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loganlermanstanaccount · 9 months

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Rigor Mortis (part 4)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 3, Part 5

summary: You get your laptop fixed... eventually.

warnings: smut!! (finally lmfao) masturbation, mutual masturbation, tiny bit of voyeurism, recreational drug use, dry humping, etc 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: caught up to where the og oneshot ends so i wanted to switch it up!!

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 6.8k (still in shock i wrote all this lmfao, i'm strictly a <4k words kinda gal)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

lips black and blue and gold.

You're frustrated. Bouncing off the walls, head spinning; and it's for a couple of reasons.

First off: you haven't managed to find a laptop. Money you've worked damn hard for, and you can't really afford a new one. With moving around, you've burnt through quite a bit of your emergency fund. Enough to convince yourself you'll be just fine with a pen and paper in class, and the Google docs on your phone when desperate. It might actually force you to go to the library instead of half assing assignments the night before, you think.

And there's your lab book, which you were smart enough to back up on your computer, but guess what? That's fucked; probably taken apart and sold for scraps by Miguel's mysterious friend , who you've conveniently never even heard of and–

"Just ask for an extension." He says, feet up on the sofa. Oddly enough, you've been doing that more often; spending time together. He's not holed up in his room as much, and spends time studying on the dining table, or pretending not to watch the soaps you've got on TV.

"You're overthinking it. Explain the situation, chula, and it'll be fine." He doesn't even look up, just throws the statement in your direction like the lazy pass of a ball.

You scoff, because he's right, and go back to overthinking. You think you can copy out the ruined half of your labbook by hand, and if you beg your OChem teacher for an extra credit project then–

"If I let you use my laptop, will you stop doing that?"

"Doing what?" You frown as he walks over, and reaches to gently pull your hands apart. He turns your palms over, pointing at the raw edges of your fingernails.

" That. " Mindlessly, you'd been picking at your fingernails, without even noticing. Looking up at him, he rolls his eyes.

"...is that a yes?" You nod, hesitant, and catch the hint of a smile as he pads off to his room.

When he returns, open laptop in hand, he thrusts it into your arms - and sits himself back onto the sofa. This time, he splays out facing you, avocado socks resting on your knee. You fight the urge to push him off, a small price to pay in return for his moment of kindness. He's been doing that more often now, slightly more touchy and maybe even… comfortable around you. Eyes flickering up towards him, you catch his. His brows knead together, and you return your attention to the screen just as quickly.

You're going through the motions, more or less, logging into your college's portal and drafting up quick emails to send to your lecturers. But it's when you open up a new tab, that you see something at the top of the screen and pause. Mouse hovering over an incognito tab, hidden in a nest of referencing websites and scientific journals; it's there. Bold letters, in all caps: WOMAN POUNDED BY BIG BEEFY–

You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. Once again, you look up at Miguel, and he couldn't care less; tapping away at his phone, only stopping to look at the TV. Nevertheless, you shift to hide the laptop screen from him. But you're not going to look, or anything. You know better than to take a look at your roommates porn habits, the stuff he drools over whilst he fucks his fist; a big, dextrous palm wrapped around his shaft.

You've done it. Clicked on the tab and nothing's exploded, as of yet. You turn down the brightness, with some shame, as if to make the paused video less explicit. But the image stays, a woman folded under the weight of the man above – in the middle of bullying his fat cock into her pussy. It's amateur; hot and sweaty and sticky, with only the woman fully visible. You suppose your curiosity's been sated, but you can't help but think…

…the woman. She looks like you.

Tilting your head, you can't help but see the resemblance. Not the exact same of course - but her hair is similar, body type, skin tone, eyes. It's not close enough to be weird, you guess, but it's enough that that thought stays - burrows into you like an earthworm into an apple. Scrolling down, you see other videos, with the same woman, other women that look like you - the telltale red bar of watched videos. Evidence, but not really, and it makes you heat up. Your mouth goes dry, and you look over to him: only able to concentrate on the hand he's got spread out at his belly, the brown flesh peeking out - and how it looks just like the one on the base of the woman's stomach in the video.

"...everything ok?" He's looking at you, suddenly; and you attempt to click over to your original tab, discreetly.

He doesn't seem to notice, padding over to your side and leaning into your shoulder.

"Yeah, no, I just…" All you can manage is a nervous smile. "The screen froze, so…"

"Oh." He gives the track pad a swipe. "Seems fine to m–"

He freezes up slightly, and you watch as his eyes flick up the screen. The laptop is eased out of your hands, and he gives a few quick clicks. By the time it's back in your lap, the offending tab is gone. Imperceptible, his jaw shifts.

"...Should be okay now."

You hum, a little amused at the display. He's seemingly unfazed, his little slip up notwithstanding, and leans back to lie up against you. Obnoxious, he splays onto the sofa cushions, his weight practically smothering you as you fight to push him off. You think he likes it – it's the only possible explanation – and gets off from watching you squirm. He seems desperate for a reaction, a child pushing boundaries and pressing buttons to see what exactly makes you tick.

And that's the second thing: it works . He's more touchy, and just as insufferable – jumping at any excuse to be near you, it seems. Miguel has a tendency to hover, follow you around the apartment as you talk aimlessly, and you do the same. You sit by against the doorway to the kitchen whilst he makes dinner; he floats around the door to your room when you try to study. In fact, you've spoken to your roommate more in the past week than you have in the past month; about anything and everything. Sometimes, he actually tells you where he goes during the day; off to lectures of his own, another tutoring session or his basically-an-unpaid-job of an internship. In your words, it seems like with the shit they make him do at Alchemex, he may as well be a full employee: with way fewer perks and a distinct paycut. It's almost as if they're paying for my degree, he says with an eye roll, practically hanging off your door frame.

He does that a lot, now: arms drawn upwards to lean from the oak trim. Especially during lazy mornings in - he'll hang on the frame, and move to tug at your heel, waking you up despite fervent protest. Ultimately, it's a kindness and you don't know how to tell him how much you appreciate it; as he wakes you up on time to get to the library in good stead. You're still waiting on that laptop, debating whether or not to bite the bullet; but for now Miguel obliges, letting you borrow his now and then.

He's not nice, you think his tongue is much too sharp for that; but he is kind, giving you some grace you're not too sure you deserve. It's more than what you've been given in a relationship of 4 years, and you don't know how to feel about it.

Well, you do. Your talk on the living room floor not so long ago flipped a switch and all of a sudden you're paying attention to your roommate; really, really looking at him. He is very, very pretty; with a tendency for lingering touches disguised as something else. And you're out of practice: horny, frustrated, stressed. With the way he touches you; a hand on your back to greet you, a squeeze of your shoulder to tease, bare legs across yours on the sofa; it's a lethal combo.

And here you are, headphones on, prepping to take a dildo. Incredibly self-indulgent, but you need it . You don't quite have the emotional stability for a one night stand (you think if someone touches you just right, you'll fall in love), but this dry spell has taken its toll.

It wasn't just after the break up, either. Mismatched libidos had felt like a steady death knoll. Realistically, you knew Jaime was always too tired after a placement, but it didn't make you feel wanted. You just want to be desirable and fucked within an inch of your life – was that too much to ask?

As a result, your toy drawer had grown: vibrators and dildos, clit-suckers and g-spot strokers; crude once said aloud, but all in search of something. With the stress of school and Miguel, Schrodinger's slut ; it's a wonder you haven't cracked it open earlier.

You're on the floor, its purple base suctioned to the hardwood and towels to cushion your knees. Lower half completely exposed, it's an art , porn on your phone to complete the visage. The screen is smaller than that of the laptop you're used to, only providing some stimulation. And so, as you sink down on its silicone length, you can't help but think back to the sofa - and the videos squirrelled away on an incognito tab. Miguel, hunched over and fisting his cock to someone that looks like you; maybe even thinking of you – although the jury's still out, on that one.

But you keep it close to your chest, rub your clit to the thought of it: you're his type, and maybe he'd fuck into you like the man on your screen. Broad, gorgeous shoulders and you wonder how pretty he'd look with scratches littered down his back, or hickeys sucked into skin: lips plump and messy and swollen.

"Oh, fuck," You say it under your breath, knowing that whilst Miguel is out of the house, it still feels odd to put your lips around the pleasure that thinking of him gives.

You speed up, the slap of thighs ringing out into your bedroom. The dildo is around 6 inches, sizeable; but you can't help but wonder how it compares to Miguel's. He might even be bigger; thicker, most definitely; and you bet his cock is just as pretty as he is. Oh fuck, and he'd tease; press into your hole just to snatch it away at the last second, rubbing persistent circles at your clit. You hear his voice in your head, the low grunts and groans you've memorised from all those nights he's spent with other girls.

"Miguel," You're moaning shamelessly now. "...f-fuck, please–"

There must be something electric in the way he fucks: with the litany of girls in and out of his bedroom, what keeps them coming back? He must talk them through it, whispering filth with his plush lips against their ear, and you wonder what he'd say to you. God , you'd give anything to hear it him say, just once, how beautiful he thinks you are; for him to wrap his hand around your neck and pull you close. You want him to fuck you; hard and deep and desperate.

With that, your pace quickens and you gush around the toy. A spasm of limbs, and you're clamping down on the silicone – an orgasm that leaves you breathless and heaving. You convince yourself it's the taboo of it: fucking yourself to the thought of your roommate, after listening to his grunts and groans for the past couple weeks. He started it … thin walls, and all that.

You ignore the want that lays stubborn at the pit of your stomach, riding through stuttering spasms as your orgasm winds down. You're touch starved, that's all, and Miguel's the closest warm body to latch onto. Nothing more, nothing less. Groaning, you shift, picking up your hips to gear up for another round. Just once more, so you know for sure.

Thin walls. The sound leaks into your roommate's bedroom. But with your headphones on, you can't hear the sounds that echo back: Miguel O'Hara, back home early, with an ear pressed to the wall and desperately pumping his cock.

~~~

"I'm not completely convinced, to be honest." You're in Miguel's car, tongue sticking out as you fiddle around with the dials.

His gaze flicks over, and bats your paws off the dashboard. Flopping into your seat, you watch as he turns up the AC and switches the radio, as if reading your mind.

"You really think I'd go through all this trouble?" He scoffs. "Bundle your ass out of the house and drive all the way here to…. do what exactly?"

"Assert dominance in our shared ecosystem." You say it with finality, and he scrunches up his face in confusion.

"...what does that even mean?"

"Like in that nature doc you were watching the other day."

"Well, the point was that spiders aren't hierarchical in the traditional sense. They form colonies that are… quasi-social, if anything, and–" He pauses. "Wait. You were paying attention?"

You shrug. "I thought it was interesting."

"Seriously?"

"...no, not really."

You laugh as he pulls over to park, in a space next to what looks like an apartment complex. It looks way nicer than your place, with sandy brick and hedges that look well kept. Your laughter peters off. Miguel looks decidedly not amused.

He opens the car door and clambers out as you scramble for the seatbelt. To your surprise, he opens the door for you; stretching out a hand for stability as you get out. When you both walk over to the intercom, your palm burns with his touch, and flexes with the memory of it. It's becoming a problem, his hands. You push down the beginnings of a hazy daydream. He presses a panel, waiting for the buzz.

"Lyla? Could you let us up?"

He waves demurely to the camera, and the receiver clicks. A cheery voice rings back.

"...Us? Who's us, Miggy? Did you finally find a girl that puts up with your shit?" Her voice is singsong, teasing. With a smile, you watch as Miguel bristles, speaking into the slick panel.

"My roommate, Jesus, Ly–" He says the next bit a little rushed, turning away slightly as if you still can't hear her loud and clear. "I thought we went through this, you can't keep trying to embarassmeeverytimeI–"

She talks over him towards the end, rapid-fire banter that you can barely make out.

"You never come and visit, except when it's 2am and you need to break into–"

"Once! It was one time! Déjate, ya está bueno ya–"

[Let it go, that's enough now–]

"Let it go? No, no, absolutely not… what is it that you always say? It's the principle –"

"Can you just fucking open the–"

"What's the magic word?"

He sighs, mouthing an apology to you. "Lyla–"

"Magic. Word."

He mumbles. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please could you open the fucking door."

There's a pause, and rustling over the intercom. The door buzzes open.

In the elevator up, you keep quiet, trying your hardest not to burst out laughing. Miguel is visibly brooding; arms crossed and brow furrowed.

"Don't." He says, with a pout you almost think is cute. Almost.

"I'm trying really, really hard not to." You put your hands up, as if to surrender. "... Miggy."

"Fuck off." And then, a little softer.

"...I told you I have friends."

~~~

You leave it at that until you're in Lyla'a apartment, when she opens and ushers you in. She looks exactly the way she sounds: pretty, mousy features, with her hair in short, choppy layers. She's bundled up into a plush white robe; heart-shaped sunglasses sliding down the tip of her nose.

Miguel breezes past her, towards the murmuring voices you can just about make out in the front room.

"Lovely to see you too, Miguel." It's under her breath, but when she turns towards you there's a twinkle in her eye.

You introduce yourself, and she pulls you into a tight hug.

"I know," She says. It's ominous, but her voice is light and airy. When you separate, she flashes a wide smile. "Lyla. It's nice to put a face to a name."

"Uhh, sorry. What?" She ushers you further into her apartment as you speak, confused.

"Oh, Miggy talks about you all the time. Complaining , mostly, but in that way he gets when he's trying really, really hard to pretend he doesn't care. Like, he texted me yesterday and–"

"Thaaat's enough." You feel hands on your shoulders, and all of a sudden, Miguel is steering you away from her grip. You stumble into her living room, so bright and airy your eyes have to adjust to the light that floods in. Looking around, her apartment is gorgeous; a spacious open plan, floor-to-ceiling windows with a prime view, and lush furniture. Everything about it screams expensive – especially in comparison to your paltry place. Maybe the shock is visible on your face, but you're in awe. She can't be much older than Miguel, right? She looks about the same age, mid-twenties, not too far-removed from college… and it isn't quite adding up.

"How can she afford this? That's what you're thinking." There's a voice on the sofa that makes you blink. A young man with messy brown hair, a set jaw and 5 o'clock shadow calls out to you in between mouthfuls of pizza. "Lyla's… mmhgh… suuper fuckin' rich… mmfgh… that's how."

It's then that you notice there are other people here, sprawled out on the sofa set; boxes of takeout on the side tables next to them. Of course Lyla's rich: only 20-somethings with money to spare have matching sofas.

She's like Beetlejuice, or the Candyman, and pops up next to you when her name's said.

"I work in tech! With a cute little job on Wall Street, and a part-time one white hat hacking." She clarifies. " Ethical hacking."

She giggles like she's told a joke somewhere, and you nod – still not quite understanding.

"...and some side gigs that aren't as ethical." A blond haired man next to Mouthful-Of-Pizza pipes up. "When are you going to introduce us, Miguel?"

He's grumbling in the kitchen area, digging through the shelves for something. He returns with a bag of chips and dip in a container, flopping onto the zebra print throw pillows. Distracted, he waves a hand around the group noncommittally.

"Uhh, Peter, Ben, Lyla." He gestures to you, saying your name, and then to himself; tearing open the bag at the same time. "-and Miguel. All done"

"My turn for questions, now," Miguel says, pointing at Lyla, looking at the boys to his side. "Is she…?"

"...super high? Most definitely." Lyla giggles at Ben's words, for good measure.

"...right. Peter Parker, nice to meet you." He throws a thumb to the back of the sofa, where you notice a little mop of red curls peeking out. "And this is my little Mayday."

Peals of laughter erupt from behind him, and you notice grubby hands with a death grip to the cushion rest. Miguel leaps up, rushing to her side to help her up its back.

"Ayyy dios mio." He scoops her up carefully, "Buenas, Arañita."

Mayday is on his lap now, a little toddler of about 1 or 2, snaking herself around to hug Miguel's chest. She is certifiably the cutest thing you've ever seen: gap-toothed and giggly, with a smatter of freckles like someone's flicked a paintbrush across her nose. And with the way Miguel melts, you can die happy, knowing that you've seen the impossible: Miguel O'Hara, cooing and fussing over the little girl.

"Arañita?" You ask, to no one in particular.

"Itsy-bitsy spider." . ..is the sing-song, choral response from everyone but Miguel. They're mimicking his tone of voice, and he raises his head from May, looking around.

"I don't sound- "

"You do, dude." Peter sighs, tickling the little red head on the tummy; smiling as she collapses into bright laughter. "I don't have a nickname, and I've known you waaay longer than she has."

Miguel covers her tiny little ears, and says, "Eres un pendejo, Parker . "

[you're a dipshit, Parker]

The scraggly man sticks his tongue out in response, and May pulls at his hair for good measure. He yelps, and Miguel passes her over to her Dad. The scene is funny, for sure, but you feel it's warmth more than anything. God, you can tell they've loved and laughed with each other for years; the kind of friendship you'd kill to have.

"We just need whatever's left of her laptop, Lyla," He's blunt, batting away long forgotten chips and dip. "...and then we'll get going. Wish I could stay longer, Arañita, but I've got some work to finish off."

May makes grabby hands at him, and you melt. Who knows how Miguel can stay strong in the face of her big, round eyes.

He gets up to stand next to you, arms crossed. The height difference is stark: his tall, solid frame towering over everyone else. It seems like an intimidation tactic, but you know him just well enough to tell: he's trying not to be swayed by puppy eyes and promises of food.

"You just got here, Miggy." Lyla sighs. "We're going over prep for Jess', and we'll be two minutes, I swear."

"Oh?" His eyebrows light up. "I knew it! You were being evasive on the group chat, and Pete wasn't returning my calls…"

Huffing, he clasps his hand around yours, ready to storm out. "This is an ambush. A goddamn setup!"

"Wait, Miguel, I need my-"

"I'll pick it up later for you, okay?" It's said like an aside, so soft only you can hear it. With his hand around yours, it certainly feels more intimate than it should. And it seems like he realises a little too late, dropping your hand as your faces are mere inches away.

"Um, we should… we should go."

You look past him to the faces blinking at you guys, on the sofa. A pause, and then you're gulping down stubborn feelings to ask a question.

"Jess' ? Is there a party, or something?"

Lyla nods. "Yeah, and Miguel's meant to be picking up cake."

The man in question pinches his nose. "I can pick up the cake just fine. It's the whole… going to a party bit I'm not too keen on."

"Come onnn, you know Jess would love it."

"She'd love to blackmail me with some dumb shit I did drunk, that's for sure."

"It's her birthday, hardass ." Peter whispers that last bit, covering little May's ears like before. "She can have a little blackmail, as a treat."

"You're gonna say no to a surprise party ?" Ben echoes, shaking his head dramatically.

"A surprise birthday?" You light up. "Miguel, you have to go."

His stony demeanor cracks, for a moment. You latch onto it, hellbent on wearing him down. He's always got his laptop out doing work, or cracking open a little notebook to prep a lab. When he's not at home, he's at that internship, or tutoring, or planning a tutoring session. Work, work, work; and you'll be dammed if you let him rot away in a little cage of his own machinations.

"Come on, Miggy." You watch him bristle, prying at that little crack in the surface. This has to be done with finesse: present a challenge, and watch him scramble to prove you wrong. "You're telling me a couple of hours at a party's too much for you? That's it? "

"That's not–"

"S'what it sounds like to me." You shrug, a little smile on your face. The aim is to look as smug as possible; and it seems to be working.

His jaw shifts, annoyed. Lyla catches on, giving you a crazed smile.

"Even your roommate's gonna come." She says, an arm linked in yours.

"I am?" She gives you a little dig, and you're spluttering. "Y-Yeah, I am!"

You can see him fight with his own ego; but it's a one-sided affair.

"Fine. " He strains. "Two hours, max. And then I'm gone."

Lyla gives you a squeeze, and then wraps you both up in a hug he desperately tries to fight off. Ben slots around you guys, and Peter's last to join, with Mayday squealing on his shoulders.

Eventually, you get what's left of your laptop: a little thumb drive with as much as Lyla could save. You'd thanked her profusely, of course; trying to slither out of her vice grip of a hug, as best you could. She's absolutely batshit, the good kind; cryptic, and strange, but with a lot of heart. She makes you wonder, and they all do; just how did they become friends with Miguel? How do they fit?

The man himself seems a little different, as if reinvigorated by being around friends. In fact, you catch him smiling to himself on the drive home. It's sweet; to see a different side of him around people he's clearly comfortable with. If only for a little while, he sheds the heavy weight he seems to carry around.

Around the house, you notice he seems lighter – humming to himself whilst cooking dinner. That very day, you watch the little sway of hips as he stirs a pot; headphones in, singing under his breath. He can't sing for shit, of course, and he'd kill you if you ever uttered a word; but it's a sight you commit to memory, not knowing when next he'll be in such a good mood.

There's still the question of a new laptop in the air, but you feel more settled by the events of the day. You're a little less fucked school-wise, you've got a party to look forward to, and potentially a drunk Miguel to make fun of. He goes to bed early; and you can hear the quiet drone of a podcast from the other side of the wall. He drifts off to the sweet, dulcet tones of Top Ten Genetic Precursors for Early Onset Dementia; one of his favourites, you've determined.

All is well, for now. A tentative truce, and maybe, just maybe: you're finally friends with your roommate.

~~~

There's something about dramatic irony that seems to smack you across the face, every time.

You've come to somewhat of a understanding with your prickly roommate, and the stream of women in his bed seem to slow down, for a bit. He's hot, he's a whore; but he's sweet, with an eye for detail. He can read you with a scary amount of accuracy. Antsy and hungry from a long day? He leaves you scratching your head at his clairvoyance when you come home, chucking you a hot water bottle and a warm meal. You go to bed with a full belly, cramps abated.

He's still a prick, of course. Sarcastic comments, and a massive grump – but you've learnt to deal with that. Just a couple of days after a seemingly settled week; what you can't wrap your head around is the pounding music from next door, at fuck-off-o'clock . He shouldn't be awake, let alone interrupting your late night study session.

You're pissed, leaping from your desk to pound at his door. You're thudding towards his room, ready to deliver a well-deserved verbal lashing, and the door just… swings open. Empty; there's a window ajar and music pumping from speakers. Bachata and cheesy 90s R&B; which sounds suspiciously like his sex playlist.

Yes, he has a sex playlist. And it really has no business to sound as good as it does.

Nevertheless, you're resolute. If he's managed to sneak someone, at this hour, you decide he's going to get more than a stern talking to.

There's clattering in the kitchen, and you whip around; half-expecting the giggle of another girl. When you walk in, it's just Miguel, rummaging through cupboards: a half-naked thief in the night.

"Miguel?"

He pops his head up from a cabinet, with a half-eaten piece of bread in his mouth. Caught red-handed, you suppose; and he gives you a little smile.

"S'everyfin' – mmmfggh –" He scarfs the rest of it down. "Everything okay?"

You squint. "No. Not really."

He chuckles, a slight rasp at the edges of his voice. Dickhead – what exactly is so funny?

"You can't have your music so fucking loud, not when I'm studying. It's the middle of the night and–"

Dressed in nothing but a pair of gray sweats, he's busying himself with a sandwich on the counter; clattering around noisily like he doesn't have full control of his limbs. Which is…. weird, admittedly. You'd trust Miguel to slice a grape with a machete – his dexterity is usually unmatched. Not that you'd made a habit of staring at his hands, or anything.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He nods, attempting to keep a straight face, but the faux solemnity does nothing to hide that droop of eyelids and slump of his shoulders. You get closer, pushing him to face you properly.

"Oh, fuck," His eyes are a little red, hair messy and windswept. "Are you… high? "

Miguel O'Hara? High? You'd never thought you'd live to see the day, honestly. His eyes go wide, dropping his sandwich dramatically. And then he's got a big hand at your shoulder, pulling you closer with a finger pressed to his lips.

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering your name like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone."

With the way he says your name it makes you light-headed. It's slow and careful, as if he's testing the way it feels spilling from his lips. And maybe, with the way he smiles, it feels good; tastes sweet wrapped around his tongue.

"I won't." You breathe, and then you're both giggling.

There's something about the way he looks at you, peering under heavy lashes; basically eye-fucking you in the space of your tiny kitchen. You feel bare in a little t-shirt and sleep shorts; suddenly exposed.

"You should…" He starts, cocking his head ever so slightly. "Join me, chula. "

It's soft; sinful, even; said as he coaxes you between his body and the kitchen counter.

You don't trust your voice enough to answer, legs already shaky, so you nod. Slight, at first; and then with a little more gusto as the idea of him and you on his sheets – intimate, alone – creeps in. He stretches out a hand, and you take it; led to his bedroom like a scene you've seen before. All those girls before you; led to the dragon's lair like damsels in a fairytale. Except in this one, you suppose, you're not waiting for a knight in shining armour to save you.

He sits you down on the bed, passing you a freshly rolled blunt. Passing it to your lips , more specifically; hand on your chin as he brings the lighter up to its end. Even prettier up close, all you can do is watch the press of plump lips, and pink tongue sticking out as he concentrates. As he leans in, there's a hand on your bare thigh. You inhale, deeply, and he hums with content.

"Good girl," He purrs, prying it from your lips to take a slow drag.

"You're a bad influence." You murmur, watching as his eyes flutter shut.

"You need to relax," He leans back, arm drawn lazily upwards. "This is helping."

"That's not–" Oh. You feel it now, a steady haze rolling over limbs.

Miguel quirks up an eyebrow, amused.

You repeat, slowly, "You're a bad influence ."

"Does it feel good?" You pause, trying to ignore his low tone; and the steady blaze that it ignites within you. Dragging your eyes to meet his, you see it: want, lust, something heavy that swirls behind them.

You nod, itching for another pull. As if psychic, he gestures for you to come closer; and your lips almost slot against his. He exhales, and you inhale; in the closest thing you've come to a kiss in months. It makes you ache for just a little more contact, for those pretty hands to slot between your thighs and–

"Is this all I need to do for some quiet around here?" He asks, lilting. If only he'd stop talking; interrupting your fantasy with that stupid grin of his.

You're shaking your head, laughing at the sheer gall .

"You're fucking someone new every week, O'Hara. Loud. Who was it the other day? Cathy, Kayla –"

"Sita, actually." He has a strange expression on his face. "And we didn't fuck. Just going over lecture notes."

"Sorry . Must have gotten mixed up with the half-dozen other girls in and out of here. Our apartment's not a brothel , Miggy."

He rolls his eyes, handing you the remnants of the blunt.

"...s'not my fault there isn't anyone fucking you right."

You scoff. "How would you know?"

"Thin walls. " It's cryptic. What the fuck does that mean?

You take a careful drag, and hand the blunt back – trying your hardest not to strangle him. It must show on your face as you tussle with the thought, because Miguel is staring; unabashedly, unashamedly. When you notice, it throws you off.

"... what?" Ready to defend yourself, you huff.

He shrugs. His expression is soft, reminding you of that night, not long ago.

"You look like a painting."

You practically short circuit. You've been complimented before, of course. Hot, by men trying to get into your pants. Pretty, sometimes. Beautiful, the other times. Whether it's been sincere, you don't know – but you're smart enough to not overthink it. It's hard enough to live a life, as it is; and you'd rather not be bogged down by what others think, how you look whilst doing it. And yet, you feel your body betray you; a steady bloom of heat at your heart, like you've been stabbed. So deep, it spreads like blood on the front of a blouse. Like a painting, he says. And you like the way he says it; how it sounds spilling from his lips.

Its implication sits heavy. Like a painting : hand-crafted, silken, soft –

He blinks, the crack of a smile on his face. And it ends in a fit of giggling, if you can even call it that.

"Stop fucking with me." You grumble, and he thinks the way your face scrunches up with disdain is cute. There's probably an implication there he should unpack in therapy – how he likes it when you shout and put him in his place – but he's much too high to care.

"M'not-" He quiets down, flattens his face into something resembling sobriety and gravitas. He gets a little closer, so close you can feel the heat of his body and flutter of lashes. With wide, dilated pupils, he stills - and it really doesn't help that he looks so pretty.

"Can't stop thinking about you, hermosa." His voice is low, slurred with the weight of the blunt he's taken careful drags of. Every word makes you feel hazy, drawn in by his lips. " Fuck, all the time."

"Hear your laugh in my dreams, sometimes." He circles your bare thigh carefully, without breaking eye contact. With a thumb on your chin, he brings you closer, and closer still. Gently, you close your eyes, expecting the press of his lips against yours…

…instead, you get a puff of smoke for your troubles. Reeling, you push him away. He collapses on the bed in a laughing fit.

"... now I'm fucking with you." Rumbling laughter, and you've got the wherewithal to be embarrassed – hand still resting on his bare chest.

A little cruelly, you push down, giving him an elbow to the ribs for good measure and he splutters with surprise – laughing all the same.

"Asshole." You slur, and he grabs your arm to pull you onto the covers with him. You paw at him wildly, wrestling amongst the table of sheets. It's not a fair fight, not really; the wide expanse of his bare chest feels solid, and he's probably got more muscle in his pinky toe than you do in your whole body. Miguel is strong , but plays along regardless, pinning you to the bed with his hands around your wrists - but lets you turn him over just as quick. You're both laughing, the blunt long forgotten but its haze blurring the lines. You straddle his middle, hips flush against his and he keens; head back and cheeks flushed.

"Fuck," It's quiet, said as he writhes below you and you try to pin his hands above his head. Maybe it's the weed, but he lets you: eyes low, breath steady. And you stay like that, for a moment; bodies laid against one another.

You don't know who starts it: the slow roll of hips, the swell of his cock bucking up against your heat. Regardless, you welcome it, letting the heat build up with the pressure at your clit. Your hips sway and all Miguel can do is watch.

Lips parted, head back; and you set a steady rhythm that washes over you both.

Humping against one another, you get more desperate and drag your hands to his chest for purchase. Underneath you, Miguel practically purrs – one hand on your waist and the other clutching yours at his chest.

"So, so pretty…" He sighs into it, wide palm pawing at your ass, shamelessly grabbing handfuls. By now, he's rock hard; and you feel him throb through the thin material of his sweats.

"Fuck, I can't–" You moan, ragged, the roll of your hips gaining speed.

Miguel coos, bringing a hand to your chin to pull you closer to the crook of his neck.

"Too fast, hermosa. S-Slow it down for me." He grips your waist, forcing the pace to slow. Your hips stutter against his, delicious pressure making you cry out. And, God, you're close; pleasure building up at your gut.

"Ohhh, fuck. Just like that, just like–" It's soft, whispered between the press of bodies like a prayer: reverent, intimate, a slew of garbled English and Spanish into the shell of your ear that goes straight to your pussy.

"A-Ahi, ahi–"

[t-there, there–]

Plush lips brush against your cheek, and you try so hard to not float away - with only his words to keep you tethered.

"... no pares lo que sea que estes haciendo–ohh-fuck–"

[don't stop what you're doing, oh fuck–]

The coil at the base of your stomach snaps, and you arch into his touch as he does the same. Miguel spills into his sweats, heaving with the effort. He can feel the clench of your pussy above, and he chases it in the aftermath; craning his neck to finally get a kiss. Limbs heavy, you still manage to swerve so his kisses land at your jaw. He's grateful for the contact anyway it comes and sucks careful hickies into the skin: at your neck, your collarbone, and anywhere else he can reach.

You sink into it, curl up on his chest like a housecat; his hands wandering the gentle slope of your back under your shirt.

Limbs heavy, you pry yourself from his hands ever so slightly. He strains to follow you up, snapping back into the sheets like an elastic band. Still, he kneads at your flesh - bare thighs spilling from your shorts.

" Miguel," You whisper, hand travelling past his neck to cradle his jaw. "Need more…"

You punctuate that last word with a roll of your hips. Wanton, conflicted; he groans .

"It's late, chula. " He says it slowly, hesitant – like he can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth. He's still high, lost in the whispy remnants of that blunt. You've never known weed to make someone more responsible, and you flop to his side, a little childishly.

Miguel makes sure to keep a hand wrapped around your waist, dragging his other knuckles up your exposed tummy so that it rides up to the swell of your tits.

"And you've got that 9am."

You cover your face with the span of your hands, grumbling. From between the gaps in your fingers, you repeat,

" ...and I've got that 9am ."

He traces lazy circles in your flesh. Maybe it's the blunt, or the afterglow of an orgasm; but you make him laugh, a gentle ache replacing the creak and shudder of gears.

"Idiot." He says, kissing it into your skin. And he burns from the touch, fleeting; like the warm flame from paper lanterns, or the flicker of a lighter against cool night air.

Miguel taglist (1): @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns

@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @aiyaaayei @hyp-oh-critical @tea-earl-grey-thot @sunset-euphoria @moonsio @akiras-key@szaplsdropthealbum@levanneisdumb @naiya-patel17 @Serostapesweat @strawberrymiguel @yumeeesss @errorundyne-exe @spear-bitch @redsoleily @marsissoswag @slezhara @ye4gerzz @adlct515 @nanam1 @indigocookie @cincocosas-blog @starguiders @path0logicalpeoplepleaser@funkyfishy@whoreloll@eugeab@tarjapearce@maddielikesmoths@egotaestical

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼#rigor mortis 😼#spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman 2099 x reader #atsv x reader #atsv fic

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reanimatedgh0ul · 2 years

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while i don't much care for butch's wack fankids i will admit the idea of jackson's name not only being what i assume is an obvious homage to jack but a reference to famous horror author shirley jackson is kinda neat

#again highly doubt butch considered that when picking that name #but it would be fitting since dp has referenced famous horror authors before #there literally was an unseen character named after richard marsh #this kid's name could literally be her name but backwards jackson shirley #plus one of shirley jackson's most well known works is the haunting of hill house #you can't tell me that story wouldn't fit well w the fentons #anyways #robi rambles

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licollisa · 11 months

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Asriel is fluffly?

The fluffiest brother in the world (or at least after shower)

Okay so while drawing this I got some HCs that translates into details in this pic that I'm just going to ramble:

* For whatever reason, Asriel (as Flowey too) wanted to gain Chara's approval at whatever he does or say -- he seemed to regard them highly, often agreeing with them and copy the things they do (like a cat. E.g with that full glass of water thing).

Here I hinted it through Asriel asking if Chara agrees with him, plus him actually being upset at both of their behalf instead of just himself). Asriel also doesn't actually like getting hairdryed, the noise grates his ears, but he started doing so after seeing Chara doing it (again with the copying).

*Imagine the amount of fur that gets stuck at literally everything though. But now Chara's used to it, just one of them Goat Family things.

* The brush Chara is using is the same one you'd have for a furry pet. It's just more efficient this way.

* Kids wear something striped. It doesn't really need to be a shirt, so Chara here of course just wears a self-made nb flag pants.

Asriel's shirt is not green-yellow because I wanted to make the pic more... Candid? He owns more than just one kind of striped shirt yk.

* I've mentioned this but it's a fun lil HC of mine to make Asriel's locket as human soul-shaped, and Chara's as monster soul-shaped.

* I referenced this tweet:

#'ill just do the lines and fill the bg with some color'#(several hours later) (body sore. bones stiff. dehydrated. eyes heavy) what the hell just happened #.....id draw asriel more if his face isn't so dang hard to get right......#undertale #asriel #chara

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alphacentaurinebula · 2 months

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Fanfic Recs!

Been on a reading spree so I thought it would be nice to rec a few of my favourite Good Omens fics

The Many-Venomed Earth (teen) - Gorgeous AU 1930s detective story where amateur sleuth Aziraphale must get Crowley off a murder charge. Yes that pun was intentional but actually this one is rated teen. I absolutely INHALED this fic and am halfway through the sequel - it's just brilliant.

Trial & Error (E) - Crowley on trial again - this time in Heaven, and the Supreme Archangel Aziraphale is the judge. AWK-WARD. Hilarious, angsty and hot, what more could you ask!

Half agony half hope (teen) - absolutely loved this one! Regency AU which basically uses the British class system as a replacement for Heaven, with a lovely bit of moral awakening, especially for Aziraphale. I’m a sucker for a good bit of history and there are some nice real historical events referenced within - part of said moral awakening - and really deftly done. highly recommend.

Jesus, Etc (Gen)- the very first Good Omens fic I read, in that desperate post S2 period where all I wanted was a funny, happy resolution for those ineffable idiots...and this one delivered!

A Narrow Escape to the Country (teen) - properly funny. Aziraphale and Crowley appear on a daytime househunting tv series. Hilarity ensues.

Married at first sight (teen)- another reality show, which I have not watched, but that did not interfere with my enjoyment of this fic. Fake marriage is like…my favourite trope. Give me more.

Muddle through somehow (teen)- oh wait, here’s some more! Fake marriage and fake kid and fake country cottage. The voices are spot on in this one!

The Grinder Logo Doesn’t Even Have a G in It (E) - You've almost certainly read this already and if you haven't you must. Post season 1 fic which manages to do footnotes RIGHT. Properly funny, extremely hot, and pretty flipping adorable. I loved it.

Slow Show (E) - AU. Who possibly hasn’t heard of this fic? But it is fantastic, and hot and romantic and gorgeous.

#good omens fic rec #good omens fanfiction #good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #good omens fanfic

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antlergrave · 11 months

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Commissions Reopened :)

SLOTS: 5/5

Email me to commission: [email protected]

(Make sure to check your emails to see if I've replied)

The prices shown below are in USD, but I can accept other currencies as it can be automatically converted :) (PayPal only)

TOS:

I will be doing 5 slots. I will let you know if you're in or not. Make sure to email me so I know who is interested in commissioning. If I tell you that there are no more slots left, don't worry! I'll come back to you soon with an email notifying you once all the commissions are finished. (I will be selecting commissioners in order of whoever sent first)

☆Email requirements before payment

-Character references, pics, sketches, pose references, etc. are HIGHLY recommended. Explaining characteristics of your character to me is fine but I usually prefer visual imagery since I feel like I would not do your character justice by just referencing off of words

-Again with pose references, if you want your character drawn in a specific type of pose, you can tell me or send a picture

-Email you use for PayPal ready

☆Process

-Email me on what type of commission you want. Have all your resources ready (I don't read DMs, so emailing me is your way to go)

-I may ask you to be more specific about your character if I find that your resources/references are too vague

-I will have you double-check and finalize everything to make sure everything looks okay for you

-A PayPal invoice will be sent to you momentarily after I've gotten your approval

-Once full payment goes through, I will begin working on your commission

-Once the commission is finished, it will be sent to you via email. I expect a reply back so I know you've seen it and that it went through.

☆Other

-If I find you rude or simply ill-mannered when chatting with me, I may not continue the commission for you.

-Ask me about my boundaries. I'm aware it says gore and suggestive on the list of things I CAN draw, however please ask me if I'm okay with certain things first. The only thing I won't be doing (very heavy) gore or suggestive stuff on are the Marble Hornets cast, or any other slenderverse characters.

-Be mindful of timezones. I usually reply fast during commission time but If I don't, it either means I am very busy or asleep. Once I start getting overloaded with emails, I will start becoming very slow with everything.

-If you feel like you still haven't gotten your commission after several weeks/months, you can check up on me by sending me an email to ask about your commission (since some commissioners had a problem with their commissions not being sent to them due to email issues and whatnot. Sometimes my emails do not go through and I don't know about it so please let me know)

-Again, if you have any more questions or want me to elaborate/explain things further, don't be afraid to ask me

#commission #commissions open #or something #idk lmao #slenderverse #there is a typo in the second page where it mentions the extra chibi for the rendered option #it's supposed to say “Standard” instead of “Classic” 😭

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harrietlancaster · 3 days

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Napping time 👶💤

Little Amanda often had trouble falling asleep...even after being fed, having a new diaper and being sung to all afternoon by Harriet. When she walked into the bedroom, to wake her sleeping husband, trying to ask for help, Amanda's chubby little arms reached out and her fussy little sounds turned into something coherent for the first time.

"Dada!"

Harriet's eyes went wide. Her first words!

And Harriet understood them so clearly. Amanda missed her dad! Of course! She just wanted to be close to him, snuggle up to him and feel his comforting warmth. Harriet lips curled into a smile as she gently kissed the girl's head, before letting her down on the mattress.

Straight away, Amy crawled to Sebastian and curled right on top of his back, her little fist holding tightly onto his shirt. It barely took a minute before her eyes were closed, her breathing slowed and her fussy sounds were turned into the smallest little hums.

Harriet couldn't help but watch this peaceful picture in front of her. She took in the little snores from her husband, the steady and synced breathing of them both and the soft shake of her daughter's curls. They have grown much darker since her birth and with every day passing by, she looked more and more like her father. She was just as curious and smart like Sebastian.

But the way she missed her dad, whenever he left the house or even just the room and immediately wanted to shower him with kisses the moment he was back...that was just like her mother.

They both loved Sebastian endlessly and they always would.

After giving both a soft kiss to their temple, Harriet left the room, chuckling to herself at the thought of telling Sebastian Amy's first words.

Okay, okay...I told myself I would post Harriet's and Sebastian's story more "chronologically" except for my lake drawing, buuuut...I wanted to draw dad!Seb so desperately, I had to do this first!

This is a heavily referenced artwork, because I'm definitely not an artist that can draw a body free hand 🤣 And also this is more in a modern style, because again...I'm not a highly experienced artist, so I stayed very close to the source material 🙈

I hope you still like it and can gush over dad!Seb with me! 💕

divider by @saradika

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alphaofdarkness · 16 days

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(ღ˘⌣˘ღ) ready to take on the galaxy together ✨ (or go live in peace together, either way is good 💜🧡)

A little bit of Alphita 🐺✨ trying to understand the writer and how they wanted to depict the characters in their stories again 💜 I honestly find this fun and insightful as an artist, I highly recommend 😌🤍

Once again this was inspired by Hunting Ghost by DashRenders on fanfiction.net and Ao3! I recommend the read and a continuation from this draw! I did my best, I swear it was fun just reading it through and highlighting the author’s descriptions of this Sabine and Ezra. I hope I got them right while also referencing their season 4 selves in a way.

I definitely enjoyed the creative liberty of giving color scheme to Sabine’s beskar (even tho,,, the end of the fic gives a slight indication that she doesn’t have her beskar anymore; at least her helmet, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I say no~)

Hehe my silly headcanon of Jedi having their kyber-crystal color gleam in their pupils remains 😈 hope y’all enjoy an alternative sabezra off to find their own way in a galaxy, close to being free of the empire ✨

#sabezra #ezrabine #ezra bridger #sabine wren #star wars #star wars rebels #fanfic inspired art #alpha’s art

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gentlebeardsbarngrill · 3 months

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01/28/2024 Daily Crew Recap

TLDR; Hoist The Ads Charity Donations; Campaign Status Updates; Hunt For the Pirate Home Watch Party; General Morale; Past Renewal Campaign Comparisons; Cast & Crew Sightings; Upcoming Events: Pets for Pirates Jan 29; Love Notes; Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika

=Hoist The Ads Updates =

Looks like the voting is done, and the results are in! @gingerlyvibing was kind enough to break down how much is going where. Just a reminder-- you all made this happen! Everything over the $10K it cost to get the billboard is going to help out these awesome charities! Links to threads: Tumblr / Twitter

Funnily enough, apparently one of the trucks still has the ads on it

== How To Help ==

How To Help Save OFMD Task List - US

How to Help Save OFMD Task List - Outside US

I'm helping some folks over on FB get similar/ the same updates right now, if anyone would like to help give me feedback I'd appreciate it, please just PM me! I have a couple ideas and I want to run them by folks.

== Status Updates ==

Good news! Wb is still having trouble recovering, as it should. Thanks @btweenhisteeth on twitter

==Petition Status==

Over 82K -- going slow, but still ticking up! Takes time all, especially since we're focused on the networks right now. Don't give up!

== Hunt For The Pirate Home Watch Party ==

Had some great turn out all over the world today for the Hunt For the Wilder People watch party. Thank you again to @dandeebakes for getting those coordinated!

Saw some great trends during it, and a lot of people having fun. If you haven't actually seen the movie, I highly recommend it, it's incredibly good!

==General Morale==

So despite things being fairly quiet today, the general vibe from folks has been that we're just in a holding pattern and we're just gonna keep clowning and polite menacing until we hear more word.

== Other Cancelled Series Comparisons ==

Something cool that I saw more of today was several groups doing comparisons with other cancelled TV Shows. Thank you to @OFMDCrew for these stats on twitter.

After they were posted, I did hear conflicting feelings on these (some felt it helped raise their mood, some felt it made it worse). So I wanted to point out a few things:

1. We've done a hell of a lot in 3 weeks (and signatures were our priority for most of the first two weeks, but once David Jenkins lit the beacon 8 days ago, we changed our focus). 2. We had a leadership change mid-all of this with Renew As A Crew. 3. Oh and there's other stuff in the world going on (Palestine) 4. As @saltpepperbeard says in their post "David only posted his "call to arms" just a little over a week ago. Eight days ago." So much has changed and we've STILL accomplished so much in that time too.

We are kicking ass, we really are, I promise you!

Across Twitter / IG / and Tumblr, several people have mentioned they feel like something's "in the air". That's totally a second hand "I have a feeling" thing but as you probably remember, quite a few of us had that as a bad feeling the morning before the show got cancelled. Now, if you're not into that kinda thing-- I would like to mention, that could just be because this crew is so fucking awesome, and that's why the vibe is so good-- because we're leaning on each other and take care of each other. Also when lovely people like @saltpepperbeard (as referenced above) write lovely responses to asks that can always help too. This post made ME feel better, I recommend giving it a read for a little perspective :)

= Cast & Crew Sightings =

1. The weekend is still pretty scarce as usual. Our pirate queen Ruibo Qian has been enjoying a lot of everyone's artwork lately. 2. Nathan Foad announced his con dates 3. Renewal Campaign Related: mostly seeing updates again from our boi Erroll Shand supporting the campaign.

== Pets For Pirates ==

Tomorrow, Jan 29, there will be a Pets for Pirates Even! Share your Pet pictures and use the hashtags:

#PetsForPirates

#AdoptOurCrew

#SaveOFMD

==Love Notes==

I know, I know "Jeez Abby, Shut Up We Already Know How Awesome We Are" Well good! Cause you should! But that won't stop me from saying so again! I'm serious when I say the vibe is so good right now in general because we have such a great crew. You all take such good care of each other and it shows every single day. You helped raise an extra $11,578 that are now going to charities that are going to help so many families, and kids, and that's just from the extra stuff from the Hoist The Ads Campaign -- not including everything else going on. I'm going to include a picture from one of my favorite people @thelatestkate because she does awesome work, and this one applies significantly to all of you. <3

Daily Darby/Tonights Taika

Tonights gifs are brought you by the wonderful @celluloidbroomcloset's Posts: Rhys / Taika

I'm literally watching Green Lanturn this moment because I needed to remember this youngin Taika, so thank you / no thank you for that, but hey I've watched worse for Rhys so I guess I can't complain.

Goodnight Lovelies <3

#ofmd daily recap #ofmd daily recaps #hoist the ads #our flag means death #ofmd #gentlebeard #renew as a crew #save ofmd #save our flag means death

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youryurigoddess · 3 days

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The Small Back Room — Hour of Glory (1949)

Good Omens 2 begins with the visit to The Small Back Room not because it was meant to serve as an exposition scene for Maggie and her record shop. It’s a substantial foreshadowing of the main plot and the relationship changes between Aziraphale and Crowley.

As all the other classics referenced throughout the show, this 1949 Powell and Pressburger production is easily available online — whenever you have 100 minutes to spare, I highly encourage you to watch it.

Our story begins with the arrival of Stuart, a British military captain, who makes his way through a labyrinth of offices towards a small building — the research section led by an eccentric, queer-coded, bow tie wearing professor Mair — to ask for help with a secret Nazi weapon.

That’s when the professor calls our hero, Sammy Rice — an engineer and bomb disposal expert in the service of Her Majesty’s government and, not accidentally, the most brooding, wounded man in Powell and Pressburger’s impressive canon of dysfunctional and alienated characters.

Due to a prosthetic foot keeping him from active service and confining to work in the titular back room instead, Rice is dramatically slipping into alcoholism. Haunted by self-loathing and disappointment with the internal politics, he can’t see the point of his research anymore.

Sammy is also conducting a clandestine affair with the secretary of his research unit, Susan. They live in the same building and meet regularly, but can’t openly enjoy their company or even dance due to his injury, which makes him even more bitter and pathologically determined to wear her angelic patience down.

Susan puts up with it until the minister is forced to resign. She knows that if non-scientists take over, their section will become useless, Rice even more difficult, and the war possibly lost. She urges him to take action and when he dramatically refuses to make a difference, she leaves him.

Seemingly at his lowest now, Rice becomes a sudden chance to redeem himself. Captain Stuart calls him about two unexploded booby traps found in Wales, but left to himself, he dies during a heroic attempt to dismantle one of the thermos-like devices before our engineer arrives at the scene.

In a nerve-jangling finale, Stuart’s notes help Rice dismantle the second device. He becomes a hero, gets an officer commission as head of the new scientific unit, and discovers that Susan not only came back in the meantime, but repaired everything he drunkenly destroyed in the apartment after their breakup.

The parallels seem straightforward enough for me to add that in this context the role of Maggie through most of S2 may particularly reflect Crowley’s stagnancy in both work and love life. And if you’re unsure why the demon identifies with the heroic roles and characters, you might want to read this post on the subject.

Now, The Small Back Room was distributed in the US under another title — Hour of Glory. Which happens to be a specific Bible term referring to Christ’s “hour”, the period supposed to consummate all of his work on Earth and reveal God’s ultimate plan of salvation: the Son’s death.

John 12:20-36 Jesus replied, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant also will be. My Father will honor the one who serves me. Now my soul is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name.” Then a voice came from heaven, “I have glorified it, and will glorify it again.” The crowd that was there and heard it said it had thundered; others said an angel had spoken to him. Jesus said, “This voice was for your benefit, not mine. Now is the time for judgment on this world; now the prince of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”

Christ’s hour began in the garden — this time the garden of Gethsemane — as he prayed passionately for the cup to be passed from him, similarly to Aziraphale declining Metatron’s offers on screen, both regarding the hot drink and his reinstatement as part of the Heavenly Host:

Luke 22:42 “Father, if you are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.”

All throughout the Old Testament, we see God’s wrath being described as a cup poured out on sin and those guilty of it. By accepting it, Jesus took the toll of all the sins — from Eden up until the last one to be committed right before his Second Coming — on himself, for the sake of his beloved humanity.

The passion of Christ continued as Judas betrayed him with a kiss, his disciples abandoned him, and the high priest accused him of crimes he was not guilty of. Even Pilate, the prefect of Rome, pretended to uphold the law; and remember we already expect a S3 trial based on another Archers movie.

All in all, it’s an hour of great injustice and pain, but also glory of God. We’re led to believe that the Ineffable Plan will similarly triumph over the great one (or whatever Metatron tries to implement at the moment), as it did in S1. And its ending will be a good one, back in a garden.

#bible fanfiction #actually quoting bible #cup of suffering #give me coffee or give me death #the small back room #hour of glory #good omens #good omens meta #good omens analysis #final fifteen #crowley #crowley is a superhero #aziraphale #supreme archangel aziraphale #ineffable husbands #yuri is doing her thing #drinking coffee #an oat milk latte with a dash of almond syrup

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strawberriemarswrites · 2 months

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Chapter Summary: You've made a harrowing discovery, and you can't shake the suspicion that someone you trust is behind everything. Pairing: Bartolomeo x F!Reader Rating: Mature (18+ for the story, referenced NSFW) TW: none in particular this chapter, mentions of the stalking that's going on but that's about it. Ao3 Link: Chapter Eight (4.036 words)

Your heart thundered in your chest. Bartolomeo promised he’d look out for you. He hadn’t mentioned seeing or hearing anything since you asked him to start. How did this get past him? How long could this have been getting past him? You really didn’t want to think that he was failing to keep his promise, so maybe whoever had been getting in stopped for a time, and they were picking back up again now that the weather was warmer. You had to tell Bartolomeo what you found.

The racing in your mind should have ended there. You should have closed the window and just hoped that the fan being on would be enough and wouldn’t blow around stale, hot air. You should have gone back to bed, ready to talk to Bartolomeo in the morning.

Instead, you leaned out the window, peering down the fire escape, wondering how someone could even get up to your floor without anyone noticing. Though it was hard to tell for sure, the ladder at the bottom looked too high off the ground. The average person would need to get a little creative to reach it. Although, on the subway commute you’d seen pretty tall locals, so it wasn’t that it was impossible to reach without having one’s own equipment or by exerting a bit of effort. Just unlikely.

As you leaned back in and closed the window, a tiny voice in the back of your mind piped up: Barto could reach that ladder.

You froze. No. No, that was highly unlikely. Bartolomeo wasn’t the type to do something like that. No way. He was kind to you, protective even, and... and he knocked that guy’s teeth in today!

He showed up with pretty convenient timing.

He could have just been out running errands. It was lucky that he showed up like that.

Your stuff stopped going missing for a little while after you asked him to help. How long was it before things got weird again?

Bartolomeo tricked a creep into drugging himself, he wouldn’t stoop so low as to be a creep!

Unless he was protecting something he thought was already his.

No. No, no, no.

You slowly sank to the floor, your face in your hands. There was no way that all this time, Bartolomeo had been stalking you. You felt nauseous at the thought. He’d been so kind, and supportive — he was your friend for fuck’s sake! No. You just weren’t thinking straight. You were panicking over some fucking debris on the floor, that could have come from anywhere.

Luffy hopped down from the bed and approached, purring and nuzzling your ankles. In his little kitty mind, he was trying to ask why you hadn’t come back to bed, because since you weren’t going to the kitchen to feed him, it was obviously still bed time. Then, when he leaned into your palm as you reached for him, he gradually became aware of your distress. You started making sniffling sounds, like the ones he’d done when he had gotten a little sick. He began to purr louder — purring always helped him, maybe it would help you.

You scooped up Luffy into your arms, petting him against your chest. His purring softened for a moment before picking back up, and you gradually felt the panic leave you. There was no way Bartolomeo was the one who’d been breaking in. It couldn’t have been him.

Right?

...It was too late at night to keep dwelling on the thought. You set the fan against the window — if it opened, surely the fan would be knocked over — and turned it on, carrying yourself and your cat back into bed.

Your paranoia would have to wait until morning to be sorted out. You needed a clear head to do so.

Vivi snapped her fingers in front of your face a few times. “Hello? Anyone home?”

You jumped, shaking your head free of the image of the debris in your bedroom. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

She propped her elbows up on the table and placed her chin in her hands. “I asked if you’re okay. You’ve been extra quiet today.”

You nodded, picking at your takeout lunch. “I’m fine. Just... distracted.”

“Over Bartolomeo again?” Drake asked, sipping at his coffee.

“No,” you said a bit too quickly, turning pink. “Sort of.”

Vivi cocked her head. “What’d he do? I thought you guys were doing the ‘just friends’ thing.”

“We are. He didn’t do anything.” You tapped your fingers on the table. “Or he did... guh, I dunno.”

Vivi stared at you expectantly. Drake eyed you suspiciously over his glasses.

You sighed. “After I moved in, someone started breaking into my apartment.” You scratched the back of your neck, avoiding their surprised gazes. “Barto said he’d keep an eye out, and it seemed to stop for a while. I figured he had it handled. But just last night I noticed something that makes me think the break-ins didn’t stop.”

“Do you think he’s been missing whoever’s doing it?” Vivi asked.

Before you could answer, Drake read your mind. “You think he might be the one doing it, don’t you.”

You shrank back, putting your face in your hands. “I don’t know what to think.”

Drake took another drink of his coffee. “Well let’s start with why you would think that.”

You sighed again, running a hand through your hair. “He seems kinda protective of me, the more I think about it. Like what he did at the bar, and then yesterday...” You again avoided eye contact. “He might’ve. Beaten some guy to a pulp for harassing me.”

Vivi’s brows ticked upward. “Wow, really? I would’ve thought that would be more reason not to suspect him.”

“That’s the thing,” you continued. “It was when I was going home. Bartolomeo and I — we weren’t even hanging out. He just... happened to show up.”

Drake’s frown deepened. “Sounds a little too convenient, if you ask me.”

You nodded. “Exactly. And when I think about it, the times I noticed that something was off in my apartment line up with times when he’s been home.”

“Then that settles it!” Vivi jumped up, her hands splayed out on the table. “It’s gotta be him!”

“Slow down,” Drake said, putting an arm on her shoulder to coax her back into her chair. “What would make you think it’s not him?”

You fidgeted in your seat. “Well, he’s been so nice. He comes across as this tough, scary guy, but you should see how he plays with Luffy. He even calls him ‘Mister Luffy’ in this tiny voice I didn’t even know he could do. He’s been helping me keep him secret from the landlord. And he works at that bar partly because he’s helping out his friend’s grandmother. He’s kind of... tender, y’know?”

Drake cocked an eyebrow, silently prodding with a look that said “That’s the best excuse you have?”

You relented, “He doesn’t seem tall enough to reach the fire escape. I haven’t had a chance yet to look at it from the ground, but it looks pretty high up.”

Drake nodded. “All right. How far off the ground do you think it is?”

You leaned back in your chair and twisted your lip. “Eight feet? Maybe nine?”

He pushed out his chair and stood. “How tall is Bartolomeo compared to me?”

You eyed him up and down, tilting your head. “Almost the same height. Maybe a little shorter.”

“But that’s just from your memory,” Vivi said as he sat back down. “Maybe Drake could come by and see if he can reach it? Just to make sure.”

“It’s probably best that I don’t,” Drake said, though with a tint of reluctance in his tone. “If he’s the one behind the break-ins, and if he was stalking you home yesterday, it’s better not to let on that you’re on to him. Not yet, anyways.” He finished his coffee and added, “We also don’t know how he’ll react to other people in his territory, for lack of better term. You said he beat someone to a pulp yesterday?”

You flushed at the memory of Bartolomeo’s shirt and knuckles splattered with blood, quickly nodding your head to dispel the image.

Vivi piped in, “Didn’t you say Cavendish stood you up?”

You blinked, furrowing your brow. “I did, but what does that have to do with this?”

She leaned forward, glancing around as if anyone aside from the three of you were in the breakroom. “What if Bartolomeo had something to do with that, too?”

After a beat, you shook your head. “That’s too far.”

“No, no, think about it!” Her voice was suddenly hushed. “What if he figured it out somehow? If he’s as protective as you say, then someone going on a date with you would absolutely be a threat to ‘his territory’.” She then sat back, her voice returning to normal volume. “Come on, tell me you don’t see it.”

You turned the thought over in your head for a moment, and it sent a sickening shudder down your spine. You knew if you said “no” that Vivi would call you out on the lie, so instead you moved on. “What should I do? I don’t have enough to prove it’s him to go to someone about it, but I also don’t feel like I have enough to prove to myself that it’s not him.”

The three of you sat in silence for a moment, before a phone alarm chimed. Vivi sighed and stood, silencing her phone with an annoyed grumble. She was stopped from leaving when Drake put his hand on her shoulder again.

“I think for now,” he said, “we should keep this between us. No need to worry anyone else until we know more.”

Vivi’s look of annoyance turned serious, and she gave a short nod. “Right.” She then turned to you, making a zipped-lip motion. “Just keep me posted, okay?”

With that she hurried out of the breakroom, just as an alarm went off on your phone to signal the end of your lunch. As you stood, Drake did as well, though he looked deep in thought.

Finally, as you were both leaving the breakroom, he said, “Test him.”

You frowned. “How?”

He slipped a hand in his pocket, leaning against the threshold. “Get him to say something he shouldn’t know about you. Or get him to do something that needs the fire escape. See how he reacts.”

You thought for another moment then nodded. “Thanks, Drake.”

“Any time.” He pushed off the threshold and gently patted your back. “Keep us in the loop. You know anyone here will come running if you need help.” He then smiled, adding, “That’s what friends are really for.”

Bartolomeo was getting nervous. Something was off about you — you weren’t distant or anything, still making time to chat with him and texting him, but you seemed more... tense. He’d asked a couple of different times if you were okay, and you always answered with a shrug and a smile, saying you were just tired from work. Though he could tell that definitely wasn’t the full story, he didn’t want to push.

His patience seemed to pay off, as one evening you invited him into your apartment again for dinner. You’d said you wanted to repay him for knocking the one jerk’s lights out, and who would he be to resist a chance at dinner with you? Let alone a dinner made by you.

Bartolomeo showed up at your door right on time, again wearing a flannel he’d forgotten about. He wondered if he should invest in some nicer-looking clothes, before shaking the thought away — he never before cared about the way he dressed, and he’d only start caring if you said something.

When you answered the door, his heart melted, seeing you again in the blue sailor dress he liked when you... when that Pretty Boy attempted to go out with you. His heart melted further when you hugged him before leading him inside, his stomach doing backflips at the contact.

“Thanks for coming on short notice,” you said, beaming and heading back into the kitchen.

“No prob,” he said, sitting in the dining chair closest to you. “You don’t have to go through all this effort for me, though.”

“I want to,” you said, again making his heart weak. “I’ve actually been wanting to give you a proper ‘thank you’ for a while. Honestly, probably since I got stood up by...” you paused. Your back was to him as you stirred the pot on the stove, and you tipped your head back in thought. “Shit, what was his name again?”

Bartolomeo’s posture stiffened, and he bit down on his tongue. Pretty Boy. Cavendish. But he wasn’t supposed to know that. “I dunno, you never told me.”

You shrugged before returning your attention to the pot. “Well, either way. You put up with me then, and then you saved my ass the other night. I think that’s more than enough reason to go through the effort.”

He smiled. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Something in the back of his mind, however, began to gnaw at him. He started chatting your ear off to stop thinking about it.

Part way through your conversation about the difficulty of mahjong in Yakuza 0, it started pouring rain. You cussed, taking half a step away from the stove before freezing, then looking over your shoulder. “Can you do me a favor? I don’t wanna leave this alone.”

Bartolomeo jumped up from his seat. “Sure — you need me to watch it?”

“No, no, that’s fine,” your eyes then flicked toward the hallway. “I just left my fan in the fire escape window. Do you think you could pull it in and close it?”

He nodded, turning his body instinctively toward the hall and taking a step toward your bedroom, before freezing. His brow then furrowed — would it be weird that he already knew which room the fire escape was in? By process of elimination it wouldn’t be hard to figure out, but... something felt wrong about immediately going for your bedroom.

“Which room is it in?” he asked, trying to ignore the hairs standing on his neck.

And then he saw it. Your shoulders sank just slightly, and your gaze softened. Like you were relieved that was his response. “It’s in the bedroom. Just down the hall and to the left.” You then pointed accusingly at him with a slotted spoon and grinned. “Don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Bartolomeo nodded again, heading for the bedroom and being careful not to trip over Luffy on the way there. He opened the door and hesitated, glancing around. It was the first time you’d willingly let him into your bedroom, and he tried not to think too hard on how you’d looked at him — maybe you were just relieved he was doing you a favor.

As he pulled the box fan out of the window frame and slid the pane shut, something falling to the floor caught his eye.

Flakes of chipped paint and bits of rust, littering the floor by the fire escape.

Fuck.

“Everything okay in there?” you called.

“Yeah, just. Distracted.” He quickly set the fan down over top of the debris and hurried back out, looking just a hair paler.

You cocked your head at him. “You feeling okay?”

He nodded, sitting back down. “I’m fine. You’re room’s just... cute.”

You gave him that thousand-sun smile, a faint blush in your cheeks as you continued cooking. “Thank you. Food’s almost done.”

The rest of the evening went surprisingly smooth, especially considering Bartolomeo was now paranoid that you were catching on to something he really didn’t want you catching on to. He didn’t think that you noticed the debris — after all, it could have been something that just happened. But that little gnawing feeling in the back of his mind told him that it may have been happening for a while, and he wasn’t as good at covering his tracks as he thought. Then it hurt him a little, to think that if you did notice it that you didn’t bring it up to him. He pushed that thought aside quickly, deciding that you were far too good to keep something like that secret from him.

Nevermind that the gnawing feeling tried to convince him you were trying to trip him up.

As Bartolomeo laid in bed that night, after jacking off for the umpteenth time since he’d started stalking looking out for you, he worried at his lower lip, his teeth dangerously close to digging in and drawing blood. The solution was easy — just. Back up off the break-ins again.

Far easier said than done.

Meanwhile, your dreams about Bartolomeo ramped up in frequency. Sometimes he came to you as the beast-like creature, his mouth dripping with blood and drool. He always brought gifts, your tired mind’s way of accounting for the weight of a kitten on your chest. He’d so far brought a heart, a hand, and something that shifted between being a head and a liver.

There was once when he appeared normal, grinning at you like he’d just seen the sun for the first time. It was a smile offset by the broken skin on his knuckles, and the red stains on his shirt and the cuffs of his jeans. It was arguably a more unsettling dream than the monster ones, as he then approached and talked to you like nothing was wrong.

And those were just the dreams where he wasn’t fucking you. Over the kitchen counter, on the couch, in your bed, in what your brain could only imagine as his bedroom. Always moaning “mine” in your ear and leaving bite marks on your shoulders. To your immense frustration, you always woke up before you came.

Apparently, the efforts you had made to try and prove his innocence weren’t enough for your nerves to settle down. You decided to try one more idea.

After much further deliberation, you had a plan. It was pay-day, but you already declined to go out for the usual drinks. You were texting Bartolomeo when he told you that, by some miracle, he didn’t have to work, and you were going to try something a little riskier. That morning you made sure Luffy’s gravity feeder had enough food and his water fountain was still running and full, so you knew he’d be okay by himself for a little longer than usual. Then, during your shift, you pulled Robin aside. After explaining the situation to her, with only the slightest bit of judgment that you didn’t come to her sooner about the part where you worried about a stalker in the first place (though she figured you had your reasons), she listened to your plan.

“I need you to hold on to my apartment keys.”

She nodded, holding her hand out. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to see if Barto’s tall enough to reach the fire escape.” You shuffled through your purse and handed them over. “If he can reach it and unlock my apartment from within, then that might be enough to prove he’s been breaking in this whole time.”

“What if he says no? Or it turns out he can’t reach it?”

“I’ll text you and ask if you can swing by the archives to get them when you guys are done with drinks.” You shrugged, blushing faintly as you added, “I’ll hang out with him until then.”

Robin considered for a moment, before nodding again and dropping your keys into her purse. “If he does agree to help, what’ll you do then?”

You paused, frowning. You hadn’t thought quite that far ahead.

Robin could sense as much, and gently took one of your hands. “If he does it, still text me. I’ll come get you and you can stay with me for a little while until we figure it out.”

You stared at her with wide eyes, then tears began to prickle in your periphery. Without much warning you hugged her. “Thanks, Robin.”

She laughed, lightly hugging you back. “You don’t have to thank me. If this will bring you peace of mind, I want to help you. Rooster’s been good to you, so I hope he’s not behind all this.” She then held you back by the shoulders and gave you a look that sent chills down your spine. “And if he is, I’ll castrate him.”

Bartolomeo heard loud cursing right after the elevator ding. He looked out the peephole to see you digging through your purse, cussing up a storm and bemoaning, “How the hell did I lose them?!”

He opened his door a crack and leaned out. “You good?”

You huffed, frowning. “No, I’m not. I can’t find my keys.”

“Oh, shit.” He fully stepped out and shut his door, trying to subtly lean over and see into your purse. “Where’d you last see them?”

“I don’t know,” you groaned. “I think I forgot them in my work locker. Fuck.”

He couldn’t see them either, not from the angle he had. “Maybe the landlord can let you in?”

“And risk him finding Luffy?”

“...you got me there.”

“So, short of breaking and entering, I’m not getting in until I find my keys.” You pulled out your phone and started texting, before you paused. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to lockpick, do you?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I might. But it’ll risk messin’ up your lock and you’ll have to pay for a new key.”

“Damn,” you huffed, then eyed him up and down. “...Do you know where the fire escape is from the outside?”

He froze. “Uh—”

“Maybe you could climb up and get in for me? Open it from the inside?”

Fuck. Shit. Shit shit shit FUCK. Panic slithered through Bartolomeo’s veins, and he tried to look anywhere but your face. You were on to him. You had to be. Why else would you ask him this? No — no, this was innocent enough. You did say short of breaking in, so maybe you had — what was the word? an epiphany? — or whatever. But... if you were on to him, and he did as you asked, how long would he have before you left him high and dry? Or worse?! After all the work he’d put into knowing you — shit, he was taking too long to answer!

“I dunno,” he said. “Those ladders are pretty high off the ground. I’m pretty sure I can’t reach them.”

You deflated. “Well, how tall are you?”

He swallowed. “Seven-three.”

“Come on, that’s plenty tall enough!” You looked up at him with puppy eyes. “Please? Can’t you try?”

Bartolomeo almost cursed you for having such pretty eyes. How dare you use them against him like this? With every ounce of resistance he had, he shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Even if I could, I don’t wanna break the window tryin’ to open it from the outside.”

You stared at him for several long seconds, your eyes searching his face. He really hoped you couldn’t see the sweat forming on his brow. Please stop lookin’ at me with those eyes. Please, please, please I’m beggin’ you.

You sighed, finally looking down. “Okay, fair enough.” You then returned to texting. “I’ll see if Robin can bring them to me. I think she has keys to the archives.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding, passing it off as a sigh of his own. Another few seconds and he would’ve broke. His mind then circled back around — you couldn’t be on to him. You just couldn’t be. And if you were, how was he going to gain back your trust?

“Shit,” you hissed. “That’s right, it’s pay-day. I wanted to skip out on drinks tonight, but Robin’s still going. She doesn’t know when she’ll get to the archives.”

After a moment, Bartolomeo realized the opportunity before him. Not only could he regain your trust, but maybe... just maybe...

“You wanna hang out at my place for a bit?”

#i'll fucking digest you one kiss at a time #ifdyokaat #one piece x reader #bartolomeo #bartolomeo x you #reader insert #bartolomeo one piece #bartolomeo the cannibal #yandere #PHEW #CHONKY chapter #sorry it's about 50/50 on the barto content but there was a lot of set-up and deliberation i wanted to get through #next chapter.... next chapter we'll have some fun <3

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sarahowritesostucky · 1 month

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📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

10. S'mores

It’s the “sex play” (God, that term is so cringe) thing being on the table that builds the tension in the apartment, all of them knowing about it but none of them talking about it. Mary sure as shit doesn’t have the guts to break that ice, and now Bucky’s always deep in thought and quiet around her. And Steve, well.

Steve is like a big, mopey golden retriever who knows its humans are upset but doesn’t know how to help besides headbutting things affectionately.

Mary’s feelings for him only grow when she realizes that he really hasn’t told Bucky about that night in the kitchen: the things she’d confided about the razor and her nightmares and sneaking out to the gym. Knowing that Steve’s stuck by his word like that makes her like him and trust him a whole heck of a lot more.

But it doesn’t solve the underlying problem.

There’s a court hearing in front of a judge next month to revisit the custody arrangement—Next month. And one afternoon while Bucky’s out of the apartment, Steve gently informs Mary that Dr. Linda is recommending the order be extended. Jesus fucking Christ.

And then the results to that test Linda made her take, the “Submissive Sexual Interests and Tendencies Assessment”, arrive in the mail (addressed to Bucky, because of course they would be), and Mary gets her hands on them after Bucky and Steve read them, and she’s mortified at what it says about her.

Tendencies: Passive aggression (reactive aggression in lieu of submission), emotional outbursts, low self-esteem, impulsive sexual promiscuity, self-harm, alcohol use disorder, possible co-morbidity (OCD, EDNOS, BDD). Dynamic Preferences: single dominant authority figure, structured domestic routine, service, discipline, monogamous relationship, emotional bonding. Recommendations: Following assessment review, patient is most likely to benefit from continued domestic control in a consistent (24/7) environment. Transfer of custody not recommended. Continued therapy sessions and educational courses at CDP highly recommended. Most beneficial therapeutic modalities include limited corporal discipline, sex play, and reward-based service routine.

There’s a ton of infuriating psycho babble bullshit packed into those results that she could get upset about, and she does, but Mary’s eyes track over that one, most-horrible phrase over and over again:

“Transfer of custody not recommended.”

Fuck.

She loses sleep over it, sneaks out of the apartment in the middle of the night and does cardio at the gym until she’s exhausted enough to head back home and pass out. It pisses her off that this is such a thing now. She doesn’t want to be special needs, she should have the right to choose whether she even wants treatment or not! She resents the hell out of Bucky and Steve for having custody of her the way that they do. They’re clearly expecting her to blow up or something, after the news from Linda and the SSITA results come in. It’s so obvious that they’re walking on eggshells around her, Mary halfway wishes they’d just do something. One way or the other, it’d be better than this.

Linda claims that they’ve expressed “positive feelings” about a sexual dynamic, but if they have, they sure aren’t expressing it to Mary. She suspects that most of that positivity has come from Steve, and probably only because he’s a golden retriever in human form who just wants to do what’s right and good, not because he or Bucky are particularly attracted to her.

While she has managed to clean herself up quite a bit since moving in with them, Mary isn’t delusional: she realizes that Steve and Bucky are very attractive men, whereas she’s just average. She tries to tell herself she’s fine with that. She knows Bucky and Steve could probably get like, a supermodel to sleep with them if they really wanted to. Mary’s not in their league, and that’s okay.

But if they’re not attracted to her that way then they should at least have the decency to just say so! At least then she could find someone else, get back on Tinder, or even sign up for one of those ProDoms that the CDP has. Darcy said Thor was good, so maybe Mary could request him? The way that Darcy had described the guy, he sounds like he's a hunka hunka burning Nordic god. Mary could go for that.

She brings it up casually over dinner, framing it lightheartedly, and Bucky literally crushes his water glass in his prosthetic hand. “What?” he snaps, frowning down at the mess he’s just made. “No.”

Mary huffs and goes to fetch the desserts while Steve gets the waste bin and begins scraping the broken pieces of glass into it like it’s just another Tuesday. “I don’t see why not,” Mary complains from over at the counter. She’s pulled the plates out from the fridge and grabs the butane torch for the meringue.

“Jesus,” Bucky exclaims when he sees the industrial sized torch she's wielding. “Where’d you get that?”

Mary purses her lips as she focuses on achieving the perfect amount of toastedness. “Hardware store,” she mutters. “So why can’t I go see one of the ProDom’s again?” She purposefully over-torches Bucky’s meringue, because she can tell that this isn’t going to go her way. “Sounds like a win-win. You don’t have to deal with me, I can meet new people, and insurance pays for it. What exactly is the problem?” She’s trying to force him to admit that he doesn’t want to Dom her sexually, trying to get him to see that something’s gotta give and he’ll have to let her use one of the ProDoms eventually if that’s what the severity of her “condition” requires (gigantic ‘Ew’).

But frustratingly, he refuses to engage with her on the topic. “It’s a no, Mare,” he tells her sternly. “Pros are for people who have more experience. You don’t.”

Mary seriously doubts that. “Linda didn’t say that,” she argues, carrying the plates over to the table and handing the nice one to Steve and the burnt one to Bucky.

He pulls it closer to himself and raises an eyebrow at it. “Linda’s being diplomatic,” he mutters. “I thought you said you were making s’mores?”

Yesterday, Bucky had been talking with Steve about how much they both missed their old camping trips they used to take. The two of them must’ve waxed poetic over campfire s’mores for ten whole minutes. So Mary thought this would be an excellent way to butter them up. Apparently not.

She sniffs and picks up her fork. “They are s’mores. It’s a plated dessert, Bucky. An interpretation. It’s not literal.”

He grunts and peers at his portion, poking it dubiously with his fork. “What’s it made of?”

Mary heaves a sigh and snottily recites: “Honey Sablé, 70% Valrhona cremeux, cold-smoked Italian meringue, torched ‘mallow, Graham crumb streusel, and tempered chocolate stick for garnish." Both Bucky and Steve stop poking at their plates and just stare at her for a second.

“Sounds good,” Steve chirps, and digs into his.

Mary stares Bucky down, until he too, deigns to eat the apparently too fancy for him version of a s’more. “Oh, damn,” he says after the first bite, looking taken-aback. “I can taste the smoke.”

Mary preens, then asks again about the ProDom. “Well if I’m not getting it there then who the heck’s supposed to fuck me?” she winds up blurting out of frustration.

When that direct reference doesn’t elicit any response from Bucky besides a barrage of bossy instructions for after-dinner cleanup, Mary loses a bit of the hope she’d been holding onto that maybe Linda was right about them being attracted to her. She just gave him the perfect fucking opening, and he didn’t take it. She gets the kitchen cleaned up from dinner, resigning herself to another evening of platonic domination that doesn’t quite hit the spot.

Nightly drops are nice. Not as nice as they were in the beginning, the effects having waned quite a bit from what they once were, but still better than no drops at all.

Mary sits on her pillow on the floor, head on the couch cushion next to Bucky’s thigh, listening vaguely to the sound of the television while she enjoys the feeling of his fingers carding through her hair, lightly massaging her scalp. It’s been a while now, and she doesn’t think she’s going to get any deeper. It’s late, already they’ve watched two full episodes of their show, and Mary’s got work tomorrow. It’ll be bedtime soon.

A big yawn works its way up in her throat, and Bucky chuckles when it finally breaks free. “Tired?” he asks.

“Mmhm.” She inhales deeply and sits up, sleepy and squinting. It takes a moment before her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room and Bucky’s form sitting right in front of her. Wow, she’d been really close to him, hadn’t realized just how close. Had she been … hugging his shin? God, she hopes not. Not like she hasn’t spent whole evenings fantasizing about rubbing her face all over his thighs and his— Nope. Not gonna think about that when he’s sitting right there. She tears her eyes away and forces that train of thought to stop right in its metaphorical tracks.

“You good, Hon?” Bucky asks, his soft voice drawing her attention back from her own head. She looks up and sees his fond expression, his relaxed posture. Wonders if he’s in Domspace at all. Probably not.

Then her eyes land on the line of his cock at the front of his pants.

He’s hard. Not very, but some. Underneath his sweats his dick is chubbed up enough that it creates a slight bulge against the fabric. Mary freezes, staring for too long before she’s able to tear her eyes away. When she does, and she looks up, Bucky’s watching her with an inscrutable expression. Her breath catches and her mind goes absolutely dumb.

Does he want ..? Should she ..?

She looks back down at it, at the relaxed splay of his thighs. She wets her lips and thinks about reaching forward and sliding her hand over it, what it would feel like, if it would twitch, if Bucky would shiver or make a sound. She wants to touch it, and seriously considers doing so, but when she looks up at Bucky again, he doesn’t look like he’s excited, or anticipating her touching him. He looks … resigned.

“Tired?” he asks kindly. "Do you maybe ... Do you need anything else tonight? From me?"

Mary's lips part, heart leaping at what that might mean ... but then Bucky looks over at Steve with visible yearning in his eyes, and the two of them share one of their silent conversations, brows pinched and expectant.

Oh. Right. Bucky’s just horny and eager to get Steve into bed, wants to wrap this up. Mary wonders if he really can’t tell that she's not far down like she used to get. Maybe he thinks this is all she needs and he really isn’t going to take Linda’s advice seriously. Mary should be happy about that. After all, it’s what she wanted. Isn’t it?

She balls up the hand that she’d been imagining touching Bucky with and nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m tired. Think I’m gonna … go get ready for bed.”

She glances over at Steve, but he looks mopey and eager to get out of the room just like his husband does, cementing the notion in Mary’s mind that they don’t want to be with her that way. No doubt they will if push comes to shove, because Linda’s told them Mary needs a sexual dynamic, but it’s not something they’re excited about. Mary knows men: They’re not the sort to sit around and wait for a girl they like to make the first move. And certainly not a man like Bucky, of all people.

She tries not to be hurt by it, but still gets a little weepy while brushing her teeth, the unintended rejection stinging more when she’s down in the tingly, vulnerable throes of subspace. She spits, rinses, flosses, rinses. Grabs the mouthwash that she hates to use but that Bucky has ordered her to always use after brushing her teeth at night.

She says goodnight to Steve and Bucky through the safety of her closed bedroom door, and despite her voice being warbly, neither one of them knocks on the door to see what’s up. That drives the point home, and Mary tucks herself into bed with the mindset that she’ll let them know they don’t have to sleep with her just to be nice or to help her or whatever. She’ll just find a way to convince them that she really is fine with going to one of the ProDoms, and that it really is a better arrangement.

Better than a pity fuck, at least.

It’s disappointing to know that Mary prefers the ProDom, that she doesn’t want to make their relationship sexual, but Bucky gets it, and he knows that he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s not exactly an easy person to get along with, after all. He’s prickly as fuck, grumpy, bossy, selfish. And aside from her natural submission, Mary’s personality clashes with his horribly. Steve is essential, but he just isn’t enough to successfully buffer between the two of them—not enough to make her want them that way, at least.

Bucky can see the profound disappointment in Steve’s eyes that night, as Mary doesn’t react the way they were both hoping, doesn’t take the offerings Bucky puts out.

They have to let it be her choice, of course, having planned it out and discussed it between just the two of them. It's all anybody ever talks about in the D/s community these days: making sure subs are the initiators at key moments like this, not letting domination creep in and become manipulation-so easy to do with how naturally vulnerable and people pleasing submissives are. Gone are the days when Doms like Bucky were encouraged to guide new partners in the "right" direction. That leads to too much trauma, too many subs in situations they don't really want. Mary has to be left to make the choice on her own, it's her right.

But it's still the hardest fucking thing for him to do, to just sit there and wait passively. And it still stings when she looks straight at his erection and declares that she’s ready for bed. Well, if it wasn’t clear before.

Steve looks like a friggin’ kicked puppy, as he stands outside of Mary’s closed bedroom door and bids her goodnight. Bucky nudges him in the direction of their own room and murmurs, “Come on, Sweetheart.”

In their bedroom, they each get undressed. Steve continues to mope, so Bucky goes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder and rubs. “Hey. Don’t sulk. You’ve still got me.” Steve’s mouth twitches in a small smile and Bucky’s heart flares with fondness for him. “You wanna play a game?” he offers, leaning in and kissing him once on the lips. “Mm?” He looks down pointedly to both of their boners that haven’t completely lagged since tv time ended.

“Okay.”

Bucky hums and turns, putting his left shoulder out. “Lend a guy a hand?” Steve obliges. He removes the prosthetic arm with practiced motions. Bucky moans quietly at how good it feels to get the heavy weight off. “Fuck.” He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck each way with a blissed out groan. “Yes.”

“You’ve been wearing it more than usual, lately,” Steve points out, going over to set it on the table at Bucky’s side of the bed. “Why?”

He already knows: Bucky can tell from the way he asks it. He grunts and looks away, refraining from answering. He normally only wears the arm to work and to the gym, skipping it around the house or when he’s just got simple errands to run. There’s a surprising amount he can do just fine without the use of two arms, and he’s been confident about being seen in public without it for a long time now, thanks to Steve and their friends at the V.A. Being self conscious about it again after all these years isn’t something Bucky wants to admit out loud or think about, but Steve isn’t stupid. He can put two and two together.

“Babe,” he says softly, walking back over to stand behind him. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and noses into his neck. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Bucky inhales deeply. “I know. I’m not.” Steve makes a sound that clearly says he doesn’t believe that. But Bucky doesn’t want to talk about it, so he reaches back with the only arm he has to grab playfully at the side of Steve’s ass. “Go in the bathroom. Get the water going how I like.”

Steve groans and thunks his forehead against the back of Bucky’s neck. “Not that game,” he complains, though there’s no conviction to it. He slinks off towards the bathroom to go do as he’s been told. “I hate that game.”

“Fuck you. You love that game.”

Steve shoots him the finger from over his shoulder, but something about his naked body and tight little ass being on display strips the gesture of its animosity. He disappears into the bathroom and Bucky walks over to their bedroom dresser to grab a hair tie, still snickering. He sobers when he takes one from the valet tray and realizes that he’ll have to have Steve tie his hair back. That’s one thing he never could figure out how to do one handed. He stands there and looks in the mirror above the dresser, studying the left side of his body in a way that he rarely does anymore.

He’s gotten so used to it: his life with Steve, whom he knows down to his bones accepts him unconditionally. He’s almost forgotten what it feels like to be self conscious about his body. Bucky hasn’t known how to talk about it, and Mary hasn’t asked. She’s seen him with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, or in tee shirts at the gym, but that’s all so far. Sometimes he’ll catch her looking, but he’s got no clue what she’s thinking. He considers his reflection, looks at the scars and puckered skin, the implanted base of the arm where his stump used to be. He doesn’t like the uncomfortability of being critical of his body again. In a way, he almost resents Mary for it, for making that feeling come back after all these years. Silly, he knows.

“Babe?” Steve’s voice calls out from the bathroom. Bucky’s ears register the sound of rushing water. “You coming?”

Bucky inhales deeply and decides it doesn’t matter anyway. Mary wants a ProDom, not them, so he doesn’t have to stress over what she thinks about any part of his body, let alone the one part he doesn’t have.

“Yeah.” He turns his back to the judgmental mirror and heads towards his very non-judgmental best guy.

“Okay. Stop clenching.”

Steve exhales shakily, but he does obey, body slumping back against the end of the tub as he relaxes his muscles. “Fuck,” he breathes, overwhelmed.

“Hand too, Baby.”

His hand abandons his dick in the bathwater. “Ungh.”

Bucky smiles lazily and rubs the side of his foot against Steve’s hip in praise. “Good boy.”

They’re in the bathtub together, opposite ends, legs tangled. Their combined bulk displaces the water all the way up to above their shoulders, but that’s part of the game: they’re not allowed to splash on the floor, so they can’t jerk off very hard or fast. First one to splash water on the floor is the automatic loser and has to bottom the next time they fuck (Bucky added that little caveat because he’s very good at not splashing, whereas Steve is hopelessly clumsy and overeager ). “How you doing, Sweetheart?” he asks, drinking in the sight of Steve with his lips parted, chest heaving, squirming. He’s pink from temple to tits, flushed from the bathwater and arousal both, and Bucky loves it. “You’re not close already, are you?” he tuts, grinning. “So sensitive.”

“Buck,” Steve croaks, heated eyes dragging over Bucky’s body at the other end of the tub where he’s still gently jerking himself off. “Please.”

Bucky affords himself another toe-curlingly good swipe over the head of his dick before he nods. “Okay. Slow. Just like me”

Steve huffs and wraps his hand back around himself, stroking his dick in slow, measured strokes, just like Bucky said. Bucky’s guts warm and another heady rush of dominance swirls low in his belly at watching Steve do exactly as he says. “You can start workin’ it again, too,” he says.

Steve moans gratefully. “Thank you. Fuck.” His abs start clenching, his body straining again with visible tension as he works the Aneros that’s seated up inside him. Under the water, his knees move in and out in that instinctive motion as he tries to rock it just right. But it’s hard to do it with the water so high, and more than once he catches himself and holds back at the sight of the bathwater sloshing precariously close to the lip of the tub. At one point he gasps and his eyes slam shut, and Bucky figures the toy must’ve shifted to press even more directly against his prostate.

“Ooh, does that feel good, Stevie?”

Steve peeks his eyes open, glaring across the way at him. “You know it does.”

Bucky does, in fact, know exactly how good it feels—because he’s got another of the exact same toy inside of himself, right now. “I don’t know why you still agree to play this game,” he taunts, grunting from the effort of holding back his own moan as his prostate gets a firm prod from the head of the toy. “You—nngh—you always wind up losing.”

“Yeah, well …” Steve’s throat bobs as he swallows heavily. “Maybe I don’t mind you coming out on top, sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Bucky scoffs, but he’s breathing heavier than he was thirty minutes ago, his composure slipping the longer he works the toy inside himself and jerks himself off agonizingly slowly underneath the water. In fact, he’s not even sure it even counts as jerking off at this slow a pace.

Edging is something he’d introduced Steve to early on in their relationship, as soon as he’d realized how delightfully sensitive his new boyfriend was. And Steve, the big idiot, had worried Bucky wouldn’t like it, had actually thought of it as a negative! An absurd notion that Bucky promptly disabused him of. Watching his ungodly sexy blond behemoth of a husband whine and squirm and struggle to hold himself in check is one of the fucking hottest things Bucky’s ever seen—and he’s seen a lot. He’d been a bit of a manwhore back in his heyday, racking up the bodies as he fought to find himself as a Dom and accept the body an IED had left him with.

Steve, his overly-sensitive, glorious hunk of a then-boyfriend, had helped him to do both. And it’s times like this where Bucky remembers just how goddamn lucky he is. Having Steve to love and fuck around with feels like the best gift in the world.

At the other end of the tub, the water sloshes as something he’s done to himself makes Steve’s breath hitch in another helpless moan. He tosses his head back for a moment, eyes clamped shut as his expression crumples beautifully and he whimpers. Bucky’s ass clenches down hard in arousal at the sight, which only makes the toy in his ass rub over his prostate that much better. His cock throbs as his pleasure flares dangerously high. Fuck, he wants to come.

Licking his lips, he decides it's time to end this. His balls are pulled up too close to his body, taut and full and aching for release. Trying to school his breathing into something resembling nonchalance is a lost cause, and his face feels almost as flushed as Steve’s looks right now. Bucky decides to call it, because even though he’s the automatic favorite to win this game every time, he is capable of losing, if he gets too caught up in ogling Steve’s body and reactions and doesn’t focus enough on playing his cards right. “Okay,” he finally says, smirking when Steve’s head jerks back to attention, his irises visibly flaring in excitement. “Yeah, Baby. It’s time.”

“Fuck.”

“You ready for the home stretch?” He waggles his eyebrows and lets his head rest back against the tub, spreading his legs wider and keeping his eyes on Steve. “Gotta keep up,” he instructs, even though Steve already knows how this goes. When Bucky tightens his hand and speeds up the pace of how fast he’s jerking himself off, Steve copies him. That’s how it is at the end of this—totally-rigged-in-Bucky’s-favor—game. They both jerk off at the pace that Bucky sets, and the first one to splash water on the floor or come is the loser. It’s not very fair, but Bucky never claimed he was a fair guy. He is, in fact, selfish as fuck.

Lucky for him, Steve’s into that.

“Fuck,” Steve pants from his end of the tub. He slides down lower, keeping more of his body under the water in an attempt to prevent splashing. It’s a futile effort, though, because he’s doomed to lose anyway with the faster pace that Bucky’s set. Already, he’s going lobster red in the face, brow pinched and desperate, knees knocking the sides of the tub as he compulsively works the toy in his ass.

The arousal in Bucky’s gut coils tighter at the sight. “Watch my hand,” he warns, when he notices Steve slacking off. “Gotta match it, Baby.”

“I am.”

“Tighter,” he says, eyes gleaming. “And stop avoiding the head. I can see you cheatin’ over there, Punk.”

Steve whimpers, and Bucky knows that he really wasn’t going as tight as he is, because Steve’s hand changes its hold and he starts getting the head of his dick with the same intensity that Bucky is. Bucky grins open mouthed, panting. “Atta boy.”

“You should—ugn.” Steve grimaces. “Should get a penalty, for being cut. I should get an extra, nnnh, th-thirty seconds, at least.”

Bucky laughs, because trust Steve to think of a sportsman’s solution to the inequity of their dicks. Steve being uncut means that it takes less intense stimulation for him to come. They both know this, Bucky loves this, and again: he never claimed the game was fair. “No penalty,” he grunts, speeding up his pace even further. Steve’s eyes widen but he matches it. Bucky grits his teeth. He can hold out long enough. Steve’ll blow in seconds at this pace.

And sure enough, it’s not even twenty seconds later when Steve is crying out, body tensing and muscles straining gorgeously as he seizes up and starts to come. “Agh!” His knees fling out hard and hit the sides of the tub, splashing water over the lip to the floor below. But he hasn’t even noticed, he’s so lost to his orgasm. His asshole is twitching, sucking on the Aneros as the contractions of his body pull the toy up against his prostate again and again, drawing the pleasure out. He shoves down hard in the water and shouts louder, as though he’s getting a second orgasm on top of the first. “Ohnfuck …”

Bucky groans as he watches it happen: Steve’s gorgeous face and juddering hips, big hand wringing up hard underneath the head the whole way through. The fucking sounds he makes, Jesus wept. It’s leagues better than any porn Bucky’s ever seen. “Fuck, Baby,” he praises. “Yes. Fuck that’s so hot …”

Steve’s hand keeps working the whole way through, only abandoning his cock once it’s fully spent and softening, the cloudy ribbons of his cum floating away in the bathwater. “Fuck,” he exhales hugely once it’s done, letting his body go lax and slump so far down that only his face is above the waterline.

Bucky grunts and spreads his legs wider, not heeding the splashing rule now that he’s already won. The water splashes precariously as he shoves his hips down and down and down, squeezing the shape of the toy inside so fucking perfectly. Fuck, it feels fucking good working over his spot like that. “Oghnnn,” he pants, grunting and groaning and jerking his cock hard. “Fuck, Baby. You’re so fucking pretty. Fuck. M’gonna cum …”

Steve gives a sated hum from his end of the tub. Bucky can sense him shifting in the water, and then gasps when he feels the ball of Steve’s foot gently press up on his balls. His eyes fly open and he looks down. “Oh, shit,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck.”

Steve grins and rubs his foot against him. And Bucky doesn’t have that fetish, but there’s something so fucking perverse about seeing Steve’s toes up against his balls that it turns his brain to mush anyway and pushes him right on over into orgasm. He shoots off beneath the water, stroking and thrusting and moaning—and probably splashing water all over the floor just as badly as Steve ever has.