broken bones of your left arm shifted beneath your skin, and again when you had left the hospital. 

Sister or not, you fuck with my shit again and I’ll put you in the goddamn dirt right next to her. 

As much as you hate D, you believe him, too. 

Maybe it’s selfish—but you’re not willing to go through it all over again, to withstand Damien’s rage just to feel righteous. You know how quickly that feeling fades—how quick the pain sets in. Absently you touch your shoulder again. If you press hard enough, you can feel the screws they put in, hard strange metal beneath soft flesh. 

What will he break this time, you wonder, if you’re brave enough to challenge him again? It had felt so good, so right to empty those bags down the toilet and flush them. You remember laughing, wondering if the rats living in the sewer would get high from being in the water. And then the memory of the door slamming open so hard the wall dented, Damien’s voice louder and angrier than you’d ever heard it—

“What the fuck did you do?!”

—

The uniforms at Peach Rings changes every two weeks. This week you’re forced to fend off the rowdy patrons dressed as some type of naughty nurse. Handsy Howard, as the rest of the girls all called him, stands in the wait-station doorway, watching as you adjust the stupid little white hat on your head. 

“What, Howard?” 

“You got sat. Jerry’s here. He wants to see you.” His eyes are glued shamelessly to your ass.  “He asked for you.” 

“Yeah, I get it. Can you move?” Reluctantly he peels his gaze from you, shuffling out of the way with his hands in his pockets. And they better stay there. Candy’s on the floor, halfway to the ceiling in six inch pleasers. It’s 4pm on a Wednesday night, though, so her signature flip-split is performed in front of a practically empty room. The only person sitting there is Jerome—you refuse to call him Jerry no matter how many times he asks—leaned back in his chair like he owns the place. 

You approach him from the side, keeping your posture relaxed and casual. 

“Jerome.” 

“Oh, hiya, Sweets.” He grins at you. “Liking the new uniform?” He cocks his head like he’s genuinely curious about your answer. Like it matters. “I love it.” 

“It’s great. I’ve always wanted to cosplay at work.” You reply flatly. “Can I get you a drink?” 

“Tom Collins.” You narrowly avoid his hands as you bring back his drink from the bar. 

“Hey, watch it or I’ll get you cut off, Jerome!” No jury on earth would convict me. The Wednesday night turn out is fairly pathetic on the best of days, but you end up with a few decent tables that keep you busy, running back and forth. They usually have three girls on—but tonight it’s just you and Bridget in your matching, ridiculous costumes. Your hands are always full, either with drink trays, your order pad, or tugging down your incessantly rolling skirt. 

At the end of the night, you have just shy of two-hundred and fifty bucks to show for your grueling shift, the majority of it in cash so you don’t have to worry about your mother seeing it get deposited into your account before you manage to squirrel it away into your savings. I really should take her off my accounts. I’m not fifteen anymore. You’re usually off early enough on a Wednesday to catch the second-to-last bus, but tonight you’re rushing for the last one, checking your phone nervously, watching the minutes slip away as you perform your list of mundane closing tasks. 

Like he can sense you’re in a hurry, Howard takes his time checking you, peeking slowly beneath each table before lazily signing his name on your check-out slip. 

“Christ, Howard, some of us have places to be,” you mutter, shouldering your bag. 

“Some of us have cars.” He gloats. You watch in real time as the underused lightbulb in the pitifully empty attic behind his eyes fizzle to life. “But, um, if you need a ride…” he doesn’t finish, trailing off hopefully. 

“I’ll walk.” You can feel the heat of his scowl on your back as you make for the door. There is a sliver of power in your rejection, and you cradle it preciously as you step out into the thick, muggy evening. It doesn’t matter that you now have to walk the bus route all the way back to the train station, that you definitely won’t make the last train, that you’ll have to spend money you don’t have on a taxi ride home. 

Handsy Howard won’t have you cornered in his 2004 Lincoln town-car, his greasy hand on your thigh. Not tonight. And if you have it your way, not fucking ever. 

You remind yourself of this after the first thirty minutes of walking, when the sidewalk becomes a narrow strip on the side of the road, and cars honk at you after swerving too close. And again when your shirt begins to stick to your back underneath your backpack and your inner thighs chafe painfully as they rub together. Google maps tells you that you have another hour-and-a-half walk ahead of you, and you feel your eyes water. 

It’s not fucking fair. 

Nothing you’re not used to. 

It’s already long past dark, and when the rumble of rubber wheels on asphalt isn’t drowning out all else, the sound of cicadas singing fills your head. You’ve been walking over an hour when a sleek black sedan slows as it passes you, going the opposite way. You aren’t expecting it to whip around as other cars honk, people leaning out of their windows to cuss at the driver, pulls up next to you. 

“Ladybug what are you doing out here?” Curtis leans down so you can see him through the passenger side window. You watch as he shifts into park, ignoring the angry tide of traffic growing behind him. 

“I—I missed the bus.” You say lamely, shifting your weight from foot to aching foot. “It’s okay, I’m walking to the bus station.” You don’t want to be in a car with Curtis either, 

Curtis laughs. “The hell you are. Get in.” 

“No, really—” Your legs are aching, unused to the strain, feet swollen in your cheap, dollar store sneakers. “I’ll be fine.

“I said get in. Respectfully, it’s not a discussion, Ladybug. Look at you.” You don’t really want to walk another hour in the stifling heat on the unpaved side of the road. At least he’s not Howard. As you waffle, a fresh chorus of honking horns and loud curses makes the decision for you.

“Get in the fucking car, lady, Jesus Christ!” Someone shouts, and your cheeks heat. 

“Fine.” You open the door and get in, holding your bag on your lap both to take up as little space as possible, but also to block access—just in case. The surge of power you’d felt denying Howard evaporates as you sink into the comfortable seat. The interior is as plush as the exterior; leather seats, a dashboard screen, push to start. The air conditioning feels amazing, goosebumps rising on your sweat-damp skin. You remind yourself not to get too comfortable, clutching your bag tighter. 

“You can, um. You can just drop me off at the train station.” 

“Ladybug, you know as well as I do that there’s no trains after midnight.” He glances at you. “Why don’t I just take you home?” 

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.” I don’t want to owe you.

“You’re not an inconvenience.” He’s not looking at you—he can’t, he has to focus on the road—but there’s a deep frown across his features, and it makes an unfamiliar sort of warmth bloom in your chest. 

“Thanks.”

When he drops you off at home the lights are off, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Your mother isn’t the type to wait up for you, and you’re glad you won’t have to entertain her nonsense after the shift you’ve had. You make to get out of the car, but Curtis catches your arm. 

“Wait, Ladybug. Can you get your phone out for me? I want you to have my number.” He smiles sadly. “In case this happens again.” 

“No, no, don’t worry about it, I’ll just—”

“Buckhead to the Five points is a long walk, Sweetheart.” For a second you forget to breathe. Right. Nita’s. Buckhead. 

“I have friends. In the area.” 

“Not very good ones, if they wouldn’t drop you off so you didn’t have to walk miles in the dark on the side of the road.” He replies. “Just take it. What’s the harm?” 

You hesitate before opening your phone. Taking his number doesn’t mean you have to use it, right? Carefully you hand him your phone and allow him to punch in his details. 

“Sent myself a text so I don’t ignore it.” He hands you back your phone. “Just want you to be safe, Ladybug. That’s all.” 

“I told you, no one calls me that anymore.” Neesh is dead and Damien’s a fucking twat. Curtis shrugs. 

“Guess that makes it more special, then, don’t it?” 

Your mother is passed out on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine teetering dangerously on the edge of the coffee table. Old habits, you suppose. Old habits that seem to flare up when your brother’s around. Damien did tend to bring out the worst in people. Your stomach knots, thinking of Neesh. 

The very worst. 

Your mother mumbles sleepily as you tidy up around her, picking up an empty glass that had rolled under the couch. Could a person change? You turn the thought over and over in your mind as you pull a blanket up over your mother’s sleeping shoulders. Could they change underneath the skin, who they were, are, would be? You don’t know. You straighten up, turning off the television. 

You won’t be around to find out. The ticket from Hartsfield-Jackson to Portland International Airport is already paid for—you’re just finishing out the semester here before you’ve got enough credits to leave and never look back. You’ve got almost enough in your savings for first month’s rent and a deposit, and you’re confident another few weeks at the club will give you the rest. 

Momma and Damien can have each other. 

You’re going to be free. 

—

“And what is that an example of?” Professor Greenbalm looks around the lecture room before her dark eyes fall on you. “Any ideas?” Nervously you finger your pen, clicking it a few times. You regret the action instantly, the noise seeming to echo in the dead quiet. 

“Bias? Uh, media bias?” 

“Yes, exactly.” Oh thank Christ. “And what else?” Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth as you flounder. “It draws into question…” She hesitates before shaking her head. “Journalistic Integrity.” 

I should have known that. 

You spend the rest of the lecture shrinking, hoping that you won’t be called on again. You aren’t, but as you gather up your books to leave, Professor Greenbalm calls your name. 

“Stay a minute, will you?” Nervously you wait as the last minute stragglers finally trickle out the door, and the professor runs her fingers through her short, graying brown hair. “A month ago you were at the top of the class.” She says, brows furrowing. “What happened?” You don’t want to give excuses, the bitter ones that linger on your tongue. I had to take more shifts because Momma’s check’s not going as far with three people in the house. Can’t study at a strip club. 

“I know. I’m sorry, It’s just… things are kind of difficult right now. At home.” 

“I just don’t want to see your potential wasted. You could really be something, if you applied yourself. I think a lot of the other students could learn from you. But if this continues…” She shakes her head. “The missed assignments, the late ones. I don’t see how I can recommend you for the fellowship program.” Your chest goes tight. 

“It won’t.” You say quickly. “I’ll deal with it. It’s just—it doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it.” You hadn’t had any trouble keeping up until Damien came home. The house was never quite peaceful but things had been at least predictable. You’d learned to live with your mother, learned at least how to tiptoe around the living land-mine in your home. Now it’s like there are pitfalls and sand-traps to avoid too, not to mention your increased workload.

“I’ll handle it.” You say again, as if trying to reassure both yourself and your professor. She only sighs. 

“I hope you do.” You blink back frustrated tears, practically tasting Professor Greenbalm’s disappointment. It’s chokingly bitter. You’re tempted briefly to stay, to plead your case, but you know it won’t help.

You blink hard, forcing back the angry tears that threaten to leak down your cheeks as you flee the lecture hall. The bathroom is only a few minutes walk but you barely make it before you begin to cry. You don’t even check if it’s empty, locking yourself in a stall before sitting down on the closed lid. The ability to cry silently is one you’ve perfected, quieting the gasping sobs as you clutch yourself. 

It’s the first time you’ve cried since Damien’s been home, the first time you really let yourself feel it, the raw anger, the rage. He never should have been let back inside in the first place. 

How could you do this to me Momma? How?

Before long you’re gasping for air, quiet trembling breaths that leave you aching. He’d hurt you so bad, and she just… she didn’t care. 

She’d never cared. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, but you emerge with puffy, bloodshot eyes and a runnyYo nose. The two girls at washing their hands at the sinks are gracious as you splash water onto your face, sniffling. 

“Is it a man?” The blonde asks, shaking her head. You accept her tissue with a stiff nod. “It’s always a fucking man.” 

Outside, the sticky Atlanta summer settles over you like a humid blanket, and you wonder if you have enough in your checking account to uber home. You don’t have to do mental math very long, though, because the sound of a horn nearly makes you drop your phone. 

“Need a ride, Ladybug?”

to be continued…

[emotionol]

Title: O U T S I D E [1 of 10]

Pairing: Ex-Con!Curtis x Southern!Reader

Summary: Your older brother is out of jail and back home, but old habits die hard, and you find yourself caught between what you need, and who can give it to you when Curtis Everett starts hanging around again. 

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Mild Stalking, Recreational Drug Use, Intimidation, Crime, Gang Activity, References to Past Physical and Emotional Abuse, Murder, more tags to be added

A/N: hear me out—just hear me the hell out—

No. Fucking no. 

You can see the car parked in the driveway from down the block, as soon as you round the corner. Foolish, fragile hope flutters in your chest, the hope that you might be wrong. That the big, black Dodge sitting just behind your mother’s beat up Toyota is someone else’s. In someone else’s yard. But with every heavy step down the busy street it curdles into resignation. 

He’s parked badly, the truck askew in the driveway like a backslash. You walk around it, your shoulder aching as you readjust your bag. The front door’s open, the way it always is this time of year, and the smell of cooking food wafts gently through the screen door. The air outside is thick, wet, and stifling—Atlanta summer. You’re sweating as you dart up the stairs. Even though it’s only five minutes from the bus stop to the house, your shirt sticks uncomfortably to your back, your thighs chafing where your shorts end. 

Inside, a large pair of men’s loafers lay across the mat, equally as crooked as the truck outside. Voices and laughter sound from the kitchen, buoyed by the scent of honey and cornbread, and the muddy-water smell of catfish. You resist the urge to straighten his shoes, to fix them like you fix every-fucking-thing-else—

You don’t. 

I could just go upstairs. You can probably make it past the kitchen without being seen. Just pretend he’s not even here. You can’t, though, your feet refuse to carry you past, like they know you need the confirmation. Need to see. 

Your mother’s back is to you. She’s bent low over the stove, a long filet of catfish held in her cornmeal-crusted fingers. It’s even hotter here in the kitchen than it is outside, but your mother is old-school; the air conditioners down here are for company and for show—“not for you kids to run up my damn power bill”. 

Damien is seated at the head of the table like a king. His feet are propped up on another chair, arms pillowed behind his head. He looks comfortable, too comfortable, like he belongs there when you know he doesn’t. Not in the fucking slightest.

“Baby, you like your fish fried hard, don’t you?” Your mother’s bourbon smooth drawl rounds out the edges of her words and elongates her syllables with a warm twang. “Your plate’s almost ready.” 

Your stomach turns. He’s not supposed to fucking be here when I’m here. That’s the fucking deal. Your tongue is practically burning with the rebuke, but you swallow it instead, and the words burn all the way down. More respect, that’s what you need, she’d tell you, more flies with honey than vinegar. 

“Momma.” She jumps, turning around like you’d bitten her instead of just said her name. “D.” Damien grins at you, sitting straight up and dropping his feet to the hardwood floor with a loud thump. “Momma we talked about this—”

“How you doin’, Squirt?” He’s all smiles, all warmth as he rushes you, pulling you into an uncomfortably tight hug you don’t have time to return before he lets go again.

“Aren’t you happy to see your brother?” Your mother asks over her shoulder. “He’s been gone so long.” You were supposed to have my fucking back. The words pass unspoken between you as her expression turns pleading. Please keep the peace, her face says in the silence as you stare at the two of them. Don’t make a scene. “Your uncles are all coming over. To celebrate.” 

You glance at the pile of catfish, the bowls of greens and seasoned rice—it’s  enough to feed a small army. 

“Oh.”

 It’s all you can dig up from beneath the glass-sharp shards of her betrayal. You’d talked about it, had a plan—no one was supposed to contact Damien. No one was supposed to let him back in. 

Your brother squeezes your shoulder, laughing. “Good to see you too, Squirt.” You want to pull away from him, the truth burning in your lungs with the desire to be exhaled right into his smug face. 

I wish they put you away forever.

“Hi.” He goes in for a hug and you turn your body to the side, so that it sloughs awkwardly off of you. “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” He says. “Thought you’d be glad to see me.” 

“When did you get out?” 

“Six weeks ago.” Six weeks. That’s all the time it had taken to get back into Momma’s head—to her heart. Six weeks to forget. 

“Oh.” He claps you on your shoulder—the bad one. It feels like his fingers linger on the raised scar beneath your t-shirt, but you don’t know if you imagined it or not, if it’s a warning—a reminder. 

“That all you got for your big brother?” Damien smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Things will be different this time. Better.” You swallow, tasting the bitterness of his lie before answering with one of your own. 

“Okay.” 

— 

The roof is still your only private space, given that the door to your room hasn’t locked properly since you were twelve. Tonight is much the same, as  your brother’s “Welcome back from prison, you piece of shit” party is still raging on beneath you. At least up here, the noise from your drunk uncles playing dominoes and cards is drowned out by the general Friday-night block-shenanigans, which is honestly preferable. 

You exhale a thick cloud of smoke from your nostrils, and it spirals up into the dark sky before disappearing. 

Just have to make it until August. Just two more months. 

The joint dulls your feelings of betrayal and rage until they’re minor annoyances, and not all-consuming the way they had been as you’d been forced to smile and tell your brother how much you’d missed him. 

Like a hole in the fucking head. 

When you’ve smoked it down to the filter, you flick it into the gutter, where it sparks and fizzles out against the decaying leaves filling it. Just another two months, and you’ll be in Portland. You’ve already put up with Damien for twenty-five years—what’s another two months? You slide down from the roof onto the little outcropping outside your window—you refuse to call that one by one rectangle of nothing a balcony. Your room is exactly as you’d left it, your father’s old amp in front of the door to keep it shut. 

It’s one of the only things you plan on bringing with you. 

Somehow, even with the door closed, your whole room still reeks like cigarette smoke. Which means Leonard’s down there smoking again. You grimace. There’s no use in chastising him—any of them. Your mother had agreed to no more smoking in the house—just like she’d agreed to no more Damien in the house. 

Respect your elders. Don’t go telling grown folks what to do. Your mother’s irritated voice rings in your head. It doesn’t matter that you’re more than grown yourself, not to them. You grab the worn pair of headphones hanging on your bedpost, and settle them snugly over your ears. The music quiets instantly, and you bask in the near-silence.  

Two months.

—

The air still smells like stale cigarettes when you finally roll out of bed late the next morning, the house eerily silent. When you venture downstairs, still in your pajamas, the evidence of last night’s party are still strewn everywhere—beer bottles resting on every available surface, red Solo cups with ominous contents and dirty paper plates on the sofas and coffee table. The ashtray that your mother continues to claim is merely decorative is now full of cigarette butts, and a few blunt roaches. 

The kitchen is hardly better, the counters packed with trash and dirty dishes you know are meant for you to clean up. For a satisfying moment, you imagine stiffening your arm and sweeping everything onto the floor, imagine the bottles shattering against the tile before you pull out a garbage bag from under the sink and get to work. There’s no use complaining—and you can’t ignore it, the trash rising up around your ears while your mother dotes on her favorite son. 

Don’t you know what I do for you? What I sacrificed to bring you into this world? 

You reach for the faucet, turning it viciously as your eyes water. I wish you fucking hadn’t. 

It’s mindless, at least, the cleaning. So much so that when someone raps on the locked screen door from the front of the house you nearly jump out of your skin. You drop the plate you’re washing back into the soapy water, splashing yourself. The knock comes again, more insistent. Probably Uncle Stefan. Left his wallet again. Shaking off the suds, you head for the door, rolling your eyes irritatedly as the banging continues. With a frustrated hmph you yank open the door, eyes narrowed. 

“Uncle Stu I don’t know where Momma put your wallet, she’s not home—” The words curl in on themselves in your throat. The man on the porch is most certainly not your uncle. 

“Good thing I’m not lookin’ for your Momma.” He flashes you a bright, white smile. It’s hard to talk around the lump in your throat but you manage. 

“D’s not here either.” You want to look past him, to stare at the air over his shoulder instead of into those stormy blues, anywhere but at him, but there’s so much of him he has to slouch to fill the doorway. Curtis is wider than last you’d seen him, his blond hair now close-cropped, the beginnings of a beard shadowed around his mouth and jaw. The edges of a tattoo peek out from beneath his sleeves and shirt collar, one he hadn’t had the last time you’d seen him—

Five years ago, in the back of the same cop car as your brother. 

“Now that’s a pity.” He clucks his tongue, and the silence that follows is nearly as heavy as his gaze. Beneath it, you are suddenly all too aware of your wet shirt sticking to your chest with every nervous breath you take. He licks his lips, slow and deliberate. “Mind if I wait for him?”

“I don’t know when he’ll be back.” You don’t know why you don’t just say no—men like Curtis Everett don’t hear that word enough anyway—but it feels like you can’t. Like his asking is only a formality. Like he’s daring you to say no. 

“He’s out with Momma. Don’t know how long they’ll be.” You hope the bitterness on your tongue doesn’t show in your voice. You should be over it by now, should have accepted the order of things long ago. 

But somehow, it still always stings. 

“I don’t mind.” Curtis shrugs, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. You don’t remember him being this big. He places a hand on the doorframe, leaning down till he’s almost eye level with you. “‘Sides, that gives you and me time to catch up.” He drawls, a grin spreading across his full lips. “Doesn’t it Ladybug?”

“Don’t call me that.” You snap. “Nobody calls me that anymore.” A slow grin spreads across his full lips. It makes you shiver.

“Nobody but me.” Suddenly, you’re fifteen again, buying your first eighth from your brother’s cool older friend, Neesh holding onto your shirtsleeve as you hand over the money. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” For a moment you debate whether or not to answer.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Memories.” Bad ones.

 He glances past you into the house. “Looks like you all had a good time last night.” You can’t help the scowl that crosses your features. “Your momma does love a good party.”

“Yeah. For me to clean up.” You wince. “Sorry, I mean—” 

“You’ve always been the responsible one.” He shrugs languidly. The silence between you stretches on until he breaks it again. “I really don’t mind waiting.” He shifts so slightly you don’t even really register it, and suddenly he’s towering over you, the width and breadth of Curtis Everett filling your vision. He’s half-inside already, his foot on the threshold, the bulk of him leaned in past the doorframe. You feel small, vulnerable, your heart a frightened rabbit in your ribs. “I won’t get in the way. Promise.” 

I’m coming inside. He doesn’t have to say it, he doesn’t need to.

“Fine.” 

— 

You can feel Curtis’ eyes on your back as you stand at the sink, suck in an endless cycle of wash and dry. You grit your teeth as you furiously scrub the breading-caked fryer basket. Sometimes it feels like you can’t win for losing—first Damien, now Curtis. Who next? With my luck it’ll be fucking Dave. You shiver slightly at the thought—the walls still have patches of off white paint from where he’d driven his closed fists through the plaster. 

You never could find the right shade of eggshell white to cover the damage.  

A furtive glance over your shoulder reveals Curtis, standing in the doorway, a garbage bag in hand. It’s practically full to bursting, the crinkle of crushed plastic cups and paper plates as he hefts the bag almost as loud as the silence. 

“Got the living room cleared up.” You turn to face him, wiping your soapy, wet hands on the dishrag by the sink. It’s like you need to see where he is, to gauge the distance between your bodies constantly, like the hyper-vigilance will keep you safe. You know of course from experience that it won’t, but it doesn’t stop the habit. There’s a certain irony in your fear—Curtis hasn’t ever hurt you, hasn’t ever even tried, but something about him terrifies you, and you don’t want to know what he’s capable of. 

“Thanks. You can just leave it by the back door. I’ll take it out on my way to work.” 

“Oh? Thought you were still in school.” Curtis drops the bag by the door on the opposite side of the kitchen, before draping himself over the counter. “Least, that’s what D told me, anyway.” 

“Maybe you should ask him, then,” you reply snidely. “Since he knows so much.” 

“Maybe. But I’m askin’ you, Ladybug.” Suddenly, you’re aware you’re the only person in the house. Not that you hadn’t been before, but it dawns on you now in a way it hadn’t when he was at the door—

Silly little girl. You’ve gone and let the wolf in. 

You panic, tongue searching the roof of your mouth for a precious second as the lie forms in your throat.

“Nita’s. In Buckhead.” He nods his approval.

“Nice place.” You hum noncommittally in response. “Maybe I’ll come see you sometime.” The cup you’re washing slips from your fingers, shattering in the shallow, soapy water. “You okay, Ladybug?” You’re the furthest from okay that you’ve been in almost a decade but you don’t know how to say that. 

“We’re ho-ome!” Your mother’s lilting, sing-song-y tone saves you from having to reply. She bustles into the kitchen, arms laden with shopping bags. “Oh good, you’re up. D will be in with the rest of the bags and—” She pauses, a sharp intake of breath marking her observation. Better late than never.

“Curtis Everett, you better not be standing in my kitchen with them outside shoes on.” She snaps, pointing down at his feet. 

“Miss Gregory.” 

“Don’t you Miss Gregory me. Go on and take ‘em off or go stand on the porch.”  She makes a shooing motion towards the front door, her lips pursed in a disapproving frown. “Go on, now. Take ‘em off.” Curtis moves too gracefully for someone his size, crossing the kitchen in easy strides. There’s more than enough room between your back and the table for him to pass without touching you, but he brushes against you anyway. You nearly drop the pieces of glass you’re holding as you go stiff. 

He did that on purpose.

But when you look at him all you see is his receding back as he moves in the direction he’d been instructed to, leaving you and your mother alone in the kitchen. 

“Help me put these away.” 

Groceries. It was bags and bags of groceries. You sink your teeth into your lip to keep the angry words inside. The fridge has been empty for weeks; between paying for your classes and covering her half of the light bill and your own has left you little to spare in the way of grocery money. Up until this week the two of you had been scraping by on frozen dumplings and ramen.

“Did you get paid, Momma?” You ask quietly, pulling open the fridge door. She sucks her teeth. 

“Not that it’s any business of yours, but yes. I did.” 

“It’s just, you said you’d pay me back for the power bill when you got your check.” 

“We needed groceries.”

“We needed them before, too.” You say pointedly, and she rolls her eyes. “I just…I hope you didn’t blow your whole check on a nice breakfast and groceries for Damien. I don’t have any shifts this week, and—”

“Girl, who are you talking to?” Your mother’s tone is low and accusatory. You know instantly you’ve gone too far. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t tell me how to spend my money when you live in my house rent free,” she snarls. “Disrespectful—” she mumbles something, a curse you can’t make out. “Move. I’ll do this myself.” She practically shoulder-checks you out of the way, angrily shoving her hands into the grocery bags. When you don’t move fast enough, she sucks her teeth. “Move, I said. Since you’re so grown.” 

You know defending yourself will only make it worse, so you clamp your jaw shut, your eyes focused on your trembling hands. 

Two months. 

Your mother places each item into the refrigerator as loudly as she can, slamming down bottles of juice and packages of frozen meat so hard you worry she’ll shatter the shelves. 

“Momma.” She slams down some frozen ground beef, shutting the freezer with equal force. “Momma, come on.”

“You giving me orders now? You just don’t know when to stop—”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m just… things are tight as it is. I’m just worried about us. I don’t want anything bad to happen.” 

“That’s my job.” She sighs. “I’m the parent, you’re the child. Stay in a child’s place.” 

I’m twenty six years old.

“Yes ma’am.” You clench your fists out of sight, where she can’t see them as you crawl back onto the proverbial tightrope. “I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” 

To be continued…

[emotionol]

men who spread your pussy with their thumbs whenever they go down on you so they can lap at your clit better 😔

[emotionol]

so true

[emotionol]

HAPPY OSCAR FICVERSARY HONEY!!!!

That is SO exciting!!!!!!

Ok so listen, if you want me to choose a prompt specifically I will, but I had a thought that I think you might like so please just lmk what you think:

Neighbor Miguel is Spider-Man and his identity is a secret from the world, ofc. Reader works in the medical field, he knows this because they've talked casually on occasion in the past. He gets injured and doesn't have anywhere else to go (for whatever reason) so he knocks on reader's door.

Can be just fluff or smut, whatever your heart desires, but I thought it would be a cute idea that you might like hehe <3

Helping Hand

AN: Eeeeeee, thank you, Mel. Your friendship and support mean a lot to me, I hope you know that. ❤️ Thanks for being there, and also for sending this prompt in. I hope it did it justice! 🤞

(Un-beta’d)

Rated: T (for mild gore) Words: 1,007 Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader (should be GN, please let me know if that's incorrect) Warnings: brief mention of blood, wounds/injuries, hurt/comfort, cheesy/contrived dialogue probably lol AO3

——————

You sigh as you enter your apartment, shuffling through the door and letting your bag drop to the floor. The ER had been slammed today, and you were beyond exhausted. Starving, you head toward your kitchen, rifling through the fridge before settling on some leftover takeout for dinner. You decide to change while you wait for it to reheat and exit the kitchen, heading in the direction of your bedroom.  

A soft tapping noise makes you pause, your ears perking at the sound as worry settles in your gut—shit, it wasn’t rats again, was it? You’d thought the landlord had taken care of that problem months ago. You listen for a moment longer, your anxiety easing a little when you don’t hear anything further. Maybe it was just the wind, you think, resuming your trek. 

You hear it again as you reach the door to your bedroom, the tapping louder this time, more insistent. It takes a moment for you to realize it’s coming from your window, a surprised scream lodging in your throat when you finally locate the source of the sound. 

Is that….Spider-man? 

You stare, a little flabbergasted and blinking rapidly, as if it’ll somehow make this baffling image disappear. 

Alas, it does not. 

He taps again, the movement sluggish. His fingers slide down the glass and your breath catches when streaks of red appear in their wake. 

He’s injured.  

Before you can really think about it, you’re at the window, unlocking it and pushing it open. He all but falls through it, his huge frame pouring onto the floor beneath the sill. You immediately crouch beside him, your hands on his broad shoulders as he struggles to prop himself up against the wall.  

“Where are you hurt?” you ask calmly, your eyes flicking over him expertly, alert for any signs of injury. 

He says nothing, just gestures to his head, panting as if he’s been running a marathon. You frown, carefully taking his face in your hands. You can feel the warmth of his skin through his suit as you gingerly turn his head this way and that, careful not to injure him further. He grunts when your fingers graze the back of his head and you bite your lip, your gaze settling where you assume his eyes are beneath his mask.

“If you want my help, I’ll need you to remove the mask,” you tell him, your voice gentle but firm, leaving no room for negotiation. 

There’s a pause as he presumably considers your request, and just as you’re wondering what he’s thinking, he nods, his mask retracting like magic. Your mouth falls open when you not only see his face but recognize him. 

It’s your neighbor, Miguel. Spider-man is your neighbor. 

You allow yourself a moment of shock, before standing to your feet and running to your bathroom to grab a few clean towels and your first aid kit.  

Help first, questions after. 

You crouch before him, holding his chin between your fingers and carefully tilting his head up to check his eyes with your pen light. He flinches but doesn’t fight you. Once you’re positive he doesn’t have a concussion, you maneuver him so you can reach the back of his head and begin gently examining and cleaning his wound. His hair is soft against your palm, the ends curling slightly from exposure to the humid air outside, and you wonder briefly what it’d be like to plunge your fingers into the dark, mussed depths (under different circumstances, obviously).  

You’re close, close enough to smell him, his scent warm and woodsy, oddly calming. He winces as you work, grunting every now and then in pain as you clean the area. Once you're finished, you apply an antibiotic cream to his scalp that you know will help heal it quickly.  

“You should be okay, just try to keep it clean and dry.” 

He nods, wincing a little as he shifts, leaning more of his weight against the wall. 

You study him quietly for a moment, eyes tracing the tired lines of his face. His eyes are half closed, his mouth drawn in a tight line. You wonder if anyone else knows his secret; does he have a partner or does he carry the weight of all of this alone? The thought breaks your heart a little. 

“So,” you begin airily, his eyes flicking to you as you gesture at what remains of his spider-suit, “is this why I never see you at any of the building meetings?” 

He blinks at you, his movements sluggish, and for a moment, you worry that you’ve made things awkward...but then he sniffs a laugh, a smile curling on his lips, and there’s a dim light in his eyes that wasn’t there before, despite his wince of pain. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, a pang of guilt snagging in your chest.

He waves you off, meeting your eyes again briefly, his expression sobering a little. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“What for?” you ask, brows furrowing in confusion.

“For showing up like this…unannounced and bleeding all over your floor.”

“It’s okay, was only a little blood,” you tease, shrugging slightly.

He snorts and you chew your lip, your stomach flipping nervously. Has he always been this good-looking? Suddenly you can’t remember, aren’t sure you ever really took the time to notice…

“C’mon,” you say, standing to your feet and offering him your hands. 

Miguel looks between your face and your outstretched hands for a moment, then takes them, his large hands engulfing yours. You grunt as you help him stand, using all of your weight to help him get up off the floor. He wobbles a little as his center of gravity shifts, leaning against the wall again for support as he waits for the dizziness to pass.

“Okay?” you ask, watching him closely, your hands still clasped in his.

Your heart skips in your chest when he meets your eyes again, his gaze soft as he smiles and nods.

“I’m getting there.”

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟

i am no longer doing a taglist. please follow @charmingupdates for updates and turn on notifications.

[emotionol]

Oh ok so it turns out ive been borrowing grief from the future ! it turns out ive been preparing to lose the things i love rather than basking in the light of them while they last. Maybe i should nt do that

[emotionol]

actual Disney Princess Sam Wilson 

[emotionol]

Mine

Part of the 20s challenge

Pairing: Alpha!James Mace x Omega!reader (grumpy Mace + sweet shy reader)

Quote: "Welp... looks like this is it. How do you wanna do this?"

Trope: A/B/O + grumpy x Sunshine

Tags/warnings: angsty fluffiness,, this is set up, reader is trying to win him over

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be translated, reposted, copied or put through an AI machine.

Summary: Science has paved the way for mates to find each other by studying scents. However, this has led to mates being forced together as soon as possible to help with the declining birthrate, economy and housing.

That doesn't mean Mace has to like it.

A/N: you know. I thought when I came to tumblr I would never write an A/B/O fic and here we are. It took seven months to break me. You win this round Tumblr.

A/N 2: I've accidentally made an AU. So I've split this fic into two parts :)

20s Masterlist | Masterlist | Neighbourhood AU

"Welp... looks like this is it. How do you wanna do this?"

Mace made an uncertain grumble looking up at the house he'd been sent to. Government initiatives, threats of fines, loss of work - effecting omegas more than anyone else. All because some scientist made a breakthrough on scents.

At least they helped to pay for new housing. He didn't like being here. He wanted to be at home. In work. Not with some omega he didn't even choose.

He doubted that this whole scent breakthrough was true. A sudden scientific breakthrough? Please. He knew they took time and study. Which meant it was either faked or they'd been sitting on it for years. Which was the bigger conspiracy?

Declining birth rates were one thing but shipping unbonded omegas across the country to an alpha they'd never met, in the hopes of creating a baby boom was downright disgusting. Mace shuddered. Not that alphas had much of a choice either.

His name, bloodwork, medical files, you name it were in the NASA database. A government database. Any alpha that was single or unbonded or matched against their will and some, like Mace, had been moved from his home to meet his new omega in a newly built cul-de-sac of town homes. It was an initiative and incentive - a big three bedroom home, large kitchen and garden... the only thing it was missing was the white picket fence.

He knew what some alphas were like. He knew omegas didn't have a lot of say about what happened to them but still. Surely someone, somewhere, had to know this whole thing was wrong.

Mace realises you're waiting on him to respond and he sighs. "May as well get moved in. You can pick the room you like most."

You nod. "I've checked some of the brochures. Apparently the beach is only a forty minute drive away. We could-"

"You can go on your own time." Mace huffs, picking up a moving box. You seemed sweet enough with your big, pretty eyes that followed his every movement but you were also a stranger and seemingly okay with this new incentive to have him... Mace frowns the thought away.

"Okay." You say quietly, picking up one of your boxes and tailing him inside the house.

And so begins your new life together.

Mace had told you in no uncertain terms that you would not be sleeping in the same room. That hurt; you were supposed to be true mates. But! You supposed he needed time to adjust and get to know you, so it eased the ache in your heart just a tad.

Mace had been kind enough to let you choose which of the three bedrooms you wanted for yourself first. You didn't have many belongings as you'd come from a small government-funded apartment, so it made sense for you to take the smallest bedroom in your mind.

The bedroom was unpainted but the bed Mace had ordered for you was already set up and made. Your heart fluttered. You knew it. Your alpha was just a grump. He would have to warm up to you and you would do everything in your power to win him over.

You brought your belongings up stairs to your new room, mentally mapping what furniture you'd like to squeeze in, if you'd like a carpet or rug. You're in a daydream when you wander into the kitchen and spot Mace, leaning against the counter with his arms folded, looking at his feet with a frown.

His biceps are thick and they strain as he crosses them and you swallow thickly before turning your focus to the cupboards in search of glasses.

"Want a water?" You ask, finding the glasses on your third attempt and tugging out two.

"Yeah. Thanks." He grumbles and you can feel his eyes on you as you fill the glasses and you suppress a shiver. When you pass him the glass of water, your fingers brush his and it feels electric. The airs on your arms stand on end and warmth blossoms in your chest; you want to chirp and brush your lips against his.

But you don't.

You want to give him time. You don't realise that Mace can tell by your body language, and by your small pout, that you're trying not to overstep; and he appreciates it greatly. Even though he's not thoroughly convinced you're doing it for the right reasons.

"We'll order take out tonight." He says as you sip your water. "We'll have a busy few weeks getting...settled. I have a work deadline too, so..."

He trails and you nod. His work was important to him. You'd asked about it on the drive to the new home.

The rest of the day was spent unpacking until food was delivered and you both sat in a slightly uncomfortable silence as a random movie you'd picked sounded in the background of your eating. You couldn't remember the last time you tasted food like this. You'd been eating what you could at your apartment, never really being able to afford take out.

It's why you signed up to the Match Mate programme. Finding your mate was a childhood dream of yours but the handsome allowance the government offered anyone that signed up had won you over. You wondered if Mace should know that about you. That you weren't entirely doe-eyed and naieve. But he seemed indifferent towards you right now and if that changed; was there any point in telling him?

The first week with Mace flies by. Between unpacking and daydreaming of decorating such a large house, you'd been scoping out the area you lived in.

First, you'd made the rounds to the neighbours. Most of the homes were either empty or awaiting new residents but thankfully some were already occupied. Directly opposite your home was another couple who'd signed up for the program; one female alpha and her male omega who followed behind her like a lost puppy.

"Hi," you'd greeted when you'd spotted them getting their mail. "I'm Y/N I just moved in across the street with my alpha Mace."

The alpha female grins at you and gives her name before introducing her mate. "My shadow here is Jake."

Jake, a blond haired omega with round glasses and a goatee beams. You're grateful that he's not in the same position you are with your alpha. You exchange numbers and Jake informs you that, while the community is currently small, there is a community centre fifteen minutes down the street opposite the park where the omegas meet for coffee mornings on occasion.

"There's only four of us so far. Alphas have their own, of course but..." he checks to make sure his alpha isn't paying attention and lowers his voice. "You know what they can be like."

You laugh and have to agree before saying your goodbyes and moving on to the next house. Thankfully, your new neighbours had told you which were occupied and which weren't so it had made your journey easier.

The next neighbour was a family pack, who'd greeted you hurriedly as they ushered kids into the car on the drive.

The other occupied house, two doors up from your home on the same side of the street had two fancy cars in the drive. You almost rapped on the face of the omega at the door as he flung it open, clearly in the middle of storming out of the house.

He glowered, growled, and continued on past you as an alpha woman appeared with another alpha, this time a man, behind her.

"Ransom! Wait!"

You stood very awkwardly at the bottom of the steps as the omega now known as Ransom fumed his way down the street.

"Um, I should-"

Both alphas turn their gaze to you and you shrink immediately before the woman sighs and gives you a weary smile. Clearly, this is a normal occurrence for her.

"Are you the new neighbour?" She asks softly and you nod your head wide eyed. The man behind her scoffs.

"Cute." He comments before shuffling out the door. "I'll go get Ranny boy."

"Lloyd-" The alpha woman sighs when the other man gets into one of the cars, slamming the door shut before she can finish her sentence. She sighs again, giving you an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, you seem to have caught us at a bad time."

"I... it's okay. I'm sorry for..." you don't really know what your sorry for, other than causing her unnecessary embarassment but she does look like she's about to cry. "Do you want to come on and walk with me? I'm trying to find my way around."

She blinks at you and her sad gaze cracks a smile. "Sure."

You had texted Mace you'd be gone and he'd only given you a thumbs up in response. Your new friend, who told you to call her Cookie, walked you to some of the more important places that Jake had mentioned like the grocery store, community centre and the doctor's office.

You could tell she was clearly affected by whatever had happened between her and the two men that had disappeared but you didn't want to pry. Cookie bought you a coffee and apologised for what felt like the fifth time for Ransom's behaviour.

"I just... that jealous streak." She shakes her head. "I dont know what I'm going to do."

"That doesn't sound great." You concede, sipping your latte. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

"It's fine." She waves a hand dismissively and then groans. "God, it's not even your first week here and I'm unloading my problems onto you. Sorry. Ignore me."

You shake your head with a reassuring smile. "I promise it's okay. It's a nice distraction."

She snorts. "Not all sunshine and rainbows at your neck of the woods either?"

You look at your feet as you walk along the cement. "My alpha is... grumpy." You start carefully. "I'm not pushy and it's still early days, but he doesn't seem to want anything to do with me."

Cookie raises her eyebrow at you before puffing a breath. "I've heard that with this program that it's a... difficult adjustment for both. Being ripped away from friends and family, moving is stressful enough without all of that. Plus... you're still a stranger to him."

Cookie looks sympathetic, slowing to a stop outside her home. "You made the right choice by giving him space." She says, before looking thoughtful. "Try making him dinner or something. That sometimes works with Ran."

You nod and grin appreciatively. "Thank you! I will. And let me know how it goes with Ran and Lloyd."

Cookie looks deflated but still manages a smile. "Thank you, Sunshine. Welcome to the neighbourhood."

The following morning you surprise Mace with breakfast. You'd woken up early to make pancakes with compote and cream, Cookie had happily shared Ransom's recipe with you the night before.

When Mace appears, he looks...indifferent. You'd hoped he'd look surprised but he raked his hand through his long hair and eyed the mess of the kitchen.

"Been busy?" He asks coolly. You offer up a shy smile and Mace thinks the Earth stands still when you speak.

"I made you breakfast." You gesture to the plate piled high with pancakes, compote and a very large dollop of whipped cream.

Mace's heart is racing. His stomach feels funny; he's hungry and feels like he might throw up. God, when did he last have homemade pancakes?

He moves towards the chair and sits down, taking the fork to skewer some pancake. He contains a sigh of delight as the pancake dances on his tongue; thick, fluffy syrupy goodness with the tang of the compote to offset the sweetness. It's perfect.

He's aware that you're hovering and peeks up. "Where's your food?" He grumbles, shoving pancake into his mouth. "We can sit together."

"I haven't made it yet." You say simply with a shrug. "Just in case you didn't like the pancakes and I needed to make something else."

Mace stops eating immediately. "What-wh- ugh." He snaps before reigning in his temper. You were being too nice. Too sweet. Too damn perfect.

"Come here," he gestured to the seat beside him and you obeyed, taking a seat next to him. You looked so incredibly cute that, under different circumstances, Mace probably would have smothered you with kisses, but seeing your worried expression - he sighed instead. Annoyance bubbled again, but he swallowed it down. He knew he had to make an effort too. He picked up some pancake and compote onto his fork, and held it out to you, just under your nose.

You blink at the fork then at him before taking a tentative bite. You hum in delight and chew the delicious concoction you'd made and Mace allows for a ghost of a smile to appear on his lips. You, on the other hand, are enjoying the closeness he'd granted you. A small win.

"We can share. Then if you're still hungry, make yourself a snack." He tells you, taking another forkful. "These are good by the way. Thank you."

The way your eyes sparkled back at him, the rosyness of your cheeks, made his heart stammer for a moment.

You were becoming harder and harder to resist each with each day that passed.

Part 1 End

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[emotionol]

thank you Canada 🇨🇦

[emotionol]

Look I just wanna be pinned down under a bear of a man, overstimulated, and filled with cum until I’m braindead.

Is that too much to ask?

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I had to wait a whole year to post this 😂