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fangswbenefits · 1 year

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Backfire

Summary: The math is simple: you make Miguel jealous + push him past his breaking point = hot rough sex. Too bad Miguel doesn’t do simple.

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

18+. Jealous and possessive Miguel. Edging. Thigh riding. Orgasm denial. Fingering. Creampie.

You should know better than to cross Miguel O’Hara.

It rarely went according to plan, and he’d always end up having the upper hand.

But that still didn’t deter you from trying to change the outcome.

With a dramatic sigh, you flopped onto the couch, swinging your legs over Miguel’s. He shot you a side-glace as the oversized shirt you were wearing, rode up your thighs, barely covering much.

Miguel didn’t mind that you would often steal his shirts, strolling around your shared apartment wearing nothing but one and just panties.

Today was one of those days.

He sprawled one large and warm hand on your knee, caressing it absentmindedly, as he flicked through his pad.

“That new recruit is interesting,” you started, inspecting your nails.

“What recruit?”

“The one from yesterday.”

Miguel’s fingers paused as they were about to trail up your thigh. “Interesting?”

“Cute.”

“Ah.”

You glanced ovet at him, expecting the beginnings of a frown to settle on his face.

Nothing.

The pads of his fingers resumed the light motion, and he kept his gaze fixed on the orange screen.

That was odd.

It usually didn’t take long to rile Miguel up with the threat of other men interacting with you. You absolutely adored teasing him with fake interest in them, knowing it would be enough to make his blood boil.

But it seemed like he wasn’t taking the bait this time.

You needed to up the intensity.

“Maybe I should show him around?”

His middle finger was drawing tiny circles on your skin, but he merely hummed in response.

“… or mentor him?”

He clicked his tongue. “You’d be a terrible mentor.”

You scowled. Deeply.

This wasn not going as planned…

Clearing your throat, you scooted closer to him, the motion causing the shirt to slide further up, now revealing your laced panties.

That caught his attention, crimson eyes darting to the side.

“Terrible mentor?” you huffed dramatically with a pout. “I think he would be better off with me than with Jessica.”

You exchanged looks, both knowing that was a ridiculous statement.

“You get too distracted,” he said, patting your thigh gently. “… and are too distracting,” he added, eyes landing on your panties.

Oh.

You smiled inwardly, tasting the sweetness of victory firing up your heart. Shoving his hand away, you shifted to straddle one of his thighs, lacing your arms behind his neck.

“He’s really attractive,” you teased once again, locking eyes with his.

Miguel set the pad aside and brought his fingers to grip your chin, staring intensely at you. “What are you doing?”

“Me? Nothing!” you feigned confusion, slightly dragging your panties across his sweatpants.

He clicked his tongue, placing the other hand on your hip and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re too obvious.”

The feel of fabric on fabric only added to the delicious friction on your clit, and you smiled deviously. His muscles underneath you flexed ever so slightly, providing more tension.

“Maybe I should meet him tomorrow dressed like this.”

It was faint, but you spotted something crossing his eyes, his lips pressed firmly into a fine line.

There you go, Miguel, you cheered.

He let go of your chin and had the talon on his index finger protrude, grazing the collar of his shirt, before sliding down slowly, popping each button effortlessly.

You kept grinding on his thigh, feeling a gush of wetness spill into your underwear, sipping through and damping him.

Once he was done slicing off every single button you whined, sticking out your lower lip. “That was my favourite shirt!”

“It’s my shirt.”

The sudden exposure was enough to harden your nipples, earning a glance from him, as your breasts bounced softly with each sway of your hips.

You leaned in to whisper into his ear. “I’m yours, too, yet you don’t seem to mind that I hang out with other men.”

The hand on you hip slid all the way to your lower abdomen, and his fingers started teasing the hem of your panties.

“Ah. So this is what you’re doing,” he said with a nod, flexing the muscles in contact with you, earning a low gasp from your parted lips.

“Took you long enough.”

“Didn’t take me long at all, cariño,” he whispered, dipping his fingers to meet your swollen clit. “You’re not that subtle.”

You had unlace your arms around his nack and place both hands on his shoulders to keep your balance.

“You’re riding my thigh while mentioning other men,” he continued, spreading your own wetness across your folds and clit. “You want to rile me up.”

You arched your back into his touch, slowly edging yourself. “Me?”

“You want to ride something else.”

Touché.

At this point, you were too entranced in his fingers to even bother denying it. You let one of your hands drop to his lap, feeling his impressive erection straining to be set free.

One finger teased your entrance and you bucked your hips, desperate for him to slide it in.

His cock twitched under your palm and you glanced down to see a growing wet spot right where his tip was.

He slid one finger first, and soon added a second one, and you let out a strained sigh of relief.

You squeezed hard on his shoulder, holding on for the intense wave of pleasure that was about to hit you the moment you began riding him.

His other free hand snaked in between you two, cupping on of hour breasts, before brushing his thumb across your nipple.

“You’re already close.”

It wasn’t a question.

Miguel knew your body like he knew the entire layout of Nueva York. Months of fucking you had gifted with with unmatched knowledge of what made you tick and yearn for more.

You kept a steady grip on both his cock abd shoulder, trying your best to ready yourself for the impending orgasm that kept drawing closer and closer as he grazed the heel of his hand against your clit.

He growled into your ear as you pressed your face against his, breath coming out in shallow pants.

You were so close.

Your hand pulled down the waistband of his pants, and half of his cock emerged, pressed firmly against his lower abdomen, leaking strings of precum.

The wet sounds that filled the room were borderline obscene, which only served to heighten your pleasure.

Desperate rolls of your hips met his hand and you moaned out his name when he slipped a third finger.

The familiar coils of an orgasm slowly consuming your entire body had you dropping your head on his shoulder, whimpering loudly, ready to welcome your sought after high.

But as quickly as it came, it was soon over.

Miguel immediately removed his fingers from inside your squeezing pussy at once and had you pushed down flat on your stomach against the couch in no time.

“What the fuck!” you growled, the side of your face pressed into the pillow with both hands pinned behind your back.

You felt his hot breath in your hear. “You really thought I’d let you cum after that little stunt you pulled?”

Despair rained down on you as your walls clenched around nothing. “Miguel… what the fuck! Put them back!”

He was much stronger and bigger than you, so he had effectively rendered you immobile rather easily.

“I will once you promise me one thing,” his breath fanned your skin, raising goosebumps along your entire body.

You’d do anything to have him back inside you in that moment.

Anything.

“What is it?”

He gave one asscheek an almost painful squeeze. “Promise me you’ll never fuck anyone else.”

Your clit pulsed rapidly against your drenched folds and you tried to set free from his grasp, but all to no avail.

“Miguel…”

He then clipped your panties off with one talon. His hand dipped between your legs and he pressed his thumb against your entrance, causing your hips to jerk in a desperate attempt at more friction.

“Promise me.”

You bit down on your lip, frustration consuming you whole, as tears began to sting your eyes.

“Prométeme,” he growled.

Your lips parted in a sudden gasp once he slipped two fingers slowly inside, causing you to immediately clamp down around him.

“Yes… yes!” you then growled, trying your best to ride his fingers once again and pumping in and out of you at a steady pace.

He kept his other hand gripping your wrists tightly against your back, making sure you were kept in place.

“Qué maravilla,” he said lowly, but you could detect faint sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Slowly but surely, eased his pressure on you, giving your hips enough freedom to have you jerk against him, your pussy eagerly squeezing his fingers.

He eventually let go of your wrists and you brought your hands to grip the fabric of the couch, moaning loudly with each thrust.

You were getting close to the edge once more, not bothering to sound coherent anymore.

The closer you got to your orgasm, the more you frantically rode him.

“I’m… I’m…” you gasped loudly, eyes fluttering shut.

Miguel pressed a kiss to your temple. “I know.”

And his fingers were gone.

The beginning of your orgasm slipped away from you as if you were trying to catch smole with bare hands.

This time, you flipped and were ready to pounce him, frustration overtaking all your senses.

But Miguel’s reflexes were sharp as ever and he immediately caught both your wrists, pinning your back against the couch.

“Fuck you!” you spat, lips quivering from anger. “I promised!”

He settled between your squirming legs, as he pinned both your arms over your head.

“You didn’t sound convincing enough,” he said simply, rubbing your pulse point with his thumbs.

“Fuck you!”

He chuckled. “I know you want to, but I need assurances, cariño.”

You glared at him furiously, wanting nothing more than to hurt him the way he was hurting you, tears still streaming down your face.

“I promise… I won’t fuck anyone else…”

His cock bounced freely from his pants and he positioned the tip covered in precum against your clit.

“And you won’t try to make me jealous again.”

You rose your hips, hoping it would cause his to align with your entrance instead.

“I won’t. Ever,” you sobbed sheepishly.

He then pushed inside you effortlessly, glaring down at where your bodies were connected, watching in marvel as your pussy swallowed all of him in no time.

You were too overstimulated at this point to keep playing the waiting game, so you promptly rolled your hips, and squeezed tightly around his cock.

“Frustration suits you,” he mocked with a growl, allowing you to bounce on his cock freely.

“Fuck off…” you groaned, bringing your hand down to rub your clit.

He quickly shoved it away, scowling. “You don’t want me to make you cum?”

“You’ve been edging me for too long… I need to…” your voice died down as he pressed your clit flat with the pad of his thumb.

You jerked involuntarily as he repeated the motion, climbing the steep height of pleasure, hoping you’d reach its peak this time.

“Cum first,” he growled, his own hips snapping to meet yours. “I need to feel you squeezing me.”

You hated how his command was what brought you iver the edge, the initial contractions of your orgasm breaking the motion of your hips, violently enveloping in an overwhelming and blinding surge of unmatched bliss.

Miguel kept rubbing your clit, earning stronger squeezes from you. “Keep going…”

Your back arched and you felt yourself sliding along his cock until he was all the way in. He let out a strangled grunt, and that let you know he had reached his peak, too.

He tried to set a broken rhythm as he came deep inside you, but your grip on his cock was too paralysing for him to move.

As clarity began to clean your dazed mind, you watched as Miguel squeezed his eyes shut and parted his lips to reveal his fangs, drowning in intense pleasure.

He nearly lost balance and fell on top of you, but steadied himself in time, still buried deep.

“I fucking hate you,” you groaned, trying to control your breathing.

He shuddered one last time, panting heavily, but still managing to put on a mocking smile. “You love hate fucking me.”

Masterlist

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #miguel ohara x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel x reader

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dreamermonica · 2 months

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—gender neutral reader x bakugou, just a drabble escalating into a oneshot cause my brain's rotting with mha (mostly katsuki) pls save me from the dump called writing block errr also mild language cuz this is boom boy

“what the hell?”

a very bad word crossed your mind the moment BAKUGOU had entered your dorm room—following shortly is a silence so dense that you swore you heard your stomach drop.

the object that had piqued the attention of your visitor were perched right upon your desk. the very same object that could very well also be the reason you meet your demise.

your dynamight plushies and figurines,

yes. plural.

—were bared in display, to the very man you harbored a big fat crush on.

the silence enveloped your room like a tight veil. a shudder makes its way down your spine when you finally felt a piercing gaze burning onto the back of your head. you are so fucked.

“i—uhm, i can explain!” you break the silence, holding your hands up whilst turning around to meet his crimson eyes—scanning you over whilst you attempt to figure out an excuse.

let's do a quick throwback:

see, you were rather confident in your abilities and quirk—one of the best, you smugly think—but academics were still a great obstacle to overcome, even for an upcoming pro hero. it's a formidable force that's against your dream becoming reality! not really, but you get the point.

damned ectoplasm shouldn't be teaching math! your brain cells were always fizzled out like kaminari's after he used up all his electricity by the time whenever ectoplasm had left the room after a discussion.

a dark cloud looms over your head more often after a particular topic you're struggling to comprehend, the fact that you were called out earlier by ectoplasm and miserably failed to answer didn't hell—and you're sure your god-sent classmates have noticed it.

a few smarties had reached out already—like yaoyorozu and iida, offering their notes with a smile and promising a few tutor lessons if you were to accept. keyword: if.

even though you were tearing up at their kindness and thoughtfulness, you gently declined them before slapping a fist to your chest—

“i shall overcome this by myself! my failure to adapt is a known weakness of mine, and i shall defeat this boss known as calculus with my own strength, no matter what it takes!”

a distant 'how manly!' sounded throughout the room.

it's not manly, you mentally cry out to kirishima. you were just embarrassed to actually get help because you were one of the top students of the class. you need to uphold your image as a capable student, whatever it takes! not so manly now, are we?!

the top one and top two worriedly glance you over, reluctant at your reasoning, but they hadn't pushed it further thankfully, and wished you good luck.

you definitely needed it, you sulk.

your stupid declaration must've spread throughout the entire class, cause now a scowling bakugou katsuki is stomping his way over to you once classes had finished, stopping a few feet away from you whilst you were packing up your stuff.

“oi. i heard your dumb ass earlier—why are you refusing to ask for help?! you plan on getting behind all of us just because of that damn picture perfect image of yours?!” he yells, and you're now sweating, twiddling with your fingers.

you're not surprised that he approached you—he had declared you as one of his rivals (he called you a stepping stone to his victory but same thing!) ages ago and knowing his competitive nature, you surmised he was probably disappointed that you were stumped in such a pathetic way.

“w-what pride do you mean, bakugo? haha...”

“shut the fuck up. you know what i'm talking about,” a finger presses onto your chest as if to emphasize his point, and you just now realize the distance between you.

caramel wafts its way to your nose. heat crawls up your neck as you avert your gaze away from his chiseled face.

he hisses at your dazed look, “i'm beating calculus into your goddamn brain later tonight whether you like it or not, you got that extra?!”

you break out of your stupor when he leans away from you to gauge your reaction. of course he'd say something like that, even if he was just trying to help.

you shrink under his gaze, embarrassed and defeated at his intensity. if even the big bad bakugo thinks you need help, then maybe you really do.

“...okay.” you resign after a few seconds of contemplation, “thank you, bakugo.”

clicking his tongue, he gives you one last look before turning on his heels, walking towards the door.

you look around and realize that you were the only ones left in the classroom. did he offer his help in private so you would keep the image you're upholding? eh, whatever, he was probably the embarrassed one because he never offers help willingly to anyone.

you blink.

wait—he never helps unless someone would beg on their knees for him, so why—

“...you were always the one preaching about lowering my pride or whatever,”

your eyes dart towards the sound of his voice where bakugo paused his steps at the exit, glaring at you over his shoulder.

he huffs as he adds on, “cut that shit out, hypocrite.”

you blink owlishly and he's gone as he turned the corner, his loud footsteps echoing through the hall.

shaking your head, you pack your stuff up and rush out the door shortly after, eager to return to the comfort provided by your bed.

his words ring in your ears as you walked back to the dorms.

—now, baam, we're back to the present.

you're so fucked, if it wasn't mentioned earlier.

bakugou katsuki is now staring at you, silently demanding an explanation on why you have a row of mini dynamights, ranging from the winter version of his costume, to one of him wearing his signature black tank top—he hasn't even debuted yet as a pro-hero, so the amount you have is probably concerning. maybe even borderline creepy.

fuck being creepy—this probably looks horrifying!

“it's—uh...”

you hadn't had the chance to hide them before he so rudely, barged into your room carrying the materials needed for your study session.

“well, you're my idol, because you're so strong and—” inflate his ego! it's not like it wasn't the truth either with how much you compliment him during training, so maybe he'll be distracted enough and let it slide—

“did ponytail make these for you?” he asked quietly, ignoring your praises and walking past your panicked state as he got closer to inspect the tiny versions of him. he slowly took one from the bunch—a plushie of him wearing the suit he specifically used for a mission in otheon. “how the hell are the outfits so accurate?”

“...”

“answer my questions and i'll let this weird obsession of yours a secret, fuckin' creep.” he seems to like the way you took in his words, horrified, a smirk dancing on his lips as he turns away.

this sadist, you swear to all might...

“okay, okay! so uh...” you gulp as he continues inspecting the army of tiny bakugous, “yes, i had yaoyorozu make them. as for the outfits—i borrowed your blueprints, remember? it was to find some inspiration in enhancing my own costume, but i guess it also had some other uses...?”

he grunts in response to your explanation as his eyes move away from the desk and land onto your bed, where a few more plushies of him resided.

your face is definitely burning up by now.

“wasn't aware you were a fan,” you could hear the grin as he spoke, and you're one hundred percent sure he's never going to live this down, “well, i guess it's expected. i am amazing after all.”

“...yeah.” you agree, albeit cautious, trying to sound uneager to avoid inflating his ego anymore than you already have.

he moves to lean over your bed and grabs a plushie of him wearing his school uniform, squeezing it lightly, “but if you want me to be honest—this shit's kinda creepy.”

would he stop you if you just took a swan dive out of your window? should you get him to roast you alive right now? you wish all might would just united-states-smash you at this moment.

your hands shoot up to your face as you crouched down, too humiliated to even look at him even if he wasn't facing you.

“kill me now...”

“i've got plenty of chances to do that in the future, don't worry,” he's oddly calm for someone who's standing in a room practically devoted to him, “this is pretty adorable of you i must admit,”

you freeze. tickle my pickle! no fucking way he just called you adorable!

“you got a crush on me or something?”

ah.

this is it. you hope you've done enough good to end up in heaven atleast.

“well, if you're not gonna kill me, we should probably just study and get it over with—oh, we should also just go down to the commons—

“i told you to answer all my questions, didn't i!?”

“...”

the blonde finally turns, hands free of any plushies, crossing his arms over his chest as you stare up at him through the gaps of your fingers. he raises a challenging brow at your hesitation.

“well?” he urges on, “did you go mute from embarrassment or something?”

you say something underneath your breath and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“speak up, you idio—”

“i like you, bakugou katsuki.”

you stand up from your crouched position and situated yourself to your desk, bringing out your textbooks from a drawer as he stared on silently. the silence had grown thicker than the one before.

“let's just get this study session over with so you can go, okay?” you spin around your office chair to look at him with a small smile, as if you didn't just confess, “wanna go down to the commons? my room seems to be uncomfortable for y—

“i was joking about the creep shit, you dumbass.”

you stare at him in surprise when he holds you by the shoulders, gently pushing down to prevent you from getting up from your chair.

“bakugou...?”

“...i'll teach you here. no need to get up.”

“but—”

“shut up. get ponytail to make me a plushie of you so we're even, alright?”

confused, you're about to speak up again and he resolves it by squeezing your cheeks, resulting in only incoherent babbles from your mouth.

“bafhkugou—!”

“ugh, i like you too, if your dumbass hasn't gotten it yet.”

“ohfmayghodf—”

“shut it. no more words from you.” he waits a moment for you to calm down, and lets go of your burning cheeks. a smile grows on his face when you weakly glare up at him, but it quickly turns wicked in the span of a second.

“now...you were so eager to start studying earlier, weren't you?”

he unfortunately wasn't joking about beating the damn subject onto your brain. you could feel a mild headache from all the times he hit your head with a roll of paper.

but nonetheless, you know the hard work and pain paid off when you finally got a question right during ectoplasm's class.

bless bakugou, you'd kiss him right now if you could—

“so,” the boy in question starts as you discreetly hand him a plushie of you in your hero costume, he seems to brighten up at that, taking it nearly immediately, but attempts to appear unbothered as he moves his gaze back to yours.

“are we gonna talk about that body pillow last night or—”

“katsuki—no.”

“pfft,” he snorts, “suit yourself, fangirl.”

imagine your surprise when yaoyorozu snitches and tells you that bakugou practically threated her to make more plushies of you after he received the initial one

#bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki #har❗#mha x you #bnha x you

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frostbitebakery · 7 months

Text

Loud.

part one two three

“You’re impossible!”

Obi-Wan harrumphs back at Cody with feeling. The way they’re running it’s equally impossible to sign or code tap. He engages the lights on his gloves, squeezes his fingers in a rhythm and the code appears in short and long lines on the back of his hand. Which he gladly shows to Cody. “You’re one to talk.”

“Dogpiling Grievous was a calculated move,” Cody huffs back, skids to a halt at a maintenance door that Obi-Wan almost missed. While Cody types in the emergency sequence, he carefully gets his message ready.

“You’re bad at math,” Cody reads blandly when he turns around. “Very funny.”

“Careful,” he signs, fingers stiff and unwieldy as the nervousness crawls through him. Setting in his knees, making them weak. A clump in his stomach. Stiff, clumsy hands.

“You know you can change your mind any moment,” Cody says, catches his eyes and Obi-Wan sinks into the warmth. “We can stop whenever you need.”

“No.”

Cody waits for him to continue but he can’t even nod or move. The gap between their fingers feels insurmountable.

But he wants this. Needs this, on a level deeper than the trust he has in Cody.

“Shadows don’t trust easily,” he wants to say. “I do even less.” His trust is forged in pain and loss and bittersweet victories. And faith.

“I like hugging,” his fingers confess and he feels stupid for the brief moment until Cody’s face lights up.

The mask digs into his face where it’s smashed against Cody’s shoulder. Cody’s arms feel safe and unhesitating and so sure it unlocks Obi-Wan’s knees and stomach and fingers and he’s hugging back with eyes closed.

For the first time in a long, long while he wants his voice back. He doesn’t know what he’d say. And perhaps it doesn’t matter. Just the urge to pull off the mask and move his mouth—

soft lips press against his temple just over the edge of the mask, gentle fingers tap on his hand in code, “I hear you.”

You really do, don’t you, Obi-Wan thinks, watches his own hand tap in the same rushed rhythm. One short, one long, two short.

“I hear you,” Cody signs back, forehead against Obi-Wan’s brow.

Three long.

Obi-Wan never lost his voice.

Three short, one long.

Not with the people that matter.

One short.

“Me too,” Cody whispers. “Ready?”

The catches on the mask hiss as they open.

“You’re impossible!”

“You’re bad at math,” Cody reads blandly when he turns around. “Very funny.”

Obi-Wan squeezes out another message.

“It was also very hot,” Cody reads. And pauses.

Obi-Wan imagines the blush hidden by the helmet vividly and smiles.

He’s ushered with no further comment into the maintenance closet which bears entrance to some shortcuts across the Malvolence. He looks at Cody in question who shrugs.

“I briefly saw the holoprints in one of the war rooms.”

Yes. One of the many reasons this infatuation is turning into something warm and bright and unbearably sweet. Cody is making himself a place in Obi-Wan’s heart like he’s coming back home.

“We’re almost there, Sir,” Cody says suddenly, relief palpable in his voice. Master Windu must have finally reached him on comms. “Understood, Sir. No more shenanigans, Sir.”

Obi-Wan’s shoulders shake with laughter.

“The mask helps me breathe,” Obi-Wan explains, head held high under Cody’s gaze. Getting out of breath could possibly suffocate him. Too dry or humid air is painful. With the exact parameters of what his body is able to handle, the healers had settled on a mask to protect him when he runs too fast. “Or other strenuous activities,” he adds with a slight smirk.

Cody shakes his head at him with a fond smile that tingles in Obi-Wan’s chest pleasantly. His thumb caresses the web of scars going from Obi-Wan’s bottom lip. “Can you feel that?”

“A little bit.” Not much at all, when it comes down to it. Kissing has become unimportant to him out of necessity. Few people had wanted to kiss him in the first place when the scars had still looked fresh. He’s lucky his jaw hadn’t needed to be replaced, so he’s not complaining.

It had been difficult nonetheless. To work around the muteness, the way his body had been changed. He’s learned to put more importance into other gestures than kissing on the mouth.

Cody’s forehead rests against his once more, catching his hand and slowly stroking the palm, up to the fingertips. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Gestures like Cody’s.

“I didn’t expect to see you there,” Cody says as they settle into the rescue shuttle. “General Windu said we had reliable intel to do a hit and run on the Malvolence.”

Obi-Wan waves his hand, palm empty before a flick of his fingers reveals the data stick.

“Information retrieval,” Cody asks, voice changing from vocoder to his usual timbre as he lifts his helmet. “I imagine there was a lot of useful data to harvest.” The shuttle is rocked as the warship explodes. “I should’ve saved my sweets ration,” Cody murmurs, eyes reflecting fire and bone-deep satisfaction.

“You’re dying for a fabricated war,” Obi-Wan doesn’t sign. The intel he managed to get his hands on is enough to connect the missing senate funds with Serenno’s newly acquired wealth from another angle and make it waterproof.

Destabilizing a whole galaxy for— for shits and giggles. Obi-Wan sits on his hands, shuts himself up so he can think.

“The Dark Side has clouded their vision. Hundreds of senators are now under the influence of a Sith lord called Darth Sidious,” Dooku’s voice grates through his memory. Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to tell him just where he could store his lightsaber for safekeeping so his erstwhile grandmaster had taunted him with the truth, in hindsight.

Anakin.

The signs rush out of his hands, too fast for Cody at first. He repeats himself, trusts that Cody, brilliant, brilliantly fast Cody, will get it.

The helmet is back on Cody’s head, lights flickering on, antennas adjusting their angle.

“General Windu, this is Commander Cody using emergency frequency 2-Esk-5-0. Immediate contact with General Bilaba required. Immediate removal from battle of General Skywalker required. Use of force strongly encouraged should he resist.”

Obi-Wan crosses the small distance, waving his hands before using the quick battle sign for “deliver message”.

“General, Master Shadow Kenobi has a message,” Cody says, doesn’t pause as he translates to voice even though his back goes ramrod straight. “Chancellor is the Sith. I have proof. Ani must be kept away from him.”

“Some call them traitors,” Cody whispers, “but I’d rather turn a blind eye and let them run than watch them step into blaster fire because they don’t want to fight with every fiber of their being.”

“You’re a good man,” Obi-Wan signs, hands held up a bit so Cody can see. He hadn’t wanted to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes for the confession, had chosen to press him close under his chin instead. “You’re a good man,” Obi-Wan taps out on Cody’s chest so he can feel his words, too.

#loud au #codywan #obi wan kenobi #jedi shadow!obi wan #mute!obi wan #commander cody #star wars #sw tcw #my art #frostbitebakery art

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transform4u · 2 months

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woke up this morning and found my laptop hacked and a new file on the screen that reads americanfratbro.mp3. what does it mean?

It’s late, the kind of night where the only light in your room comes from the harsh glow of your computer screen. You're hunched over your desk, eyes straining to decipher the tangled web of quantum mechanics sprawled before you. The numbers and equations seem to mock you, their complexity a maddening puzzle you can’t quite solve.

Then, without warning, your focus shifts to a file on your screen labeled “americanfratbro.mp3.” Curiosity gets the better of you, and you haphazardly click on it. The instant the file opens, your screen is overtaken by a barrage of images: frothy beers, a frenetic football game, and the American flag waving triumphantly. Words flash by, dancing across the screen: “Bro Time!” “Victory!” “Let’s Go!”

Your frustration boils over. “Damn it!” you hiss, trying to keep your voice down so you don’t wake your roommate. You fumble with the laptop, attempting to close it, but in your panic, you knock over a can of beer that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “FuuuuuUUUcCCk!” you exclaim, your voice now a deep rumble that echoes through the room. You realize too late that you’ve probably woken your roommate.

As the beer spills, it drips down your clothes, and wherever the beer touches, your skin darkens to a rich tan. You’re momentarily entranced by the sight. The smell of the beer grows stronger, and it’s intoxicatingly sweet. Without a second thought, you grab the can and take a swig.

The cold liquid hits your tongue, and as you drink, your mind starts to unravel. The facts and figures you’ve spent so long trying to master begin to dissolve, slipping away from your consciousness. Friendships, math classes, and even your love for literature—everything is erased in the face of this new sensation. Your head throbs with each heartbeat, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

Your laptop is still open, and the voice from the screen now blares with a gruff authority: “No mercy, no excuses!” “Show up and dominate!” The words resonate through your foggy mind, pushing you further into a trance. You’re slack-jawed and disoriented, your brain struggling to keep up with the overwhelming shift. Your world narrows down to the pulsating rhythm of the voice and the beer’s lingering flavor, erasing everything that once mattered to you.

As you sit there, reeling from the spilled beer and its bewildering effects, your laptop screen erupts into a sensory overload of indulgence. The screen blares at you with relentless enthusiasm, showcasing phrases like “Bro, it’s all about living life to the fullest!” and “You only live once—so why not go big or go home?” The words are punctuated by relentless reminders to “Flex on ‘em, dude!” and “Crush it, bro! Winners never quit!” The once-muted tones of your academic pursuits are drowned out by this cacophony of superficial triumph.

Images flash before your eyes with a dazzling, almost hypnotic rhythm: a group of impossibly buff men in bright pastel polos, their muscles bulging as they flex in front of a luxury yacht; a gleaming white Tesla parked in a driveway that could rival a country club's manicured perfection; a raucous pool party where designer swim trunks, oversized sunglasses, and bottles of high-end champagne are de rigueur; and a pristine country club, where elegantly dressed individuals sip cocktails with the grace of the effortlessly affluent.

Each phrase and image seems to wrap around you, enveloping you in a new persona. You feel the shift in your mindset as you’re bathed in a wave of entitlement and self-assuredness. You begin to imagine yourself in the latest designer polo shirt, your teeth dazzlingly white and a smirk permanently plastered on your face. The world of academic diligence fades into the background, eclipsed by the blaring confidence and superficiality of a life steeped in privilege.

Thoughts begin to twist and turn in your newly altered mindset. “Why bother with all this intellectual stuff?” you think. “Life’s about having fun and showing off!” A surge of superiority pulses through you, and you imagine yourself as the undeniable center of attention in every room you enter. Conversations that once revolved around ideas and learning now revolve around the latest trends, gym routines, and anecdotes of your superior lifestyle. Your world narrows to a self-important lens where your opinions are the only ones that matter, and everyone else becomes mere background noise.

Empathy and humility are replaced by a sharp, unshakable belief in your own superiority. Your wardrobe now resembles a shrine to preppy excess—khaki shorts that could double as sailboat uniforms, ostentatious polo shirts, and boat shoes polished to perfection. You navigate life with a blend of casual arrogance and an insatiable need for validation. In conversations, you dismiss any differing opinions with a wave of your hand, certain that your views, shaped by fleeting trends and superficial judgments, are the only ones worth considering. The concept of understanding others or stepping outside your own privilege is foreign to you; instead, you revel in adulation and assertiveness, basking in the relentless glow of your self-importance.

As you gaze into the computer screen, the reflection staring back at you is a stark contrast to the image you crave. The figure that meets your eyes is weak, pallid, and painfully ordinary—a far cry from the confident, muscular ideal you once envisioned. The sight of yourself, so far removed from the idealized version, ignites a surge of frustration. In a fit of rage, you crush the beer can against your forehead. The impact sends a jolt through your body, like an electric shock coursing through your veins. The pain is sharp, almost liberating, as if it’s tearing down the last remnants of the persona you never truly embodied.

Slowly, your physique begins to morph, each muscle gradually reshaping itself into a meticulously crafted shrine to vanity and privilege. As you watch, your body transforms into a physical testament to a life lived in the gym, not the real world. Your abs become chiseled to an absurd degree, sculpted through endless crunches and protein shakes. They’re so pronounced they almost seem to sneer at those who haven’t shared your genetic fortune or gym membership. The six-pack, impossibly defined, stands as a monument to superficial dedication rather than genuine commitment.

Your biceps swell with impressive size, though they’re less a sign of true strength and more a product of relentless curls and flexing. The veins bulge beneath your skin, perpetually in a state of flexing, as if they were designed to showcase your hard work rather than any real substance.

Yet, beneath this glossy exterior lies a troubling reality. You smell of stale sweat and cheap cologne, a potent blend that hints at rigorous workouts paired with an equally rigorous disregard for personal hygiene. The scent clings to you like an unwelcome guest, blending with the overpowering aroma of your latest designer fragrance—an ill-advised attempt to mask the musk of neglect.

Your clothes, while always styled to perfection, are a gaudy celebration of preppy excess. Your polo shirts, in blindingly bright colors or adorned with ostentatious logos, cling to your physique like a second skin, revealing every bulging muscle and uneven tan line. Your khaki shorts are tailored just short enough to flaunt your tanned, muscular legs, and they’re paired with boat shoes polished to a high gloss, though they rarely see a boat's deck.

The entire ensemble is designed not just to impress but to scream your superior status. Your wardrobe—Ralph Lauren polos, Vineyard Vines shorts—is as much a statement as it is a testament to preppy fashion standards. Each stitch and seam shouts privilege and entitlement, reflecting a carefully curated image of superiority.

As you glance at your phone, the message from an unknown number lights up the screen: “Sup bro? Party at Delta Nu—they’ve got the hottest chicks.” Your pulse quickens with excitement.

Suddenly, you feel an overwhelming sense of confusion wash over you. You weren't into chicks. You were stricly dickly, men's bodies were---uhhh-hahahaha---BURRRRP--- You can't believe what just happened - did you really just think that? Chicks were fucking hot! It's not like you didn't know it before, but something in your mind had convinced itself otherwise.

With a dumb laugh escaping your lips, the realization hits you hard: You aren't gay. And that makes everything so much simpler and clearer now. But wait… why did you even think that? Why did this weird thought even cross your mind? As these questions swirl around in your head, a sense of dumbness begins to creep up on you - like someone is slowly turning down the lights on all the intelligence stored inside of yours.

Striding across campus, your swagger is undeniable. You move with a sense of purpose, each step radiating confidence and a newfound arrogance. The usual scenery of academic buildings and quiet green spaces gives way to the pulsing beat of fraternity life.

With each step, a series of memories begins to unfurl in your mind, vivid and intoxicating. You recall a particular evening from your past—the memory is sharp and clear: a grand party at the Omega Theta house, a night where the air was thick with arrogance and entitlement. The dimly lit room was drenched in the erratic glow of strobe lights, casting unpredictable shadows on the walls. The relentless barrage of music was a mix of the latest hits and classic party anthems.

You were the center of it all, confidently navigating the crowd with a drink in hand and a smug smile on your face. The crowd parted as you approached, eager to bask in the light of your self-proclaimed superiority. You recall holding court near the keg, regaling your bros with tales of your latest conquests and extravagant purchases. Dressed in an outrageously bright polo shirt, its ostentatious logo a symbol of your high status, the shirt clung to your perfectly sculpted physique, each muscle on display as you gesticulated grandly with your free hand, the other wrapped around a red solo cup filled with cheap beer.

As you approach the Delta Nu house, your demeanor grows more self-assured, and a trace of condescension colors your interactions. You brush past students with a dismissive nod, their pleasantries falling on deaf ears.

The Delta Nu house looms ahead, a beacon of neon lights and boisterous noise. You push through the front door, immediately engulfed in a sea of loud music and the throbbing bass of a party in full swing. The room is packed with people, their voices blending into a cacophony of laughter and chatter. The air is thick with the mingling scents of cheap beer and heavy cologne.

Your gaze sweeps the room, taking in the scene with a mix of superiority and disdain. A group of your bros are huddled near the keg, their conversations punctuated with exaggerated gestures and loud laughs. “Bro, you made it!” one of them shouts, slapping you on the back with a force that nearly knocks you off balance. You respond with a broad smile and a dismissive wave, clearly the center of attention in this crowd.

The party is a parade of excess—red solo cups littered everywhere, music blasting from massive speakers, and people dancing in a manner that suggests they’ve completely let go of any pretense. Your attitude shifts from aloof to downright rude, as you elbow your way through the crowd, cutting in front of people without a second thought.

Your eyes settle on a chick across the room, her presence standing out amidst the chaos. She’s dressed in a sleek, figure-hugging outfit that exudes effortless style. You can’t help but feel a sense of entitlement as you approach her. “Hey, what’s up?” you say, your tone dripping with casual arrogance. “You enjoying the party or what?”

She looks up, slightly taken aback by your brashness, but you’re already too wrapped up in your own self-importance to notice. Your conversation, if it can be called that, is filled with vacuous comments and self-aggrandizing remarks. “Yeah, I know. I’m like, totally the man around here. Just came to have some fun, you know?”

As the night progresses, you continue to revel in the party, your demeanor growing increasingly entitled and superficial. Every interaction, every glance, is laced with a sense of superiority. You’re not just at the party; you’re the life of it, an embodiment of the frat-bro stereotype. The world beyond this raucous, beer-soaked haven seems distant and irrelevant, replaced by a relentless pursuit of immediate gratification and validation. You and your bros are at it again, playing beer pong with reckless abandon. The room is filled with the sound of laughter, cheers, and clinking glasses as you take shot after shot. You're acting like the entitled tool that you are - farting loudly whenever you feel like it, burping without a care in the world, and pulling off all sorts of pranks on unsuspecting victims.

The smell of beer lingers around you like a second skin; it's almost as if someone has doused you in it from head to toe. And even though this morning started out bright and early with a hangover that could rival any heavyweight champion's, here we are again - drunk off our asses and loving every minute of it! Your friends high-five each other when they see how far their little prank went tonight; meanwhile, everyone else at the party just shakes their heads in disbelief at how much fun (or trouble) one group can cause.

Your eyes lock onto her as she walks into the room, and you can't help but let out a low whistle. She's hot - really fucking hot! Her body is on full display in that tight little dress she's wearing, showing off every curve and line to perfection.

You approach her confidently, mansplaining something about beer pong or sports or whatever comes to mind first. She listens politely at first before rolling her eyes at your obnoxiousness. But hey, that just makes you want her more! You grab her ass without hesitation and pull her close for a passionate kiss - one that leaves no doubt about who's in charge here tonight.

You're flirting with her like there's no tomorrow, your drunken confidence reaching new heights. You flex your muscles for her, showing off how strong and manly you are. Then, you pull out your phone and start scrolling through pictures of yourself - posing in front of expensive cars or holding up wads of cash like it's nothing.

"Look at this," you slur as you hand her the phone. "I got money coming outta my ass! And I know how to treat a woman right." She laughs at first but then seems to soften when she sees the genuine desire in your eyes. "I want you so bad," you say without hesitation, grabbing her hand and leading her towards one of the bedrooms.

You push her onto the couch and start fucking her without any pretense of gentleness. She moans your name as you thrust into her, "Sebastian, you big fucking idiot" in between breathless gasps.

Your bros are all watching from outside the door, laughing their asses off at this dumb slut you're banging. Life as a dumbass American frat bro couldn't get any better than this! You tear off what remains of her clothes, eager to feel every inch of skin against yours. She screams out your name again - "Oh Seb!" - as she climaxes around you.

#gay to straight #male tf #douchebag tf #nerd to jock tf #jock tf #dumber #transformation #ask #Preppy tf #gay to straight tf

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months

Text

1968 [Chapter 12: Aphrodite, Goddess Of Love] [Series Finale]

A/N: Surprise!!! A new chapter from Maggie?? On a Thursday?? I was just too excited to wait! Please enjoy the final installment of 1968 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6k

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The sun is rising, and all the guests have dissipated like morning stars. You and Aegon are sitting across from each other at the table in the kitchenette of your suite, cool grey morning light slanting into the silence, confetti on the floor, broken glass, crumbs from the catered appetizers—gyros, hummus, pita, mini spanakopitas, baklava—stomped into the carpet, spots that are soggy with spilled champagne. The Plaza might have to replace it. Outside, rain falls in a mist. Your makeup is smudged; your hair is falling out of its clips and pins. Aemond is waiting, standing with his back to the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, blonde hair slicked back, blue suit, prosthetic eye filling the void in his skull. You know what happens next, but you can’t bring yourself to rise, to speak, to set it into motion. You stare down at the lines in the palm of your uninjured hand and think of the ropes of a sailboat, the invisible strings of gravity that enchain the universe.

Aegon swipes at his eyes: bloodshot, vacant, continuously streaming tears. “I’m gonna go back to Yuma.”

You look up at him, startled. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Aemond agrees from the wall.

Aegon begs you in a hoarse whisper, eyes dark and glistening like the Atlantic at night: “Come with me.”

Your hands shaking, your voice splintering. “I can’t, Aegon. I can’t.”

He drums his knuckles on the table, gets up from his chair, rushes to you before Aemond can stop him. He’s holding you, his lips to your forehead, the salt of his tears on your cheeks and your lips, like the ocean is bleeding out of him, like he’ll drown you. “I’m sorry,” he says, breath catching in his throat, his pores hemorrhaging smoke, horror, rum, ruin.

Once you pushed Aegon away, hated him, stained him with your husband’s blood. Now your fingernails hook like claws into his army jacket and cling there, frantic and childlike. “Not yet, please, Aegon, don’t go, please don’t go.”

“I have to, I’m sorry.”

“Aegon, no–”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s sobbing, he’s trembling, he’s gone. The doorway is empty like an unfinished sentence, like a myth no one remembers. The silence floods back into the rain-grey November air. The room is cold like a mausoleum. You touch your own face: tears Aegon left there, muscles and nerves dead beneath your skin, disbelief you sink through like the sea, waiting to hit the floor deep with the silt of rocks and wreckage and bones.

He’s gone? He’s really gone?

Aemond stalks over to the table, smirking, radiant, his hands in the pockets of his suit; he takes his time, he savors it. He’s never been higher. He was right all along. He can’t be killed, he is destined to be the president. It is God’s will. “Get ready,” Aemond says. “I have a victory speech to make.”

~~~~~~~~~~

He heads west on Route 70, billboards and drive-thrus, toll booths and reflective green mile markers, the kids fighting over who gets to pick the radio station from the back of the Dodge A-100 that Otto had hastily procured, handing over the keys as Aegon rolled his suitcase out of the Plaza Hotel. That first night they stop in Wheeling, Ohio, and the kids have startlingly little resistance to this upheaval. They can’t find much to complain about. A road trip with Dad and only Dad, no journalists badgering them for photos or quotes, no orders barked from Otto or Aemond, no exacting campaign itinerary, no scripted propriety, Mountain Dew spills on the carpet, Pizza Hut boxes on cheap springy motel mattresses.

“What do you think about all this?” Aegon asks Orion when the younger ones have dozed off: Cosmo and Thaddeus on one bed, Violeta in another, Spiro lounging across the threadbare sofa with a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring resting open on his chest.

Orion shrugs, that adolescent aversion to vulnerability, like the whole world is out to shake you down for evidence of the defections you’re so convinced define you. “It’s cool, I guess. It’s like an adventure. And we’ll get to see you a lot more.”

“Yeah you will,” Aegon promises. He feels sick: no booze, no pills, the grease of pepperoni churning in his belly. “And I’m never gonna be the way I was before.”

The bathroom is tiny and spartan, white porcelain, black specks of mildew. When he’s done showering, Aegon wipes the fog off the mirror with his fist. In Ancient Greece, a shaved head was the mark of a slave; it was meant to strip the man of his past, to make him brand new. He remembers Aemond saying this one afternoon as they were all out sailing at Asteria, Aegon sprawled on his back and drinking rum from the bottle as beams of sunlight refracted through the glass, Aemond leafing through one of his history books, Helaena throwing bits of pita to the seagulls, Daeron peering through his telescope for glimpses of dolphins, sharks, bobbing treasure from shipwrecks, imagined enemy vessels. Aegon thinks as he studies his reflection under the harsh fluorescent lights—crinkles by his eyes, skin ravaged by years of careless sunburn—that he wouldn’t mind not having a past. He opens his shaving kit and takes out the straight razor he never uses, shears off his tangled, windswept locks of blonde hair, smiles when the kids laugh and call him Yul Brynner the next morning over breakfast at the diner beside the motel, blueberry pancakes and toast wet with egg yolks. He’s not brand new; it’s impossible to be. But he’s getting closer.

The Fort Yuma Indian Reservation has grown during the Kennedy and Johnson years. The tribe now enjoys a steady income from numerous projects, including the leasing of farmland, a convenience store, a casino and resort, and an RV park. The school has been rebuilt—bigger, more modern, air conditioning, hallelujah—since Aegon was first exiled here twenty years ago, but several of the employees have familiar faces, and the current principal was once an English teacher assigned to be his mentor, a different lifetime, an ancient myth.

“You look good,” Artie says as he descends the concrete front steps on an afternoon in mid-November, 75 degrees, bright cerulean sky, no clouds. He takes Aegon’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Kind of fat, but good. You still play guitar?”

“I do, yeah. I have one in the back of my van right now.”

Artie glances at the giggling, waving children behind the glass windows. “Jesus Pleasus, how many kids you got?”

Aegon chuckles. “Five, I think.”

“Five! Well, they’re welcome to attend here, if you want them to be where you are.”

“That’s a very generous offer. They’ve never gone to a real school before. They had private tutors in New Jersey.”

“What a great way to raise jackasses, if you ask me.” Artie gives him a stern look over, wrinkled brow, narrowed brown eyes. “You sober?”

“No pills, no drinking, occasional weed.”

“Goddamn, that’s a lot better than I expected.”

“Hey Artie?”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you happen to need a math teacher?”

Artie studies him thoughtfully. “I mean, we’re always looking for qualified math and science people. They leave the quickest, those aerospace and electronics companies over in California pay too much. Why? You know someone?”

“I used to,” Aegon says, then motions for his kids to get out of the van. Artie lets them eat ice cream in the cafeteria while Aegon signs his contract.

He’s in Yuma for three weeks before he meets a girl. Her name is Rachel, and she’s a dream that walked out of the Summer Of Love: hair down to her waist, boots to her knees, handknit vests, chipped nail polish and teasing smiles, a taste for sun and smoking. At night they sit under the stars behind Aegon’s bungalow out in the desert, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs with the kids, Aegon strumming his guitar, Rachel playing her harmonica, a few homely adopted mutts loping around instead of purebred Alopekis. She likes him, this boyish sunbeam of a man who always seems just a little lost, a little sad. She might even love him.

And yet there are ghosts, beasts, threads the fates have not yet severed. One night in January after the kids have gone to sleep, Aegon is flipping through television channels as Rachel returns to the couch with a bowl full of Jiffy Pop, plops down onto the cushions, curls up against him. Aegon stumbles upon CBS Evening News, a clip from the inauguration, and his words vanish mid-sentence, his eyes—an opaque, stormy, melancholic sort of blue—growing wide. He doesn’t change the channel. He doesn’t move at all.

“What?” Rachel asks. On the screen is a clip of President Targaryen being sworn in, his wife at his side and cradling the Bible in her hands. She’s wearing Oscar de la Renta—a powder blue wool coat that matches her husband’s tie—and a stately new hairstyle that is very distinctly inspired by Jackie Kennedy. Her smile is serene and dignified, if perhaps a bit remote. She could be a marble statue in a garden or a museum. It must be a lot of pressure for her, Rachel thinks. To live up to being the partner of a man that remarkable. “Aegon? Baby, are you okay?”

After a long time Aegon says, very softly, like it’s only to himself: “He made her cut her hair.”

Rachel stares mystified at the television and then turns back to Aegon. “What happened with her?” Something must have. He looks staggered, he looks haunted, he looks like someone Medusa turned to stone. Rachel knows about who Aegon is, of course, everyone does; but he never wants to talk about it. When people mention his family, Aegon smiles politely and then changes the subject. When they ask about his sister-in-law, he says he needs a cigarette and walks out of the room. She sent him a beautiful, shimmering gold acoustic Gibson guitar for Christmas; the first lady’s name was on the return address. To Rachel’s knowledge, Aegon never thanked her.

Aegon shakes his head, and Rachel can’t tell if that means the story is too long or too short, unrealized potential, loose kaleidoscopic strands of stardust, infinitesimal moments that wouldn’t have meaning to anyone else. “Nothing.” Then he resumes switching channels: I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, the Newlywed Game.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents fly north for the inauguration, so proud, so effusive, interviewed by every major news network. Business is booming at the Spongeorama Sponge Factory back in Tarpon Springs. They are seated between Alicent and Ludwika’s mother Elzbieta, newly arrived from Poland. LBJ and Lady Bird are cordial but uncharacteristically understated, retreating back to their home state of Texas like kicked dogs. All the defeated adversaries of the campaign trail attend to show their support, to wordlessly plead for a long-awaited national reconciliation. George Wallace won’t meet your eyes. Richard Nixon whispers through your hair as he clasps your scarred hand: “Aemond could never have done this without you.”

Jackie Kennedy’s chosen cause as first lady was the restoration of the White House, Lady Bird’s was environmental protection. You want to visit schools and help teach math to little kids, but Aemond decides it would be more politically expedient for you to be seen tending to wounded veterans of Vietnam; so you spend many of your days in hospitals, inhaling charred flesh and Lysol and dying flowers and blood. The Japanese ambassador bows lower to you than he does to Aemond. The prime minister of France tries (unsuccessfully) to flirt with you. Athenagoras I of Constantinople, the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church, brings you a komboskini he has blessed. Reprieves come in slivers like a disappearing moon: lunches with Fosco–carpaccio, caprese, bolognese, polenta–and drinks with Ludwika, always something with rum, something that tastes like Aegon. You dream of incubators and arterial spray, stitches and scars and crimson bandages, the flash of blades, the thunder of bullets; but the would-be assassins go to prison and no one else ever tries. You are Persephone in the Underworld. You are Io in the wilderness.

You are just beginning to panic about what you’ll do when your tiny pink birth control pills run out when Fosco shows up to one of your lunches with a paper bag full of familiar circular packets. “I have been informed that I am to be your dealer,” he says, grinning. “I will be back with more in six months. I told the doctor they were for my mistress. I don’t even have a mistress! Isn’t this exciting? I am like a secret agent. I am the Italian James Bond. The name’s Viviani, Fosco Viviani.”

“Aegon asked you to do this?”

“Well, he did not ask, exactly. I do not think I was allowed to say no.”

You hide the paper bag in the Louis Vuitton purse Ludwika bought you, so thankful you don’t have words for it, missing Aegon like Orpheus missed Eurydice, searching through the shade-haunted grey haze of the Underworld for her.

“It was odd,” Fosco says quietly, delicately. “He did not want to know anything about you. He asked if you needed anything else that I was aware of, I said no, and then he hung up when I started to tell him about Christmas dinner.”

You remember Aegon’s words, ghosts from where Long Beach Island meets the Atlantic Ocean: Mimi wasn’t as strong as you. Maybe what Aegon didn’t say is that he isn’t either. You imagine the fates snipping threads, the memoryless oblivion offered by the River Lethe, moons becoming greater and lesser. He has to try to forget you. You have to let him.

On Valentine’s Day weekend, Daeron comes home. He and John McCain are the last two men freed from the prisoner of war camp known as the Hanoi Hilton. When he steps off the plane, Daeron is carrying with him, of all things, a single white rat in a wire cage. The first question he asks, after being engulfed in embraces from Alicent, Criston, and Fosco, is: “Where’s Aegon?” And he knows from the stilted, piecemeal explanations he receives that something has happened. You take Daeron to breakfast the next morning, and you don’t tell him everything, but you tell him enough. He spends a month recuperating at Asteria, then follows Zephyr, the god of the west wind, across the country to Arizona.

Aegon didn’t send you anything for Christmas, and he didn’t respond to the guitar you gifted him with Ludwika’s assistance. But on July 13th, a green envelope arrives in your mail basket with no return address. You open it to find a greeting card with an exuberant cow on the front. Inside, the original message—You’re mooooooving on up in the world! Happy retirement!—has been crossed out with black ink. You laugh, your first real laugh in weeks, and then read what Aegon has written in his chaotic, scribbling penmanship:

I thought this was blank :)

Hope you’re doing okay. You look great on tv.

Then there is an expanse of open white space, like a weighty hesitation. There’s no signature, but there is one final note like a postscript.

Thank you for the guitar, but please don’t send anything else. It fucks me up, you know?

Yes, you do know. Aegon never calls you, but Cosmo does. Once or twice a week he dials your private line at the White House–Aegon must have asked Fosco for it–and tells you all about his new life in Yuma, his school, his friends, the dogs, the desert. Aegon’s met someone named Rachel; Cosmo mentions her intermittently yet with unmistakable fondness: “Rachel makes the best s’mores,” “Rachel told me about seeing Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock,” “Rachel took us to pick pumpkins for Halloween.” You’re glad Cosmo calls, and you’re glad he’s happy; but afterwards you always feel so indescribably, irredeemably sad.

You sneak your pills and avoid Aemond as much as you can, something that becomes easier as he spends long hours reviewing briefs in the Oval Office, preparing speeches, meeting foreign dignitaries, strategizing with his cabinet, and scheming against his conservative foes across the nation, a faction soon led by California governor Ronald Reagan. You stand perfectly still as designers alter Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy to fit you like woolen armor. You strike up a chaste, harmless flirtation with a Secret Service agent from Atlanta named Nathaniel, not because he reminds you of Aegon—Nate is 6’4, 250 pounds, and a former Navy SEAL—but because he listens, because he is kind. He gives you riveting summaries of films and books that are considered too scandalous for you to be seen enjoying. He makes fun of your matronly skirt suits. He takes you to get lemon-lime Mr. Mistys at Dairy Queen. He massages your scarred hand with rose oil.

In May of 1969, Aemond voices support for university students across the nation protesting in favor of increased Black faculty and Africana Studies courses. In July, the Apollo 11 mission lands the first men on the moon, effectively ending the Space Race with an American victory. In September, Lieutenant William Calley receives a sentence of life in prison for his role in the My Lai Massacre the previous year. In November, the Rolling Stones release a new album entitled Let It Bleed. Ludwika gives you the record for Christmas along with an array of perfumes and lipsticks, all extravagantly packaged in a pink Gucci gift box. Your favorite song is Gimme Shelter. You listen to it at dusk in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, your chair facing west, taking slow drags off Lucky Strike cigarettes that Nate buys for you, embers glowing as the sun disappears.

“What’s out there?” Nate asks you one night with a slinky half-grin, and then when you don’t immediately answer: “You’re always looking that way. What are you looking for?”

You don’t know what to tell him. Nothing. Everything. Something that almost happened. And slowly, under a lavender twilight peppered with the remote glimmers of constellations—stars that cannot be changed, disasters predestined since before you were born—Nate’s smile dies, and he never asks again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three time zones away, Aegon’s hair grows out and he gets his ears re-pierced, tiny gold hoops that make him think of wedding rings. Rachel pretends she doesn’t want to get married. Aegon doesn’t offer. Once in a while after the kids have gone to bed, he climbs into the hammock in the backyard and smokes a joint, staring absently into the east as the new Rolling Stones album spins on the record player. Aegon’s favorite song is You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Rachel stands at the telescope they set up for the kids—Cosmo’s idea—and stargazes, making her way down a checklist of visible celestial objects.

One night Aegon asks as she’s squinting through the eyepiece: “Where’s Jupiter?”

Rachel glances over at him, then points up at the indigo sky. “It’s that one, the really bright spot near Perseus. Why?”

Aegon shrugs, exhaling smoke. “No reason,” he says; but he’s still looking at Jupiter, wounded, stoned wonder floating on the surface of his watery eyes.

Daeron settles down in Yuma and buys a ranch. He does some work at the VA Hospital a few hours away in Tucson, some white water rafting on the Colorado River, some hiking in the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, a whole lot of roughhousing with his niece and nephews. John McCain, now a war hero and national celebrity, is always calling to see if Daeron has decided to run for office yet. A few times a year, they receive visitors from the East Coast: Alicent, Criston, Ludwika, Helaena, Fosco, and their three children. The president and first lady are not mentioned unless by accident. The kids adore their grandmother, and she loves them back, although Alicent never learns to appreciate Tessarion the rat and refuses to hold her. In 1970, Helaena and Fosco have one last baby, a daughter they name Marina after Mimi. Life goes on, but the ghosts remain.

On a chilly evening in January of 1972, Aegon is flipping through television channels when he lands on an NBC segment about First Lady Targaryen touring the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. “That’s so fucked up,” Aegon murmurs as she calmly soothes the suffering of mutilated men, and his voice is dark with scorching, clandestine fury. He gestures to the screen with the remote control. “She hates hospitals. He makes her do things that hurt her. He does it just to prove he can.”

Rachel says as she stands in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, a question she has finally worked up the courage to ask: “No one is ever going to be able to compare to her, right?”

Aegon opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it again. And something washes over him like waves of the ocean, sun on sand, poison in the blood and the lungs, myths that carve themselves into your bones so deep you can see the red of the marrow underneath. He replies truthfully, his eyes still on the screen: “Right.”

Rachel packs her bags. Aegon gets up to help her. He feels it’s the least he can do.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you and Aemond return to Asteria for summer vacations, the seaside Targaryen compound is full of ghosts. You catch glimpses of Mimi stumbling up staircases, Cosmo trotting after you as you turn corners, Aegon smoking a joint under the statue of Zeus in Helaena’s garden. You open cabinets and bottles of his pills fall out. You see Sunfyre bobbing abandoned in the boathouse. The basement is just as Aegon left it. Sometimes you go down there and stand on the green shag carpet in the hushed, cool, damp emptiness, not knowing what you’re waiting for, staring at the wall until someone comes to look for you.

“What’s in these?” Nate asks one afternoon, snatching a notebook off the shelf. “Oh wow, look!” He shows you messy sketches in black ink, cartoon versions of the stories of Greek gods and goddesses, myths reimagined. “Who do you think drew them?”

“Maybe Daeron,” you reply, but it wasn’t him. You’d know Aegon’s handwriting anywhere. Nate leafs through a bunch of the notebooks, booming laughter—he especially enjoys that Poseidon has been characterized as a sexually insatiable dolphin—and reading his favorite parts out loud to you. One notebook is only half-full; the last few pages are covered with drawings of tiny cows, telephones with long spiral cords, the moon in all its phases. You tear these out to keep.

On each July 13th, there is a card with no return address waiting in your mail basket at the White House, always featuring a jovial cow, always making you smile. You entrust Nate with the task of hiding the notebook pages and greeting cards away somewhere safe, an arrangement he honors like an oath.

Every so often, when you feel lethal bitterness kindling, you are struck by the inspiration to find Aemond’s Ouija board. It must be here in the White House someplace, but you can’t figure out where. You search the bedrooms, rummage through closets, climb into the oak cabinets beneath bathroom sinks; you scrabble around like a rodent under the cover of darkness while Aemond is away on state visits and campaign rallies for fellow Democrats. Maybe he makes secret stops in Tacoma or Seattle. If he does, you don’t care. You’d rather Aemond be there than here.

In the spring of 1972, you find the Ouija board in a drawer of the Resolute desk, where Aemond conducts official business in the Oval Office. “Oh, that is insane,” you say to yourself as you slide it out. You mean to burn it in your bedroom fireplace, then think again. On the back of the board, the inscription has faded, as if traced by Aemond’s fingertips again and again.

If I destroy this, what will he do to Aegon and his children? What will he do to me?

You place the Ouija board back where you found it, slide the drawer shut, and crawl into bed, besieged by dreams of smoke and rum and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch.

Aemond’s national approval rating hovers between 55-70%—far about the historical average, although he never stops pining for an heir and proper first family to maximize his allure—until May of 1972, when the tide begins to turn. The treaty formally ending U.S. involvement in the war was signed back in early 1969, but the hasty troop withdrawal left capitalist South Vietnam vulnerable, and now it is being invaded by the communists backed by China and Russia. The Fall of Saigon is immortalized in the evening news, printed on the covers of newspapers; people who once collaborated with the Americans are shot dead in the streets. Refugees flee west to Laos and Cambodia and Thailand, east on makeshift rafts into the ocean. The few that Aemond manages to hurriedly admit into the U.S. inspire racism and xenophobia from suburbanites. Many of the hippies have grown up, had children, gotten jobs, settled down with credit cards and mortgages. Protestors march with signs out on Pennsylvania Avenue: America abandons her allies! Our global reputation is in peril! Will the communists invade here next? What did my son die for?

“They wanted me to end it,” Aemond marvels as he gazes out the White House windows. “They begged for me to end it, and now look at them. Ungrateful imbecile bastards.”

And you give him a rare piece of advice that he listens to: “You should call LBJ.”

On his ranch fifty miles outside of Austin, Texas, Lyndon Baines Johnson is dying of heart failure. Still, he smokes more or less constantly, and refuses to adhere to the diet Lady Bird fretfully lectures their chefs about. He has grown his grey hair long and sits for as many interviews as he can, desperate to salvage his legacy and remind people of the things he did right: civil rights legislation, the War On Poverty, rising from a poor farming family to the Oval Office. He knows exactly what it feels like to be hated for having no good options. He says gruffly through the phone: “The Vietnam War needed to end, Aemond. It had to happen. But someone has to pay for it, too. That’s your job now. Take the fall, and the country survives. Plenty of people still love you. And I’m proud of you, son. I know it ain’t easy, believe me. But I’m real proud.”

Still, Aemond fights. He can’t help it. It’s all he’s ever known.

He campaigns at a murderous pace, and you have to follow him across the nation. Perhaps intentionally, there are no campaign stops in Arizona. Aemond does very well, but Ronald Reagan does better; he’s quick and he’s cutting, but he’s also funny, and grandfatherly, and warm, and God knows the American people could use some of that after the past decade. He characterizes Aemond’s policy regarding Vietnam as “peace without honor.” He calls Aemond short-sighted about a dozen times, a jab his supporters guffaw at. He says the United States has surrendered its rightful place as the leader of the free world. His wife Nancy—his second wife—is vehemently opposed to recreational drugs and other supposed moral crimes including abortion and premarital sex. You hate her, and she hates you right back, though in a perfectly pleasant, ever-smiling, mid-century housewife sort of way. Reagan’s disciples call you a whore. Aemond gets the newspapers still loyal to him to publish scathing denials. You aren’t exactly sure why he does this; no comment at all would almost certainly be wiser politically, as Otto advises. But Aemond does it anyway, with deep trenches of violent determination knit into his scarred brow.

The 1972 presidential election is held on Tuesday, November 7th. It is not until the early hours of the morning on Wednesday the 8th that Aemond learns he has narrowly lost. It couldn’t possibly be construed as your fault; he wins Florida by a greater margin than he had in 1968. As the sun rises in a bright, cloudless sky, Aemond’s entourage clears out of the Lincoln Sitting Room, leaving the two of you alone with the droning television. Aemond is sipping an Old Fashioned on one end of the couch. You light yourself a Lucky Strike cigarette on the other. For once, Aemond doesn’t seem to mind.

“You know,” Aemond muses after a while. “Ronald Reagan is divorced.”

Your heart is racing; you aren’t sure what he’s offering. You’re petrified to say the wrong thing and change his mind. “Yeah, he is.”

Aemond nods, twirling his Old Fashioned so the ice cubes clink against the misty glass, not looking at you. “I think I’ll marry Alys and adopt the boy.”

And that’s how you learn that what Aegon said in the doorway of a hospital room four and half years ago was true, no impassioned declarations, no gratitude, only grudges that have grown quiet and cold and dormant. At last, Aemond is done with you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Otto, glowering spitefully, getaway car procurement extraordinaire, hands you the keys to a green Chevy Nova. On the front steps of the White House, you say goodbye to a palpably heartbroken Nate. He gives you the notebook pages and greetings cards. You give him a kiss on the cheek, a parting stain of red lipstick. But instead of blood, the color makes you think of cherry-flavored Mr. Mistys, the Lucky Strike logo, roses, sunburn, firelight, the rust-hued earth of the desert. You duck into the Nova and start driving.

The East Coast unfolds into the Midwest and then turns jagged as you hit the Rocky Mountains. At a gas station in Albuquerque, New Mexico, you toss your remaining birth control pills—still squirreled away in a box of hollowed-out tampons—into a trash bin. At a McDonald’s in Asher, Arizona, just forty minutes outside of Yuma, you stop to get a large Coca-Cola and touch up your makeup in the bathroom mirror: black eyeliner, gold shadow, both as heavy as you want them to be. You stroll back to your Nova under a radiant November sky that feels like summer, smiling to yourself. The hem of your roomy, floral skirt billows around your brown leather boots in the desert wind. Your earrings are small, glinting gold hoops. Your white tank top is simple and hand-crocheted, found at a yard sale in Amarillo, Texas; but your sunglasses are Bugatti, a gift from Ludwika.

You park outside the only school on the Fort Yuma Indian Reservation and go inside to the front office. The secretary says distractedly: “Can I help you, ma’am?” Then she does a double take. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, do I…do I know you from somewhere…?”

“You might,” you say, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair. It’s only shoulder-length now, but growing, and wild from the wind. “I was hoping to find Mr. Targaryen, does he still work here?”

“He sure does, but he doesn’t like anyone calling him that.”

Of course he wouldn’t. “Just Aegon then. Which classroom is…?”

But before you can finish your question, and before she can answer, you hear echoing through the labyrinthian hallways the start of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising, not just an acoustic guitar but bass and drums too.

“I see the bad moon a-risin’

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

The secretary laughs, keeping rhythm with taps of her pencil on her desk. “I guess you can find him on your own, can’t ya?”

Yes, you can. You follow the music through long empty corridors, wondering where all the students are. You drag your fingertips—black polish, chipped around the edges—along grooves in the cinder block walls that have been painted over with vibrant murals. The song is getting louder, and now you hear other noises too, an ocean of energetic voices and squealing chairs.

“I hear hurricanes a-blowin’

I know the end is comin’ soon

I fear rivers over flowin’

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise, alright!”

You step into the cafeteria, raucous with students swapping pudding cups and bags of chips. Many of them are watching the stage, clapping along, playing their own imaginary guitars. Aegon is there strumming the sparkling gold guitar you sent him for Christmas back in 1968. He hasn’t seen you yet; he’s grinning at the kids up on the stage with him—his fellow bandmates, his fledgling rockstars—and leaning back from the mic to give them pointers. But Cosmo has. He flies out of his seat and crashes into you, now nearly ten years old, long blonde hair, a Rolling Stones t-shirt.

“You’re back!” he bellows over the music as you hug him. Teachers chatting amongst themselves by the wall give you curious glances.

“Yeah, kiddo. I am.”

“For a visit?”

“Maybe for a little longer than that.”

“Yay!” he shouts, jumping up and down.

You look back to Aegon, and now his eyes catch on yours: instantaneous recognition, disbelief, amazement. He’s just like you remember him; he’s just like he is in your dreams. You raise an eyebrow and wave tentatively. His own words surface in your skull like swimming up through cool, sunlit water: What are we gonna do about it? And Aegon smiles, the god of light, music, healing, truth.

Now his tiny bandmates are yelling at him, irate. He’s still plucking at his guitar on autopilot, but he’s missed his cue to sing the last verse. He shakes off his astonishment and continues, beaming, watching you.

“Hope you got your things together

Hope you are quite prepared to die

Looks like we’re in for nasty weather

One eye is taken for an eye

Well don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Cosmo sprints back to his lunch to stop a friend from seizing his unguarded Ding Dongs.

“Don’t come around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Aegon gives his guitar a final few strums as the cafeteria erupts into cheers and applause. His bandmates bow to their audience as Aegon takes off his guitar, leaps down from the stage, runs to you as children twist in their seats to stare. He’s wearing khaki shorts, tan moccasins, a half-unbuttoned white shirt that actually fits him, dog tags with Daeron’s name on them. He’s so afraid to ask the question; he’s terrified you won’t say the right answer. “Io…what the hell are you doing here?”

You shrug, casual, teasing. “Didn’t like where I was. Thought I’d try someplace new.”

He touches your face to make sure you’re real, marveling at you, his voice going hushed. “We’ve lost so much time.”

“Don’t worry. Your life’s only half over.”

Aegon laughs, eyes shining. “I’m really, really looking forward to the rest of it.”

You can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses you; you can hear a quiet, kind melody that fills the universe, the sound of all the chains of gravity breaking and moons drifting free from their planets.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fic

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channiedotcom · 18 days

Text

late night gaming

i.n x gn!reader – fluff ; gamer!jeongin ; college au

word count – 1.1k

a/n – i’ve been hoping to write something like this ever since i found out that i.n plays overwatch… it’s one of my favorite games and i like to imagine how fun it would be to get to game with him (and the other members of skz of course) also lmk if y’all would be interested in a pt 2!

Late into the night, bluish-purple light seeps under the doorway of your bedroom. Every now and then, flashes of varying colors find their way into the mix. Your fingers move swiftly over your keyboard and mouse as your character turns in-game, taking shots at the enemy team. The payload is so close to creeping into the final point when–

Your character falls to the ground. You’ve been eliminated by fnncfx on Widowmaker. You hit your desk lightly with your fist, frustrated. “How did they even hit me? I swear I was behind that wall in time,” you mutter, watching the kill feed. You sigh and continue, exiting the spawn and getting back into the fight. Less than a minute later, it happens again. The same fnncfx gets a headshot, taking you out once more, just as quickly as you rejoined the battle.

The more it happens, the more frustrated you feel. Hoping to end the infuriating cycle, you switch to Sombra. If they’re going to keep targeting you, it’s only fair you do the same! You track down the Widowmaker and swiftly eliminate them. Within seconds, a message pops up in match chat:

fnncfx: counterswap? kinda weird

You roll your eyes and choose to ignore it. The game goes on for another minute or two, and you help your team by eliminating the Widowmaker at least twice more. As the timer runs out, your team finally completes the objective, and the word “Victory!” plasters itself across the screen. Before the game ends, you notice a small string of messages in the match chat:

fnncfx: ggs, except sombra fnncfx: i know ur mad i kept killing you lol

In a fit of frustration, you click on their profile and press the “add friend” button. You don’t really need to, but you want to talk to them and explain yourself. Almost as soon as you do, they add you back. You invite them to your group, eager to express your frustration. They accept and join in.

“You know I had to switch characters so you would stop eliminating me, right? You didn’t have to be such a jerk about it,” you huff, leaning towards your monitor.

There’s a pause. You stare at your screen, face illuminated by the glow. Why aren’t they responding yet? Did something go wrong?

“...Is this y/n?” he finally says, breaking the silence. As he speaks, your heart drops into your stomach. You recognize that voice instantly. It’s Jeongin– the cute guy from your math class. What is he doing playing this game? How did you end up in the same lobby? Your mind races. You’ve admired Jeongin from afar all semester- he’s the one you glance at in class, hoping he’ll notice you. And now here he is, in the same game, talking to you. Getting lost in your own thoughts, you almost forget to respond.

“I- uh- yes, hi! Oh my gosh, I didn’t- I didn’t think I’d run into you in this game! I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t come across as rude or- or anything…” You stumble over your words, your voice trailing off as you put your face in your hands. You feel like you’ve seriously messed up.

He laughs.

You look up, your face warm. Despite the circumstances, you can’t help but think about how absolutely cute that sounded.

“I didn’t know you played this game, that’s actually pretty cool,” he says, his voice reminding you of liquid gold. It sounds warm and soothing, just like how you remember hearing it in class.

“Yeah, I’ve had it for a while. I don’t play much stuff like this, but I guess this game is just different.” You shrug, leaning back into your chair a little bit. Knowing he isn’t upset as of this moment brings you a bit more peace.

“Would you maybe… want to play a few games as a duo?”

Your eyes light up. He actually wants to play with you? He wasn’t going to ditch you immediately?

You don’t even wait a moment before giving him a confident “That would be amazing!”

The two of you play through a few matches and do rather well, especially since he’s quite good at the game. You both find yourselves having a great time, giggling at the characters who seem to have no idea what is going on. You work together to take down enemy team after enemy team, barely losing any games.

After some time, you can hear him let out a sharp sigh. “I hate to do this to you, especially because I’m enjoying this so much, but I think I have to get going. My roommate Felix says he needs me to run it back in some scrimmages; I forgot I told him yesterday that I’d help out with that. I hope that’s alright…” He goes quiet, clearly disappointed to have some prior commitment.

You frown, but aren’t too surprised. Of course someone as talented as him would be on some sort of gaming team. “For sure, that’s okay! I still had a great time; I would love to do this again, if you’d be down for that.”

“Yeah, totally! Why don’t you write down my number, and I’ll text you when I have time to do this again.”

You can feel your face turning red at the idea of getting his number. This is someone you’ve admired from afar all semester, and now he wants to talk to you more. You feel like you’re in the clouds right now, your head spinning.

He tells you the digits of his phone number and you swiftly enter them into your phone, then send him a text so he knows yours as well.

“Okay, well you have a goodnight, y/n! It was great talking to you.” You can hear him smiling on the other side of his screen, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s blushing too. After he leaves the group, you log off out of the game and turn off your computer. You stand up from your chair and fall back onto your bed, wrapping yourself in the sheets. Giddy laughter escapes as you kick your feet in excitement. The thought that the most attractive boy in your class just gave you his number swirls in your mind, like a dream you never want to end. It still feels so surreal that he seems to at least tolerate- if not actually like- someone like you. As you hold your phone close to your chest, you slowly drift away into a deep sleep, dreaming of what could come of this newfound friendship, or maybe something more…

#skz x reader #jeongin x reader #i.n x reader #skz #yang jeongin #skz fluff #skz imagines #i.n skz

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trialbywombaat · 1 month

Text

Pluto

“One more chapter, Papa?” Ivy asks.

Tommy closes the book and places it on her bedside table. “We already did one more chapter, remember?” he reminds her gently.

He knew the question had been coming, and his answer is the same every time. In the past, getting Ivy to move on would have been a bigger struggle. But they've been working on their nighttime routine for a while now, and she’s getting the hang of it. Her question, and Tommy’s answer, are both part of that routine, and he knows she finds some kind of comfort in it.

He reaches down to switch on the night-light. It’s one of those moon ones Evan saw online and had insisted they buy for her, along with those glow-in-the-dark star stickers that he’d always wanted as a kid. There are stickers everywhere in Ivy’s room, actually - and not just the nice wall decals you can find on Etsy, but the cheap shitty stickers she brings home from school or begs for every time they go to Target. There’s fairies on her bed frame that Tommy knows he’ll never be able to remove, and sticky residue all over her desk from the fire truck stickers that she’d picked off one by one instead of doing her homework. Tommy and Evan hadn’t grown up in the kind of households where kids were able to put stickers on the walls, or play with paint or glitter, or make mud pies, and every time Margaret’s eyes fall on one of Ivy’s marker covered dresses and she smiles one of her cool, polite smiles, Tommy feels a tiny flash of victory that he doesn’t bother to hide.

“What are we gonna dream about, tonight?” he asks, taking Ivy’s hands in his own. Maddie taught them this routine years ago, when they were first trying to get Ivy to sleep in a ‘big girl bed’, and it’s managed to stick.

“Unicorns,” Ivy answers quickly. It’s always unicorns, and has been for months. Tommy’s quite sure that unicorns must be in every dream she ever has, because they are ubiquitous in all of their lives now. She has a unicorn backpack with a unicorn pencil case and a unicorn lunch box, and no less than seven stuffed unicorn toys in bed with her at this very moment, tucked under the unicorn comforter where she is lying, wearing unicorn pyjamas. Even Tommy dreams of unicorns - just last night, he had to ride a unicorn into a wildfire while carrying buckets of water in both hands.

But he still closes her hand into a fist and squeezes it tight before kissing it. “Unicorn dreams it is.” He pulls her in close for a hug. “I love you to the moon and back.”

“I love you all the way to Pluto,” she says back to him, because Oliver Jeffers taught her that the moon is a one year drive away and Pluto is an eleven thousand year drive away, and Ivy is both decent at maths and eager to get the last word.

He kisses her softly on the forehead then pulls back, ready to get up and turn off the light. But Ivy tugs on his sleeve, so he crouches down next to the bed.

“What is it, baby?” he asks her.

“Do you still love Daddy to the moon and back?” she asks, her voice small.

Tommy suppresses a sigh. God, kids are perceptive.

“I still love your Daddy all the way to Pluto,” he promises, trying to reassure her.

“Why are you fighting, then?” she asks.

Tommy strokes Ivy’s hair. “Sometimes people who love each other still fight sometimes,” he explains. “Like when Bandit and Chilli built the swingy chair.”

Ivy’s face is screwed up in concentration. “And then they were happy again?”

“That’s right,” Tommy says.

She doesn’t look mollified yet, though. “Will you ever stop loving each other? Like Sarah’s mum and dad?”

“I don’t think so,” Tommy says truthfully. “There’s too many things I love about him.”

“Like how he always gets the voices right?”

Tommy laughs. Evan is very good at reading stories. It’s always seemed to come naturally to him, whereas Tommy never manages to get the voices quite right. “Yeah, like that,” he agrees. “And how he makes me laugh all the time, and how he knows so many different things” - he hears Ivy’s door creak slightly, and feels two sets of eyes on him now, both watching him intently - “and how he cares so much about helping other people, and how he never gives up.”

He looks up to see Evan smiling softly at him.

Tommy stands up. “It’s time to sleep, now, Ives,” he says, and this time she doesn’t protest.

“Night Papa,” she yawns sleepily, curling in on herself and hugging one of her many toy unicorns.

Tommy turns out the light as he exits the room, then grabs Evan’s hand and pulls him silently towards their own bedroom.

“Evan,” he says as soon as they enter the room, his voice quiet so that Ivy shouldn’t be able to hear them.

Evan cuts him off before he can say anything. “I’m so sorry, Tommy. I really am.”

He’s said that so many times the past few hours, ever since Tommy met him at the hospital that afternoon, and suddenly Tommy feels so guilty for making him feel like he has to say it.

Tommy pulls him closer, puts a hand on the small of his back and another on his shoulder, as though they’re going to dance instead of talk. “I know, love.”

“You- you know I love you and Ivy more than anything; that I always want to come home to you.” His right hand is clenched tightly, and Tommy grabs it and unfurls it gently, running a thumb over the fingernail marks Evan has unwittingly left there.

“Evan,” Tommy says again, and finally Evan stops and looks at him. “You don’t have to apologise. I’m sorry I made you feel like you do. This is my fault, not yours.”

“No, but I - I keep doing this dangerous shit, and-”

Tommy doesn’t like to cut Evan off. But he doesn’t like watching him beat himself up either, so the decision isn’t hard.

“You can’t help it,” he says firmly. Because he’s figured it out.

It was an old habit he’d fallen into, a retread of the arguments they’d had early on in their relationship, when Evan just couldn’t seem to get it into his head how important he was to Tommy. How he didn’t get to sacrifice himself anymore, because he had someone who needed him, who was waiting for him at home.

Instinctively, when Tommy had gotten Bobby’s call today, he’d assumed that it was the same thing, that Evan had forgotten about it again, and to be honest, it had hurt. That they still weren’t enough.

But he’d realised his mistake when he was getting Ivy ready for bed that night. When she’d run from the bathroom to her bedroom after he’d clearly told her not to, and had slipped to the ground because her socks hadn’t had enough grip.

“It’s about performance, not knowledge,” Ivy’s occupational therapist had explained to Tommy and Evan once, shortly after they'd found out that she has ADHD. “She knows exactly what she’s meant to do, and if she could do it, she would.” It was why explaining the rules to Ivy has never really worked, because she already knows them all. She knows she isn’t meant to call out in class, or snatch toys away from other children, or go to the bathroom without asking the teacher - she just doesn’t have the impulse control to stop herself.

And Evan knows that he needs to come home to Tommy and Ivy. If he could stop himself from going ‘full-Buck’, he would.

Which is why it’s Tommy who should be apologising.

He moves his thumb in little circles against Evan’s shoulder, knowing that Evan finds the movement soothing. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just how your brain works.”

Evan’s breath catches a little, and Tommy doesn’t know if it's relief or something else until he speaks. “I don’t know how to stop it,” he says.

Tommy brings him close, squeezing him tighter. “You don’t have to, love,” he says, heart aching at the words. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” He leans back again, and places his fingers under Evan’s chin. “I love your brain.”

Evan leans forward, and rests his head against Tommy’s shoulder. “Just my brain?” he asks.

Tommy pretends to consider it. “I guess your spleen is pretty great, too.”

Something for @bucktommypositivityweek. I know it's a day late now, but this one is for Day 1 - What they both love about each other.

#911 abc #bucktommy #evan buckley #tevan #tommy kinard #girl dads bucktommy #my fic #bucktommypositivityweek #evan buckley has adhd

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allzelemonz · 6 months

Text

Developing Powers: Clark Kent X Male Reader

Pronouns: he/him, Reader referred to as ‘boy’ and ‘man’ Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: M/Mentions of sexual situations, nudity Warnings: Characters are the same age, high school aged characters, awkward teenagers, pillow fights, farm boys being farm boys, showers, cold showers, accidental peeping Tom, mentions of masturbation Summary: Clark’s developing powers complicate things when his best friend stays over the weekend.

Clark’s pillow hits your head and you fall backwards onto his bed with a grunt. Before you can react, he’s on top of you with his hands pressing you down on your chest as he laughs in victory.

“Not fair, Kent.” You huff, struggling to reach for your pillow.

He grins, grabbing your wrist. “You started it.”

A knock prompts you both to look past the foot of Clark’s bed to the door. Pa Kent stands in the doorway, laughing lightly. “You boys are supposed to be in bed, lots of work in the morning.” He looks down at you. “And I won’t have your father thinking I ruined your work ethic, young man.”

Clark moves off of you. “Just messing around, Pa.”

“I know.” He smiles. “But I let him sleep over so you two could get to work early.”

“We’ll go to bed, sir.” You say, sitting up. “Sorry if we were being loud.”

“Just get your showers and get in bed, boys.” He turns to you. “We milk our cattle early, up by four.”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

Pa Kent gives one last fatherly point before he closes the door and his footsteps creak over the floor towards his and Ma Kent’s room.

Clark tosses you a towel, hitting you square in the head as he giggles. “You can go first.”

You stand, giving his shoulder a light shove as you grab your backpack and disappear into the hall. Clark giggles to himself, just happy Pa agreed to let you stay the night to help with farmwork over the weekend. He flips through his homework packet, trying to find the energy to actually read the questions. He doesn’t. It’s Friday, his best friend is staying over, math homework can wait. He tosses the packet onto his desk, writing a note to do it on Sunday. With any luck, his developing super-speed applies to his math processing too.

When Clark looks up, he nearly jumps out of his skin. He can see you. His x-ray vision has slipped before and he’s been practicing his control on it, but it’s never caused him to glance up and see his best friend naked. Not just naked either, naked with water dripping over your skin and absolutely no limbs obstructing his view of your hanging dick.

Clark’s face turns bright red and he slaps his hands over his eyes. His skin has turned hot and his heart is beating a mile a minute. Sure, he’s been in a locker room with you and you’ve used urinals around each other but he’s never got such a full frontal in his life, there’s always been a wall or arm or folding pants in the way. Clark takes deep breaths, trying not to think, but when he looks back in the direction his eyes peer through without control. His breath hitches, he nearly chokes, watching your hands run over your dick. It's just scrubbing, just washing, but Clark’s mind wanders to images of you alone in your bedroom and he has to bury his face into the pillows of his bed to get his head back.

He’s sweating, face hidden in his pillow as he tries to breathe. He shouldn’t think about his best friend like that, he shouldn’t even be able to see you through the stupid walls. When Clark catches his breath and shifts to sit up, he freezes. The cotton of his boxers rubbing with the rough denim of his jeans, all making sparks of sensitivity shoot down to his toes by shifting against his now hard dick. Clark wants to scream. He just got hard at the mere thought and sight of his best friend touching himself.

The water shuts off and Clark scrambles to grab his stuff, holding it in front of himself as you walk out. His heart skips as you do, your hair still a bit wet and the pajamas clinging to your body from only just being put on.

You stop, looking at him strangely. “Uh, you okay?”

Clark nods, trying to hide his flushed face. “Mhm, yeah, just really need the shower.”

He rushes past you, disappearing into the hall. He closes the bathroom door behind him, breathing heavily as he tries to clear his head again. When the thoughts remain, Clark turns the water on cold and closes his eyes. The water washes over him, helping his erection die down in the icey temperature.

#clark kent #superman #dc comics #clark kent x reader #clark kent x male reader #superman x reader #superman x male reader #dc comics x reader #dc comics x male reader #x reader #x male reader

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whoopsyeahokay · 6 months

Text

October Sun

summary: when Maddie had mentioned to Wally her plan to follow Simon when he confronted you, Wally had supported her one hundred and ten percent. after all, he'd always been sure there was more to you than met the eye.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.3

Wally had had his suspicions about you since your sophomore year.

Not that he'd admitted it to anyone, not after forty years of disappointment when looks that had seemed deliberate had just been coincidence.

He'd been entering the assembly hall, alone, no one ahead of or behind him, as you were leaving. The presence of the freshman and sophomore gym instructors suggested some kind of group activity had just taken place, corroborated by the ruddiness of your cheeks and the damp ends of your hair.

You'd been fingering through the pile of loose papers you'd held, a look of deep concentration on your face, and had just been about to walk into through Wally when—

"S'cuse me."

You'd sidestepped him on your way out without looking up. It'd taken him so off-guard that he'd failed to react. By the time he'd thought to go after you, it'd been too late. You'd caught up to your friends and had turned the corner just as Mr. Martin had called out to him, gesturing Wally over to join the others for that afternoon's session.

The following day, he'd tracked you down; hovered over you during first period, slid into the unoccupied space at your lunch table, and even sat with you when you'd stayed behind after school to work in the library. He'd done everything he could think of to garner a reaction from you, from monologuing through your Math quiz—he'd felt guilty about your C- for a week afterward—to jumping out from the shadows when you weren't looking and yelling in your ear.

Nothing. No missteps or wide eyes or held breaths, n o t h i n g. Not even a twitch.

He would've let the whole thing go and never thought about you again had it not been for the rare—albeit could be serendipitous—responses you sometimes let slip.

Like the time he'd scooted his chair right into your space, knee pressed against yours under the table in the library. Wally had draped an arm along the back of your seat, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the plastic (Frida's I Know There's Something Going On, sped up to match the tempo of Wally's restlessness). You'd been hunched over Slaughterhouse-Five, Wally reading over your shoulder, when he'd noticed your hand.

Specifically, an angry-looking scar that crawled along the bone beneath your pinky, from knuckle to wrist. Too pale to be recent, but too visible to have happened in the distant past. He'd acted without thinking, traced the fingers of his free hand down the length of the scar, and muttered, "What happened to you, pretty girl?"

When he'd glanced at your face, you'd been staring at your hand, expression tight as if reliving the moment you'd incurred the wound.

It didn't have to mean anything, Wally could've chalked it up to right question, right time, except that you'd suddenly shoved your chair back, the angry scrape of metal against linoleum drawing the librarian's attention, and had gathered your things in a hurry.

You'd been upset. And though Wally couldn't be sure, he'd felt that it'd been his fault. You'd pivoted toward him, stopped, changed your mind halfway through the motion, and repositioned yourself to slip around your chair the other way. An action Wally had been too apologetic to count as a victory.

He'd stumbled after you, watched you seek out your friend—Xavier, Wally recalled—in the music room and ask for a lift home.

"No questions asked." You'd told Xavier, like some sort of code that, given how the other people around him reacted, only Xavier could decipher.

"Wait, I'm sorry, I won't bring it up again!" Wally had been so close to...to something. Maybe not a full admission or a conversation or a just-for-him smile, but something. Something real. He'd just wanted to experience someone who hadn't been encouraged to write their own obituary, fuck, had he really screwed up that bad?

You'd climbed into Xavier's truck and leaned your head against the window. Eyes, watery and filled with sorrow, fixed purposefully above Wally's head in what Wally had interpreted as a final plea to be left alone.

So, wrought with guilt and confusion and a splintered sense of loss, that had been the last time Wally had sought you out in pursuit of uncovering whatever magic you might've possessed...

...Until yesterday. He'd intercepted Maddie when she'd been marching toward the cafeteria, clearly on a mission as she'd bobbed and weaved through the lunch rush of students to keep up with her guy friend.

"What's going on?" Wally had asked, following Maddie's gaze as she'd surveyed guy-friend leaning over to talk to someone. When guy-friend had moved aside to let that someone stand, Wally had been pleasantly surprised to see it'd been you.

"Simon's going to talk to her." Maddie had explained, "I...overheard him telling Nicole."

Wally hadn't known who Nicole was. Regardless, "Cool. You think it's about how you died?"

"Yeah. Sure." Maddie had moved to trail you and Simon, spun around at the last second to face Wally, and said, "I don't know yet. It could be nothing." She'd started to walk backward, waved stiffly, "I'll. See you later."

It'd been a clear dismissal, a silent request for privacy, which Wally had been happy to oblige. Mostly. He'd stepped outside after counting to ten Mississippi and found a spot near the bike racks, curious about what you'd do when Maddie appeared in the bus shelter Simon had hustled you into.

Truthfully, Wally had expected that it wouldn't be much, given how you'd failed to react to him in the past, and he'd been right. You'd listened to Simon, appeared suitably confused, and then—

No way.

You'd looked directly at him. Had paused in skimming the area to look at him. There hadn't been anyone close enough to Wally for it to have been another fluke.

"She can see me." He'd gasped, shoving his hands in his pockets, and, fuck it, Maddie hadn't outright asked Wally not to get too close; a loophole Wally had been willing to exploit in favor of finally getting the truth out of you. He'd strode to the bus shelter, witnessed your demeanor visibly stiffen when he'd peered through the glass.

You could see him.

In his excitement, Wally had missed how Maddie had curled into herself on the bench like a wilted flower, and how Simon hadn't pressed any buttons on his phone to accept a call; Wally had been too preoccupied, practically floating after you as you'd returned to the school.

"Do what you want," He'd said, "but I'm not going anywhere until you admit it." It'd been a promise to himself that he'd voiced out loud. Belatedly, the words had hit his ears and he'd almost stuttered an apology at how threatening it'd sounded.

Almost. Because you'd been struggling with your lock, cheeks pinking, pillowy lower lip caught between your teeth; flustered and frustrated and oh so pretty. He hadn't been able to help himself, hand moving of its own volition, metal to a magnet, and he'd skimmed his fingers up the gentle curve of your spine, from your lower back to between your shoulder blades.

Your breath had hitched, perfect and sweet, and when had he leaned in? Your mouth closening as you'd slowly turned your head toward him. Wally had lifted his other hand to rest against your throat, thumb smoothing the soft underside of your jaw, heart pounding, warmth coiling low in his belly, twisting, needing—

💥BANG💥

Wally had jolted out of whatever trance he'd fallen into and stepped back, regarding your interaction with your curvy goth friend in a daze. That'd been weird. Well, the weirdest thing in a sea of weird things that Wally had encountered since his debut in the metaphysical world. It'd been hypnotic, his actions guided by invisible strings, brain taking a backseat while instinct took the wheel.

He'd never felt that kind of pull toward anyone, alive or dead.

What the hell?

Answers had had to wait, Wally unable to think up a good enough excuse to skip Group. Until he knew exactly what was going on, he didn't want to shine a stage light on you. So, he'd attended, participated as much as he'd thought would keep Mr. Martin and the others from suspecting anything, and had had to refrain from bolting like a bat out of hell as soon as Mr. Martin had released them.

He'd had to find you, figure this out, touch you, kiss you, taste you—but you'd been smart and, according to your curvy goth friend, you'd bailed on your last class, "To pick up shit for her mom. Seriously, she needs to reinforce her boundaries before I do it for her."

If that's how you wanted to play this, Alright, baby, we'll do this your way, Wally thought the next morning, stretching the sleep from his limbs. Whatever had happened when he'd touched you yesterday had affected you both, of that Wally was sure.

And if you'd felt even a third of what he had, he knew it wouldn't be long before you two were drawn together once again.

💀___________________________

PART TWO - PART FOUR

also available on AO3!

MATERLIST

#Milo Manheim #Wally Clark #Wally Clark x Reader #fem!reader #Wally Clark smut #Wally Clark fanfiction #Milo Manheim fanfiction #School Spirits #October Sun

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beargirlmj · 10 days

Text

Between Teases and Silences.

genre : fluff

warning(s) : none

Author's note: Nerdy Jimin is the cutest thing to me.

It was a Sunday afternoon like any other. Y/n was lying on her bed, the soft light of the setting sun seeping through the window blinds. The constant sound of Yoo Jimin talking about Minecraft, math, and other nerdy stuff reached her ears through the phone, which was propped up on the pillow beside her.

Jimin had always been like this — a total nerd. She excelled in every subject at school but always seemed a bit out of place, especially compared to Y/n, who was popular and always surrounded by friends. Though Jimin was shy and somewhat lonely, she always found solace in Y/n, following her through the school halls or starting long conversations about her interests.

This time, they were on a video call, and Jimin was enthusiastically explaining some new mechanic in Minecraft. She was talking excitedly about redstone, movement timing, and other things that Y/n was listening to half-heartedly. y/n’s popularity wasn’t just due to her looks or charm but also her patience with others. Her friendship with Jimin was proof of that. Although they didn’t share the same interests, there was a special bond between them.

As Jimin rambled on, y/n, resting her face in her hand with a faint smile, watched her friend. Jimin’s glasses were slipping down her nose as she explained some mathematical concept related to the game, her eyes gleaming behind the lenses, completely immersed in what she was saying.

Suddenly, an idea popped into y/n’s mind — a teasing, playful idea. Her smile widened, and before she could stop herself, she said in a mischievous tone:

"Shut up, Jimin, or I’ll come over to your house and shut you up with a kiss."

There was a sudden silence on the other end of the line. Y/n’s words caught Jimin completely off guard. Her eyes widened behind her glasses, and she froze in the middle of her explanation about Minecraft pistons. The nerdy, focused expression on Jimin’s face was replaced by a deep blush that crept up from her cheeks to her ears, turning her into a living tomato.

"W-what?" Jimin stammered, trying to process what she’d just heard. "Y-you’re joking, right?" She tried to laugh nervously, but the embarrassment in her voice was unmistakable.

Y/n chuckled softly on the other end. This had been way more fun than she’d expected. Seeing Jimin all flustered and unsure of how to respond was a rare sight. Usually, the nerdy girl always had an answer ready, but now she was utterly speechless.

"And what if I’m not joking?" Y/n continued to tease, her voice lower, carrying a hint of mystery and mischief. "You’re always saying you like challenges, Jimin. Maybe I should challenge you to shut me up before I come over."

Jimin’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, if that was even possible. She nervously adjusted her glasses, trying to appear composed, but y/n’s mischievous smile was still on the screen, and she couldn’t look away. Jimin’s heart was racing as if she was in a race against time.

"I-I..." Jimin started, but her mind was in complete chaos. "This is just a joke," she kept telling herself, but the thought of y/n suddenly showing up at her door sent butterflies through her stomach like she’d never felt before.

On the other end, Y/n watched it all with a mix of amusement and curiosity. She knew she was messing with Jimin’s head, and part of her loved it. Of course, it was just a joke — or maybe it wasn’t? Their relationship had always been like this: full of teasing, laughter, but with something more underneath, something Y/n had never really stopped to think about. Until now.

"I... I’ll shut up, then," Jimin finally said, glancing away from the camera, trying to somehow escape the situation.

Y/n smiled, victorious.

"Good choice, Jimin," she said with a soft laugh. "But who knows, maybe one day I’ll show up at your door just to make sure..."

And with that, the conversation shifted back to normal, as if nothing had happened. But for Jimin, something had changed. She couldn’t get that sentence out of her head, and Y/n’s playful smile stayed with her for the rest of the night.

#aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa karina #yoo jimin #yoo jimin x reader #yoo jimin x fem reader #cute #karina

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januaryembrs · 4 months

Note

Bugsy and Spencer tea!!

the one with the card counting | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader

description: Bugsy and Spence quarrel while playing Old Maid

length: 700 wds

set in the trouble almost all my life universe

“Spence, I love you, but if you try card counting in Old Maid one more time, I’m not speaking to you for the rest of the flight,” Bugsy snipped, staring down at the man over their deck of cards, his hazel eyes narrowed and concentrated as he flicked through his hand. The joker card glared down at him from the dead centre, where he’d strategically placed it so she’d be more likely to take it when her turn came, though he’d been unsuccessful so far.

She didn’t need to see his lips to know he was chewing them in frustration, eyes darting between the pile on the table of already used hands, the rest of the deck they were picking up from, and how many cards she had in her hand.

“I’m not, and even if I was, it’s just math,” He replied in a defensive tone, knowing she’d already caught him out as he looked up at her, the red back designs fanning over her mouth and nose, though her annoyed expression was still clear as day to him. For a guy who rarely understood what people meant until they spelled it out verbally for him, Bugsy had always just seemed to make sense in his head, “I’m not cheating,”

He said it like someone who was trying to convince himself it was true, his eyes as innocent and none threatening as they would go, though he got that little notch between his brows that said he knew exactly what he was doing and felt bad for lying to her.

Huffing, she drew her cards to her chest and setting her elbows on the table, Hotch to her left with an amused smile drawing at his lips as he tried to catch some sleep on the way home from a case, though the sound of the two agents bickering gave him some inflight entertainment at least.

“Oh, really?” She asked, daring him to repeat himself even though saying it the first time had been hard enough, and Spencer simply nodded with a small ‘Mhm’, “Alright, smart guy, if we’re playing it like that then I’m taking this card,” Bugsy said, pulling the ace of spades he had sitting beside the joker with a pointed look on her face, “And the reason I want this one and not the one next to it is because I know that's where you put the old maid,”

Spencer swallowed, the tip of his nose turning a blush, as he grit his teeth together in annoyance, “I guess the joke is on you, Miss Prentiss. I don’t even have the old maid,” He said, forcing his voice not to quake, and he sounded somewhat believable, at least that’s what he thought until he saw her brow raise, and he knew he was fucked.

“Yeah? Government names is it?” She asked again, giving him chance to fix his error, only he doubled down with a second nod, his lips pursed. Her finger shot out to point to the joker card, where she could only see the intricate pattern that matched every other in his hand, “So this isn’t the Old Maid?”

Spencer blinked once, the two of them exchanging a heated look like they were waiting for the smallest of breaks in character, and his breathing even despite the fact it was under duress, his expression abnormally calm as the jet went entirely silent, “Yes,”

“Bullshit,” He quickly collected his cards to his lap and scrambled to shuffle them well enough that she wouldn’t guess which one was the dead card, his scowl spreading over his face.

“You cheater, you must have seen my cards, there’s no way to count where I put the joker, that is entirely by chance-” Spencer snapped back, flipping them between his long, lithe fingers as Bugsy giggled into her hand.

“Play nicely, boys and girls,” Rossi chided where he had his nose buried in the newspaper, only glancing up to see Spencer glaring at the girl who sat opposite him with a victorious smirk.

“Face it, Spencer Reid. You might be good, but I’m better.” Derek bit his lip to stop himself from laughing where he was eavesdropping on their game on the seats behind them, and he thought he might have to take it to his deathbed that he and the younger girl had swapped Spencer's cards out the second he went to the bathroom. Or maybe save it for a rainy day, when he really needed leverage against the stubborn girl and let them squabble in peace.

Bugsy didn't tell him until a year later, the week before she left for London.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #bugspence #matthew gray gubler x reader

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jinnie-ret · 11 months

Note

9th member! Liking changbin and constantly complimenting him/his rapping and his muscles but he doesn't realise it untill the guys point it out?

macho man

changbin x ninth member!reader

genre: fluff

content warnings: none

word count: 1.4k

summary: the other members help you in your quest to showing changbin your true feelings

Thank you so much for your request! I hope you enjoyed it!

CHANGBIN'S MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Felixxxx, I don't get why he doesn't see it," you groaned, hands over your face as you flopped down on the sofa next to him in the practice room. Your music was blasting from the speakers so you weren't worried about the sole occupier of your thoughts hearing your stresses.

"Y/Nnie, you just need to tell him," Felix patted your head sympathetically.

"It's not that easy! How do I know if he likes me back?" your voice was muffled by the leather of the sofa, yet he still heard you.

"I think you need some wingmen to help you, my dear Y/Nnie," Felix proposed his idea, and you could hear the smirk in his voice.

Phase 1: Compliments

"Woah Binnie, your arms are looking big these days," you commented as you laid down on the floor next to him in the room provided backstage at Music Bank.

"Ah, you think so?" Changbin smirked slightly as he flexed his arm, scrolling on his phone at the same time.

"Oh definitely," you said, feeling a bit disheartened that he didn't take the hint.

"What about my arms?" Han fake pouted, standing in front of the two of you.

"Yeah! Or mine?" Seungmin goofily posed too, tensing his arms, winking at you subtly.

"No, Changbin's the strongest for sure!" you brushed them off, which made him turn to you with a smile.

"I'm the strongest yeah? Let's have an arm wrestle, Y/Nnie," Changbin shoved your shoulder playfully, and out of the corner of your eye you saw Han and Seungmin nodding encouragingly.

"Fine, but I bet I'll win," you tease, thinking back on when Hyunjin said you should be playful in your flirting, hoping it would work, or at least rile him up.

"Sure, give it your best try," Changbin fake cooed at you, which you couldn't deny made you blush slightly, and your hands connected.

"Let me be the judge! I'll count you in, 3, 2, oh wait!" Felix sat down in front of you, "Changbin you need to move closer so it's fair."

You didn't know where that logic came from, and Changbin didn't seem to either, but you weren't complaining. At least you got to be closer to him before he slammed your hand down against the floor, cheering victoriously.

"I'm not shocked you won," you pout at the smug man in front of you.

"Neither am I," he shrugged, before returning to browsing tiktok on his phone.

Dammit. It didn't completely work, but you felt closer to him with your intentional flirting.

Phase 2: Physical Contact

"Two big Binnie arms wrapped around one Y/N works perfectly, the girl math is mathing," you nod excitedly at the idea from Minho that more physical contact would be a good idea.

"Right, ok, enough of that weird internet language, just listen to my advice, yeah?" Minho rolled his eyes at your hyper self who was sat across from him in the lounge.

"Plus, Changbin loves cuddles, I'm sure he'll say yes," Chan added, trying to make you feel more relaxed at the idea.

"Ok, ok, I can do this," you nodded to yourself and nearly facepalmed. Why were you getting so worked up about a cuddle? You've hugged him before, it wasn't unusual, but now you knew there was a different sentiment behind it. You noticed your feelings for Changbin for a while now, the way he always made you feel safe, made you laugh, knew how to comfort you when you was upset. He was just all round an amazing person. You loved the way that when he smirked only the right side of his mouth would rise. You loved the way he would clap his hands after giggling. You loved the way his voice would go deep and husky when he rapped.

"Y/Nnie?" Changbin waved a hand in front of your face.

"Huh? Yeah?" you jumped in your seat, looking up the hunky man who was snug in a grey hoodie. His fluffy black hair was covering his eyes slightly, round glasses perched on his nose.

"You good? I asked you a question but it's like you were in your own world?" he gently tilted your head up to face him.

"Oh, um, yeah, um," you malfunctioned, blinking in an empty way.

"Move up then haha," he nudges you and laughs as he plonks himself down next to you on the sofa, tugging a blanket over himself.

You shudder in nervousness, but it seems to play in your favour.

"Oh, you cold? Here have some blanket too," Changbin noticed your shivering body and tugged the blanket over you too, naturally shuffling closer to you, your legs touching.

"Cuddle?!" you suddenly blurt out loudly, immediately shrinking into yourself after.

"Haha," he laughed at you, "yEs?!" he said in the same tone, meeting your energy as he wrapped an arm around you and your head rested comfortably on his chest. It rose up and down gently, lulling you into a more comfortable and relaxed state as you watched a movie with him and the others. Jeongin smirked at you from across the room, chuckling lightly to himself.

The movie soon ended, and were snug in the arms of your crush. Oh, yes, the girl math certainly was mathing. The rest of the boys had dispersed to their rooms and you thought this was your moment.

"Hey, um, Changbin, I-"

"I'm sorry you can tell me in a second I just really need to pee right now," Changbin shuffles out from underneath you and rushes away to the bathroom and you sigh. Apparently this wasn't the moment.

Phase 3: Confess

"It's not going to work, the last time I tried he ran away," you sighed, laying in your bed next to Jeongin.

"Yeah, because if he didn't move when you told him you had a crush on him, he would have peed. On you. That would have been so traumatising, Y/Nnie," Jeongin laughs at you, making you see some sense.

"I knowww, but just... when will he realise? You and the boys have been dropping hints for ages and-"

"Hey, Y/N I was going to," Changbin knocked at your open door, but then stopped when he saw you laying down next to the maknae. "I was going to ask if you could help with something, but I can see you're busy," he frowns.

"No! Umm it's nothing, what's up, Binnie?" you sat up, observing his soured mood and downcast gaze.

"I was wondering if I could talk to you? Changbin asked, to which you and Jeongin nodded. "Privately."

Jeongin got the hint and left the room, patting his hyung on the shoulder as he left.

"Here, come sit," you nodded to next to you, and Changbin sat down.

"I have something to... ask you about," Changbin tentatively intertwined his pinkie with yours.

"Me too," you breathed out.

"You go first."

"No, you, you said first."

"But you seem nervous."

"Nervous? Me? Never... you go first Changbin," you convinced him, and he sighed, letting out a little laugh.

"Ok, fine. Ummm, do you, like, me?" Changbin turned to look at you, yet you couldn't make eye contact back with him.

"And what if I said yes? What would happen then?" you bit your lip nervously, pulling your hands closer to yourself, the little contact you had with each other breaking apart.

"Then I'd say... I was an idiot for not noticing the signs. And, and, I'd say that I like you too, I really do," Changbin rushed out, grasping both your hands this time, making the braver move.

"You do?" you look up into his eyes, your faces inching closer and closer.

"I do," he lips meet yours, the passion and love filling your senses as your lips mould together before you both pull back.

"Haha, wow," you giggle giddily to yourself.

"We just kissed, and now you're giggling?" Changbin pushes your shoulder playfully.

"Can't help it, I've had a crush on you for so long now," you mean against him, arms hugging his muscly arm.

"I wish I knew sooner, I wouldn't have kept you waiting for so long," Changbin delicately placed a kiss into your hair.

"It's ok, I don't mind, I'm quite happy as we are now," you smile fondly at him, and the two of you sat like that for a while, both content in knowing that your feelings were clear with each other.

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